Mermaids Of Europa

Just when I thought there was no joy left to be found in world politics, along came another moment of pure absurdity. The other day, NATO Secretary-General Mark Rutte referred to President Donald Trump as “Daddy.” It was hilarious enough on its own, but then on Friday, Iran’s Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi took it up a notch, mocking Israel by saying they had “no choice but to run to Daddy,” a jab at Trump, in order to “avoid being flattened by Iranian missiles.”

Honestly, who needs Netflix when you’ve got Donald Trump, the so-called leaders of the free world, and their alphabet soup of global organisations providing all the drama, comedy, and chaos you could ever need?

It’s hard to believe we’re already heading into July 2025. This year, I’ve literally done nothing. I haven’t studied or worked; I’ve basically been living like a zombie—with the sleep patterns to match. I know I’ve mentioned before that I’ve thought about almost every possible career path and attempted study in a number of them too. But then I blinked, and suddenly I’m nearly 44, having lived a very transient lifestyle.

In my last post, I talked about starting studies in animation and game design. I’m doing that online, which gives me the time and space to really sit down and commit to something. I did think about the Media Makeup Academy, but the truth is—I’d just be dodging the real goal: to be an artist. So I’ve decided I’ll go to art school at TAFE next year while continuing the animation and game design course. TAFE offers a two-year diploma, and by the time I finish that, I’ll have completed the degree as well—and I’ll be 46 years old.

The goal is to build real skills by the time I’m 50. Skills I can use to express myself and earn a living through writing and art. But I’m not going to wait until the qualifications are done to get started.

I haven’t heard back about my volunteer status. They’re still assessing my suitability based on my criminal conviction for using my mobile phone while driving. But on the topic of phones, I’m going to begin putting together an exhibition using all the vintage phones I’ve collected. I plan to collect more, cut them up, mount them on board, gild them, paint them, and incorporate braille. It will be a chaotic, heartfelt mash-up capturing the essence of communication and connection.That’s one exhibition I’m aiming to present for SALA next year.

The other is a project involving letters from world leaders. I’m going to write to them again with a new question:

“If extraterrestrials from another planet landed in your country and asked to speak with your leader, would you be the person they are directed to?”

And then:

“Would the extraterrestrials be afforded protection under the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and given access to food, water, and basic shelter?”

I think the responses will raise fascinating questions, particularly around borders and refugees. I would love it if Israel responded to that letter… but I know they won’t.

So I’m going to get moving on the artwork. The other thing I’m planning is to establish a blog that tackles colonialism, apartheid, genocide, and occupation, particularly through the lens of the Israel/Palestine conflict. I’ll start working on it later this year, but I won’t publish it until next year when I’m ready to be doxed.

My other dream is to start a YouTube channel. A kind of independent news service where I interview people, present stories, and explore the same issues as the blog.

These artistic and journalistic goals… they’re the real things I want to be doing with my life. I don’t know why I’m still bothering with study sometimes but then again, I do. I want a degree by the time I turn 50. Hopefully by then I’ll have a Master’s in Virtual Production under my belt.

I’ve been stuck in this limbo for so long now. I hate when I meet people and they ask, “What do you do for a living?” and I have to mumble something like, “Oh, I’m a mature-age student” or “I’m a professional temp.” I’m sick of all that. From now on, I’m not telling anyone anything. If someone asks, including my mother, I’m just going to say, “I’m taking a break to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

I know it might sound self-indulgent, but honestly, it’s nobody’s business but mine. And if I just sit down, put my head down, bum up, and fucking finish something, I know, I know, my life will be better.

Today I was thinking back to June 2022, when I went on an adventure to Mount Gambier and the Gold Coast in search of bioluminescence. At the time, I was studying at Adelaide Uni, and we had a long break in the middle of the year, so I made plans for two separate trips.

I don’t drive in the country at all—not up freeways, not on highways, and definitely not on country roads. My reason is simple: I’m terrified of getting into an accident. You see and hear about so many of them out there. I’ve always believed that the fear of fear is worse than fear itself, but in this case, I’ve decided not to test that theory. I don’t even attempt it. So I flew from Adelaide to Mount Gambier and rented a car once I got there.

The goal? To see the bioluminescent mushrooms.

A couple of weeks before that trip, I was at the Planetarium. I’m part of a group called the SuperNovas—we get together and talk about stars and all things astronomy. That night, I saw a man who looked so familiar. After what I’m sure, for him, was an awkward moment of me gawking, I introduced myself. Then it hit me—my half-sister had been in a relationship with him years ago, and he once came over to our house to meet Mum and Dad. I remembered him distinctly because he was a geologist, and I’d been there for lunch.

Once I realised who he was, I told him that during that lunch years ago I told him I had just finished writing to over 100 geologists around the world asking the same question: “Is a diamond a rock or a stone?”

Incidentally, that project was so good. I even wrote to Nicky Oppenheimer—who, I know, isn’t a geologist but is a diamond man. I actually received a signed letter in response, although I suspect it was just someone from his office being kind. I ended up deciding not to do anything with those letters. They felt too personal—unlike the standard replies you get from government departments—and using them in an artwork felt unethical.

Anyway, I’ll call this man Adam. At the time when I told him about my letter-writing frenzy, he looked at me like I was mad as a cut snake. And honestly, he was right. But when I bumped into him at the Planetarium, he did remember me.

It turned out he lives in Mount Gambier. I told him I was going down there in a few weeks, and he offered to show me around. I told him I wanted to see the mushrooms, and he said he’d come with me.

When I crossed paths with Adam back in 2022 he had just turned 70 years old. He was a cave diver, but hadn't been back in the water since he had a heart attack a little while before. I felt very drawn to him, not so much an attraction as a desire to spend as much time as possible with him.

I don’t drive on country roads, and I’m not much of a flyer either—but if I had to choose, I’d take flying any day. The flight to Mount Gambier was on a small QantasLink plane, but somehow, I felt at ease. After we landed at the airport, I picked up a rental car and drove to my hotel.

It was absolutely freezing—this biting, Antarctic kind of cold that felt like it had snuck in from under the floorboards. I turned the heater on in my room, but it just blew out cold air. Maybe it was the position of the bed—this happens in my room where I live now, too. The heater works, but sometimes when you’re in that spot, you get the cold offshoot. Still, I let the front desk know and changed rooms.

Even back in 2022, my sleep was bad. Not as bad as it is now, but bad enough. Depending on my movements and mental state, it can be hard to stay awake or function like a normal person. I think I slept when I could that first night. The next day, I got up and had a look around town. I know Mount Gambier is famous for its sinkholes and other attractions, but I just wandered down the main street. Kept it simple.

That night, Adam and I were meant to meet up and go see the bioluminescent mushrooms in the pine forests of Glencoe, about 16 kilometres out of town. I had permits for a couple of nights. When night fell, I called him—but he didn’t answer.

I hesitated. The mushrooms were a drawcard, a true phenomenon. I didn’t want to miss them. Against my better instincts, I decided to go on my own. I drove up the dark highway as it began to rain. There weren’t many other cars. It was pitch black outside—inky and still. A chill crept up my spine, and I regretted not waiting for Adam. Even if he did try to call me back now, I doubted I’d get reception.

I took a turnoff into the forest. Dozens of kangaroos lined the roadside, staring at me like grim sentinels. It was as if they were warning me: You dice with death coming down these parts. All it would take is for one of us to leap, and it’s game over. I drove slowly, grateful that no cars came up behind me.

Eventually, I saw a sign for the mushroom forest. No lights. No fanfare. No touristy gimmicks. Just a dark, damp forest, and hardly a soul around. I followed a dirt road to a stop point. No one was there to check my permit. I stepped out to read a sign—it instructed visitors to walk into the heart of the forest and follow the mushroom trail.

That’s when I realised I’d made a huge mistake.

I’d thought maybe you could see them from the road. But no, you had to walk into the thick of it. The blackness between the trees felt alive. I sensed menace in the forest—like this was the perfect hunting ground for some serial killer who liked his meat scared.

I nearly ran back to the car, constantly looking over my shoulder. I jumped in and drove the hell out of there. It actually took a bit of effort to find my way back—I had no idea where I was—but my body knew one thing: get the fuck out.

Back at the hotel, I cranked the heater and tried to thaw out my nerves. I had a missed call on my phone. It was Adam. He left a message saying he’d fallen asleep.

It was late, but I called him back. I told him about my solo trip to the mushroom forest. He laughed—hard—and said he’d take me there properly the next night.

The next day, I went back to the mushroom forest by myself—just to see it in daylight. I needed to understand where I’d been the night before. It felt like I had dreamt the whole thing, like the darkness had warped the landscape into something unreal.

Driving the same route with the sun up made it feel like a completely different place. The forest was quiet but not menacing now—just rows of tall pines and damp earth, the kind of place that holds its own secrets gently during the day.

Below, you can see one of the signs nailed to a pine tree. It marked the start of the trail I’d been too afraid to follow the night before.

It was so different in the light of day. The forest didn’t seem menacing anymore—just still and strange, with that thick, pine-scented air and wet earth underfoot. But that night, Adam picked me up and took me back out to the forest.

He’s so lovely—he even brought some of his geology gear, including head torches for both of us. The setup out there is pretty simple: there are a few different trails you can follow to spot the mushrooms, and it’s largely a self-serve kind of experience. I know there are guided tours, but they’re hard to get tickets for and only run on select nights. Plus, with the weather being cold and wet, they get cancelled all the time.

When we parked the car, we noticed other vehicles around—but we couldn’t see anyone. The forest swallowed them up. Adam just reached out his hand, and I took it, and together we started down one of the trails.

I didn’t like how I felt in that forest. Even with Adam there, something about the place made my skin crawl. I know it’s because I’ve read too much about serial killers—Ivan Milat and all the others—but being in a pitch-black forest without hearing or seeing another person is just... unnerving.

Eventually, we caught up to some other people on the trail. And that’s when we saw our first bioluminescent mushroom.

It was magical.

Below, you can see it in both the light and the dark—one world revealing itself inside another.

It was an extraordinary sight—like something straight out of a fairytale. The forest, which had felt like a potential killing field the night before, transformed into something enchanted. There were clusters of glowing mushrooms scattered through the undergrowth, each one quietly radiant. And in that moment, I knew the terror of getting there had been worth it.

We wandered the trails for what felt like ages, soaking it in. But as the other visitors started to leave, Adam turned to me and asked what I wanted to do. I said, “Let’s go too.” It was still a little eerie. Beautiful, but eerie.

As we stepped out of the forest and back into the world of headlights and gravel, Adam gave me a big hug and thanked me for taking him there. On the drive back to my hotel, I asked him about his relationship with my half-sister—who, in my view, is simply a stain on the existence of all women.

He told me she was a troubled person and that things hadn’t ended well. I looked at him and said, “What are the odds that she would end up being with someone as good as you?”

He thanked me, and we hugged again. We made plans for dinner the next night.

The next evening, he took me out to a little café. I remember ordering a Greek salad—minus the olives—and asking them to add tomato, because oddly, it wasn’t listed on the menu. The salad was perfect. Light, fresh, exactly what I wanted.

Over the next few days, Adam showed me around town. We talked about his passion for caves, which is what led him to geology in the first place. He spoke about the earth like it was alive.

Toward the end of my stay, I came down with a cold. I dragged myself to a pharmacy to get some cold and flu meds. It was still during the COVID era, and the woman behind the counter looked absolutely appalled that I’d dared walk in with symptoms. But she gave me some meds anyway—with the sort of customer service energy that said, “I’m judging you, but fine.”

Before I left Mount Gambier, I visited the love locks—the ones fastened to the fence overlooking the Blue Lake. If I ever get a partner again—which I won’t—I’ll jump on the first plane back to Mount Gambier and lock our names to that fence. To me, it’s pure artwork. The ultimate expression of love.

You can see two photos of it below.

I’d had such an amazing time in Mount Gambier that coming home felt a little surreal. When my flight landed back in Adelaide, I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept, I was still battling a cold, and as I tried to get out of my seat, I collapsed. It must have looked like I was drunk. A few people rushed over to help, but I quickly got up and laughed it off like it was nothing.

When I finally got home, I crashed—slept the cold off completely. And then, just a week later, I was off again—this time to the Gold Coast, chasing glow worms.

In June, the Gold Coast was cool-ish, but nothing like the Antarctic chill of Mount Gambier. I was booked into the Crowne Plaza, and to be honest, I was disappointed. The rooms felt run-down, tired. There wasn’t really anywhere decent to eat in the hotel either. That said, the quality of the place matched the price—affordable, but far from luxurious.

For this leg of my adventure, I’d booked myself onto a glow worm tour—five nights in a row. I was absolutely enthralled by bioluminescence and wanted to soak up as much of it as possible. I think the reason I chose to stay at the Crowne Plaza in the first place was because it was one of the pickup points for the tour.

On the first night, I was the first passenger to be collected. We drove around the Gold Coast, stopping at various hotels to pick up the rest of the group, then headed inland—about a forty-minute drive up into Mount Tamborine.

We stopped for a warm drink at a cool little café—one of those tucked-away, woodsy spots that feel a bit like the set of a Hallmark movie. Then we reached the edge of the rainforest.

And that’s when I realised what this tour really was.

Essentially, the company was just transporting people to a public forest and walking them through it. Nothing exclusive or private—you could absolutely do it yourself if you had the means and the courage.

I chatted a bit with the guide, who told me he was a hospitality worker. As we began the walk, I got that same feeling I’d had in the pine forest in Mount Gambier—eerie, slightly on edge. If you couldn’t keep up with the group, you’d be left alone in the rainforest, in the dark. And that thought was enough to keep me near the front of the line.

The guide pointed out a few spiders and some wildlife, and then we reached a series of caves. Below is the only photo I managed to capture from that area—just near a waterfall, where the cave mouths glistened with tiny living lights.

Not long after we saw the waterfall, we saw the lights.

At first, they looked artificial—like someone had hidden a string of fairy lights behind the rocks. But then the guide told us what we were actually seeing: glow worms. And just like that, the moment became magic.

They were spectacular. Living light.

I couldn’t get a good photo—my camera just couldn’t capture them properly, which was frustrating. You can see my attempts below. If you look very closely, you’ll notice tiny pinpricks of light — those are the glow worms.

The memory is still vivid, etched into my mind like it happened yesterday. It was like magic dust had been scattered across the cave walls. A quiet shimmer, softly pulsing, as if the forest was announcing its magnificence to anyone lucky enough to be listening.

I stood there in awe, completely still, just watching them glow. I could’ve stayed for hours, but eventually the guide told us it was time to go.

The next day, I remember telling Mum and Nanny all about the glow worms—how magical they were, how excited I was to go again that night. I think they could hear it in my voice: that I’d seen something rare and beautiful.

I was the first person to be picked up again that night, but this time we had a different driver.

I’ve said it a million times on this blog—I’m not what the world calls a beautiful woman. But this guy clearly saw a woman travelling alone and pounced. As I sat quietly at the back of the bus, he started asking me personal questions: Was I single? Why was I in the Gold Coast? How long was I staying?

I gave vague answers, trying to deflect, and silently thanked Christ when another passenger finally got on board.

Just like the night before, we stopped for a warm drink and then headed into the rainforest. But the driver—let’s call him Dave—stuck by me the entire night. Through the forest, at the caves, right beside me the whole time. He tried to help me get a photo of the glow worms, but honestly, he just killed the experience for me. The quiet wonder I’d felt the night before was gone.

When we got back to the bus, he asked if I wanted to sit up front with him. I didn’t really feel like I had much choice—it would’ve been awkward to say no. That kicked off an hour-long drive of Dave talking about how great he was.

He told me he used to work at Australia Zoo, and that Steve Irwin had "very definite and firm ideas" about how he wanted things run. I just rolled my eyes and thought, well, of course he did—it’s his zoo. Then Dave started going on about how he was making a documentary for Netflix about a dingo on a Queensland island. As each passenger was dropped off, the stories became more elaborate.

And then there was just me.

As soon as everyone else was gone, he asked for my phone number—and my hotel room number. Stupidly, I gave him my number. When we arrived at the hotel, he asked if he could come up to my room. I said no. We laughed awkwardly, and he left.

But then he called me, telling me how much he wished he’d kissed me.

I was annoyed. Deeply annoyed. It’s insulting that this random man assumed I’d be interested in him, specifically, and so quickly. He told me he’d be working the next three nights—the exact nights I was booked on the tour.

And that’s when I realised: I couldn’t go back.

I contacted him the next day and told him I wouldn’t be coming to the rest of the tours—that I was heading back to Adelaide. It wasn’t true, of course, but I couldn’t face another night with that man. I was so disappointed. I had paid for those tours, booked them with genuine excitement, but he made me feel so uncomfortable I just couldn’t go.

My brother told me I should report him. And maybe I should have. But I’ve never liked getting people into trouble—and I didn’t exactly tell him to fuck off, which I should have. I was polite. Too polite. That’s something I’m still learning how to undo.

Over the next few days, I did two things that really stood out to me.

The first was visiting a man-made glow worm cave. You can see the sign below.

The caves were located within a winery, and they were absolutely beautiful. The glow worms here looked just like constellations of stars—tiny points of light suspended in the dark, as if the night sky had dropped down and scattered itself across the cave walls.

The other memorable place I visited was Sea World. I had booked a dolphin experience where you go into shallow water, pat the dolphin, and feed it fish. All the other participants were children—but I didn’t care. We stood in ankle-deep water while the dolphin swam past, and we reached out to touch its smooth back and offer it little fish.

But as the experience unfolded, I felt a gnawing discomfort. I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I was doing was wrong—this poor dolphin, reduced to a piece of entertainment, a prop for people’s holiday photos.

I asked the trainer where the dolphin had come from, and he told me it was a rescue. But even then, looking back, I wonder. There are sanctuaries—places for rescue dolphins to live even if they can’t be released back into the wild. Dolphins need the rhythm of the waves, the hunt for live fish, the freedom of the sea. Not clapping crowds and staged tricks.

After the encounter, I caught the tail end of a dolphin show—and it was just as revolting as I’d feared. Dolphins leaping and spinning to music, while an audience of mostly children gawked and clapped.

That was the moment I began to learn about the dolphin drive in Taiji, Japan—but that’s a story I’ll save for another post.

I came home from the Gold Coast with a stack of memories—and more importantly, a clearer understanding of bioluminescence.

I first became interested in bioluminescence when I read about icy moons—especially Europa, one of Jupiter’s moons. These moons are sheathed in thick ice, and beneath that, they hold subterranean oceans. That alone is extraordinary, but even more so is the possibility that life could exist in those deep, hidden waters.

To me, that’s thrilling. And I don’t know why more people aren’t talking about it.

I think the chances of life are high—on Europa and other moons like it. I imagine mermaids drifting through alien waters, bioluminescence lighting up the dark like a cosmic Christmas tree. Captain Nemo, Poseidon—they’ll all be there. Guardians of this other ocean world.

How can anyone deny the possibility that life exists beyond Earth? How can anyone deny that life might already exist within our own solar system—in the oceans of Europa?

And where there is life, there is light.

Is It Too Late?

Today I went to a pawnbroker on Unley Road to pick up a neon phone I’d bought through their eBay shop. Apparently, they sell all their goods through eBay. You could tell—because their physical setup was a little unusual. You couldn’t actually browse the shop, and I had to call them for someone to come out and help me.

But I love the phone.

From what I could see through the window, they have some beautiful things—like a vintage microscope, which I’m going to try and track down.

Below, you can see the neon phone. It’s part of my ongoing quest to collect as many vintage phones as physically possible. This one is extra special, and I have visions of an entire wall in a gallery—covered in neon phones, all lit up.

But this exhibition will be a slow one to build, because the phones are very expensive. I’ll be accumulating them gradually, piece by piece.

I think about my life and, honestly, I have a lot of missed opportunities. Education, employment, relationships, finances—so many times I find myself thinking, “If I had just done something differently, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

But the strange thing is, I don’t tend to dwell on those regrets too much. For some reason, I seem to be wired to get up and try again. And lately, I’ve been wondering—maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. The idea that if you fail, you can just try again.

When I've left uni in the past people say things like, “It’s okay, you can always go back.” But then one day you look up and find yourself on the cusp of your 44th birthday—with no degree, no partner, no children, and no real financial assets.

There’s got to come a point in life when you go: “It’s literally now or never.” In just over six years, I’ll be fifty. And I don’t want to be fifty without a degree or some kind of financial stability.

I don’t even know why it’s so important for me to get a degree. It’s not like I’m just trailing behind—I feel like I’m at least 25 years older than my classmates. I know that shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I don’t like it. I think it’s because those younger students have expectations of what a 43 or 44-year-old woman should be—and I don’t meet those expectations.

I’m about to start a degree in Animation and Game Design. It’ll be my seventh attempt at university. And I’ve decided this will be my last. If I can’t get it together this time, I’ll find a job in a government call centre and live out my days there. I’ll save money and travel every couple of years—and honestly, that’s all I really want from life now. To see the world.

I also want to look after my mother and make sure she never ends up in a nursing home. And I can say—lightheartedly—that’s both for her sake and the nursing home’s. I’m not sure she’d be the best resident. But of course, they’d love her. Just like I do.

Sometimes I think I’m just waiting for something good to happen—something that will validate all the mistakes and wrong turns I’ve taken. A moment that would make it all make sense. That would make me say, “Ah. This is what it was all leading to.” I sort of believe that moment will come. I hope it does.

You might be wondering where the degree in Animation and Game Design comes from. Well, I was originally enrolled in a Bachelor of Visual Effects at UniSA—a 2.5-year degree. I’m still very interested in VFX, animation, virtual production, and 3D modelling—all of it aligns with my creative vision—but I just don’t want to go to UniSA and sit in a room full of 17-year-olds. I’ve been there before and I think I'm done with all that.

So I found an online degree that covers mostly the same content and takes about the same amount of time, especially with elective credit. Once I finish that, I can go to Flinders and do a postgraduate qualification in virtual production, which is exactly where I want to be. I wouldn’t mind going back to a campus for postgrad—but I’m never doing undergrad in person again.

What I am doing next year is an Advanced Diploma of Screen & Media at the Media Makeup Academy. It takes about 1.5 years and focuses on SFX—special effects makeup, prosthetics, prop-making. That kind of thing. I’ll do it alongside the degree.

I think having both VFX and SFX skills will be something quite special—digital and physical. I just want to make things.

But do you want to know the crazy bit?: I don’t want to work in either of these fields.

I want to use the skills I develop for my own art practice. I won’t be doing that full-time, because what I really want is to earn money so I can travel. If I have to work in the field to support myself, I will—but that’s not the dream.

The dream is to create some literally out of this world pieces of artwork.

I hold two positions within a human rights organisation, and I really enjoy working with the younger members of the teams I’m in. I’m so excited for them—having the jobs they do, starting their careers in such meaningful ways. If I were 20 years younger, I would absolutely set myself the goal of working for them. Or even of working overseas with the Red Cross or the UN.

I remember once, years ago, my mother held a big fancy party. I must have been around thirty at the time—I think I’d just come back from Sydney and Canberra. I was outside having a cigarette with this very glamorous woman, and she told me she could help me get a job at the UN. Then she looked at me and said, “You’ve got to be 19 years old?”

I was so embarrassed. I corrected her and said, “No—I’m actually 30.” She couldn’t believe it. But after that, she seemed far less inclined to help me. I know these organisations technically don’t discriminate, but in reality, they are a young person’s world.

In the human rights organisation I’m part of, I’ve only come across one woman over the age of 25. She’s a volunteer and would be over 50. She applied for a paid position recently, but didn’t get it—even though she does so much work for them. I couldn’t help but wonder whether her age had something to do with it.

The reality of my situation is that, because of my flaw, I couldn’t work overseas anymore—and, truthfully, I don’t think I’d want to. But like every other job I’ve ever dreamed about, I still find myself secretly wondering, what if?

I’ve been on the council of a society for the past three and a half years, and I resigned from my position a few months ago. I’ve still been doing the job while they look for someone to replace me, but I think they’ve now filled the position—so that’ll be it for me.

Last night, I went out to dinner with a lady from the council. We don’t know each other well at all, but she always seemed lovely, so I asked her if she wanted to catch up. We went to Café Ballaboosta, which is quite close to me.

I was really surprised when this lady—who I’ll call Violet—told me she used to be a pharmacist. I also hadn’t realised she was retired.

I don’t know why people retire.

No—that’s not right. I do understand it, if you’ve got grandkids you want to spend time with, or if you want to travel the world. But sometimes I wonder if retiring just ages you. My mum retired 20 years ago, but she’s been heavily involved in her interests and has a very active social life.

But Violet didn’t seem to have children or grandchildren. She didn’t have any big travel plans. So what do you do?

It scared the shit out of me. Because I’m not far off retirement age myself—and I haven’t worked in ten years.

I’ve always socialised with older people. I have older half-siblings in their sixties who are coincidently all estranged from my mother now because of my Dad's will. But I’ve always gotten along with older people.

Still—last night, sitting with Violet—I kind of freaked out. Because I am her. Well, I’m not her. She got a degree in pharmacy. She has a house. A car. Stability. But I’m in her age bracket. I’m hovering around retirement age. And in some circles, fifty is considered “senior.”

What the fuck am I doing with my life?

I have potential. I think I have potential. Maybe in the arts, or in writing—I don’t know. But you know how people tell young people, “You’ve got so much potential”? They used to say it to me too. No one says it anymore.

I wonder if my potential has expired.

Is it too late?

It has to be heads down, bum up, and get this degree done—like my life depends on it. Because, in so many ways, it does.

I’m going to do this SFX makeup course with passion. And I don’t mind being the oldest in this type of class. They’ll all be creative younger women, and they’ll teach me about youth culture—just like my young hairdresser does. I’ll learn from them. I’ll absorb it all.

But back to Violet. Last night was lovely—don’t get me wrong—but we sat there talking about classical music and Netflix.

And I don’t want that.

I wanted to ask her how she lost her virginity. If she did. I wanted to ask who she was having inappropriate dreams about. I wanted to share my stories with her, too.

In reality, there is no possible way that I would have ever put her in such an awkward position by asking. But the thought was there. And I wish someone would ask me how I lost my virginity in general conversation. I would love to put it into context for someone — because I didn't just lose my virginity; I lost a part of my soul too.

I don’t know what it was about last night, but I felt old.

Now, when I say “old,” I don’t mean that 43 or 44 is old. And I don’t think Violet is old either—if I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her late sixties or early seventies.

What I mean is that I felt the weight of my life. I’m nearly 44 years old and I literally have nothing. I’ve got this goal of harnessing VFX and SFX for my artwork, but I’m starting from the very beginning.

I’m just shy of six years off fifty—and that number, fifty, looms. It means I’m approaching a time where, very realistically, I might stop desiring men. I don’t want a man though. And I don’t think a man would want me. All I want—and I want it with passion—is to travel the world and to look after my mother.

They say you need a goal to really jump out of bed in the mornings. So I’m going to try and make my goals feel less overwhelming, less unreachable. I want to face the reality that they are possible.

And if they came true, it would make me the happiest woman in the world.

We Love You, God

Nothing has brought me as much joy as when Donald Trump announced to the world that America had bombed Iran's nuclear facilities. Below is a short excerpt from what I’m sure was a long-winded pat on the back to himself. Near the end, he says, “I would like to thank everybody. In particular… God—we love you, God.” I literally nearly wet my pants laughing. The way he thanked God—like He was just another guy in the room—was absolutely hilarious. It felt like he was giving a shout-out to God. He thanks God near the end, and I highly recommend watching the whole thing to get the full experience.

I would seriously love to know what Israel has on America—or more specifically, what Netanyahu has on Trump—that causes the United States to literally do whatever Israel asks. In so many ways, I am outraged by it.

Israel attacked Iran first. Iran struck back—and rightly so, as it has a right to defend itself. And then America threatens Iran, saying “Surrender now or we’ll take serious action.” In this instance, Iran was the victim.

Netanyahu has been claiming for 30 years that Iran is “months,” “weeks,” or “days” away from having a nuclear weapon. It’s interesting how this all suddenly escalates now—just when global condemnation of Israel’s actions in Gaza is reaching fever pitch; just when the U.S. is close to striking a deal with Iran; just when Bibi Netanyahu faces a real risk of going to jail.

And then, as if on cue, Israel once again breaks international law and launches a preemptive strike against Iran.

I’d like to share a few facts with you about Iran and the concept of nuclear weapons.

1. Iran is a signatory to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT)

• Iran joined in 1970, committing not to develop nuclear weapons and to allow inspections of its nuclear facilities.

2. Iran allows inspections by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA)

• The IAEA conducts regular inspections of Iran’s declared nuclear sites.

• Under the 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) — aka the Iran Nuclear Deal — Iran agreed to even stricter monitoring, including:

• Limiting uranium enrichment

• Reducing its stockpile of enriched uranium

• Modifying its nuclear facilities

• Allowing 24/7 surveillance and snap inspections at key sites.

• 3. Iran has faced accusations but remains under international oversight

  • While Western powers have accused Iran of covert activity, there’s no public IAEA evidence that Iran has developed a nuclear weapon.

  • After the U.S. pulled out of the JCPOA in 2018 (under Trump), Iran began breaching limits but still permits IAEA monitoring — albeit with reduced access.

This is in contrast to Israel:

1. Israel has never signed the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT)

• It is not legally bound by the treaty’s rules, inspections, or disclosures.

2. Israel maintains a policy of "nuclear opacity"

• It does not confirm or deny having nuclear weapons — but it’s widely believed to possess 80–90 nuclear warheads, possibly more.

• Weapons are believed to be stored at Dimona, a facility completely closed to international inspection.

3. Israel does not allow IAEA inspections

• Unlike Iran, Israel’s nuclear program is entirely off-limits to international oversight.

• Israel argues that disclosing its nuclear capacity could threaten its security in a hostile region, but this double standard is often criticised.

So, Israel has nuclear weapons, yet it tells other countries they are not allowed to have them. I know there’s much more to this—like Iran’s support of certain militant groups and the potential threat a nuclear-armed Iran could pose to the Western world. But if you asked me, I’d say the last country anyone should want to have nuclear weapons is Israel. Not that they even need them—they’ve managed to all but wipe out most of Gaza without using nukes.

 

Something I found particularly interesting about this whole assault on Iran was Israel’s precision in targeting Iranian scientists. It’s telling that they’re able to track these individuals down, accurately identify them, and carry out assassinations without causing any civilian casualties. But when it comes to targeting Hamas, we’re told they have no choice but to level entire neighborhoods and kill tens of thousands of civilians.

Clearly, Israel has the intelligence capabilities and the advanced technology in its arsenal. It’s a joke—an utter joke—that more people aren’t questioning why this technology isn’t used to avoid mass death in Gaza. The double standard is glaring.

I used to want to go to Israel—to witness firsthand the daily lives of Palestinians living under apartheid. I was even concerned about this anonymous blog and whether it might prevent me from entering, since I’ve heard Israel checks social media when processing visa applications. But now? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll say what I want. I’ll start my own blog dedicated to it if I feel like it. Fuck Israel.

I've discovered this young Palestinian man—I think he's around 22 years old—named Hamzah Saadah. He's an influencer on TikTok and YouTube. His parents and grandparents are Palestinian, and he identifies as Palestinian, but he was born in the USA.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with programs like OME.TV. It's kind of like Zoom, Skype, or WhatsApp, but you select a country you'd like to connect with and randomly video chat with people from there. Hamzah creates content by selecting Israel and calling Israelis. He's pretty provocative—he introduces himself and says he's from Palestine. A lot of people know who he is by now; he has millions of followers. But so many Israelis tell him to fuck off, or to die—it’s pretty harsh.

He gets into debates with some older people, but there are heaps of younger ones too. I’d say 99% of the people he talks to hate Palestine and don’t care about the women and children being killed in Gaza.

I watch this guy for hours. He can be pretty immature—which is to be expected for a 22-year-old—but I’ve also seen him be quite nasty to some Israelis who are just trying to have a reasonable conversation. He leans a little toward Hamas and similar groups—not in support, exactly, but in trying to explain why they became what they are. He seems to be pointing out the conditions that led to terrorism, rather than endorsing it.

Some of his YouTube videos go for up to four hours, and I enjoy sitting back and just watching him talk to Israelis. He occasionally speaks with IDF soldiers, and I even saw him talk to a settler once. It’s just... interesting. I’m tempted to try calling people myself, but most of the users are really young. There are some older ones, but not many.

I was thinking back to last year when Opposition Senate Leader Simon Birmingham introduced a motion that condemned the use of the chant “From the river to the sea.” Apparently, Labor Senator Fatima Payman referenced the chant as she became the first federal Labor parliamentarian to break ranks by publicly describing what is happening in Gaza as a genocide.

I remember when all of that happened, and how people were claiming that “From the river to the sea” is genocidal. I am not a fan of Simon Birmingham, and I’m glad he's out of the Senate—because the Senate is no place for a man like that.

But “From the river to the sea” is not genocidal. What is genocidal is bombing tens of thousands of civilians in a densely packed population, destroying an entire network of hospitals, executing children, and blocking access to aid, water, and medical supplies. That is genocide.

Labor senators backed the motion, which passed with 56 votes in favour and only 12 against. And I ask—why doesn’t someone put forward a motion to say that the Israeli Government has orchestrated and is currently conducting a genocide against the Palestinian people in Gaza? Why doesn’t anybody do this?

I’ve said this before on this blog: I feel like someone should tell a higher authority what’s going on in Gaza—but there is no higher authority. The United Nations is a joke.

I love how Israel recognised the UN back in 1947 when it proposed dividing the land of Mandatory Palestine between Jews and Arabs. But now that the UN is telling Israel to implement a ceasefire, now that it's calling out their actions as genocidal and declaring that the settlers in the West Bank and East Jerusalem are in violation of international law—suddenly Israel no longer recognises the UN.

There are so many horrible things happening in the world right now—civil war and famine in Sudan, gang violence and hunger in Haiti, the long-standing civil war in Yemen, and the war in Ukraine, to name a few.

But if an alien came down to Earth right now and asked me to tell them the story of humanity, I would tell them the story of Israel and the Palestinians. I would tell them that we must be close to the end of this story—because there will come a point when there are no Palestinians left.

But this is our story. It is a story of white supremacy, colonialism, ethnic cleansing, apartheid, and impunity. That is the human story. And we are all complicit in these acts—because we allow them to happen.

On the flip side of this coin—I was at my hairdresser’s the other day getting a blow-dry. Mario was doing my hair, and we usually have deep conversations. I enjoy talking to him because, although he’s a tough businessman, he’s also a very hard worker, and I’m often inspired by his work ethic.

However, the other day I was telling him something Israel had done, and he said the worst thing possible.

He said, “You know, Hitler knew something we didn’t know.”

My jaw dropped. I put my hands over my ears and started saying, “Lalalalalala,” just to block it out.

He then went on to say how Jews have always considered themselves better than the rest of us. I felt really sad that he said that, because I like him so much otherwise. But I knew in that moment that I needed to find a new hairdresser.

I told him I didn’t agree with that at all, and that I had wanted to convert to Judaism for years. Then I quickly changed the subject.

I kind of regret not being firmer, not showing more disapproval in the moment for what was such a blatantly antisemitic statement. But the truth is—I’m getting a special straightening treatment done later today, actually—and I want to get that done as my final service from them. After that, I’ll look for someone new.

I’ve already started looking online. I’m searching for a cosy little salon nestled inside a corner shopping centre, with a few hairdressers and preferably low-toxic colours.

Mario knows he said the wrong thing. When I was leaving, I gave his wife a big hug to say goodbye—but I didn’t hug him. I don’t always hug him anyway, but the moment was there, and I chose to walk away.

Last night, I was sitting in the lounge when my mother was on the phone to my brother. I could hear what they were saying, and they got onto the topic of China. My brother made a comment to my mother about “when China invades Australia.” Mum shrugged it off, but it got me thinking.

Not long ago, Chinese warships were circumnavigating Australia, and I remember feeling a low, buzzing sense of anxiety about it. Thoughts went through my head—what if China did invade Australia? What would that mean for us, logistically? Strategically? Personally?

After my mum and brother ended their conversation, I messaged him and asked if he really thought China could invade Australia. He answered yes, and even referred me to some reading on the topic. I then asked what was definitely a ridiculous question: “Would this affect our way of life?” He replied, “Absolutely,” and then went on to reference several commentators who have seriously suggested that China could invade Australia.

Thinking about it—I realised we’d be fucked.

It made me see, in a stark way, just how much we rely on the United States. On 11 June 2025, Australia sanctioned Israel’s Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, and Bezalel Smotrich, the Minister of Finance. This drew criticism from the Liberal Party and from international voices as well. But the day after we imposed those sanctions, the U.S. made a little side comment suggesting they might have to “review AUKUS.”

That’s the world we live in. We can’t speak out against the U.S.—or even against Israel—without risking serious strategic consequences.

Of course, I knew that, in theory. But I never really felt how this works until now.

Itamar Ben-Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich are two evil bastards who incite violence against Palestinians. As a peace-loving nation, we should absolutely be standing up to Israel and saying, “This behaviour is not good enough.” But we can’t—not without jeopardising something like AUKUS.

Meanwhile, I don’t sleep at night anymore. I’m up well past dawn because I’m so scared someone will break in to the house. I can’t settle my mind, so I try to keep busy while jumping at every little noise.

But last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about China invading Australia. The thought had lodged itself in my head, and it wouldn’t let go. I even decided I’m going to learn Chinese—it might be useful. But after another night of a different kind of terror, around 6:00am this morning, I heard fighter jets overhead.

I couldn’t believe it. Were my worst fears coming true?

I ran into my mother’s bedroom like a five-year-old child and woke her up. I asked if she could hear the jets. She said no—but then they flew over again, loudly, shaking the house. I ran back to my room and asked ChatGPT what the jets could possibly be, and it reassured me that it was a scheduled training exercise.

Intellectually, I don’t think I truly believed we were under attack. But it was just such a coincidence—after a long night of running through different scenarios of the Chinese invading Australia—that hearing those jets felt like a punch to the gut.

I still haven't heard back from the organisation about whether my criminal conviction for using my mobile phone while driving will affect my capacity to volunteer with them. I love the it so much—I think it is such an important and genuinely beautiful service. I'm passionate about it. I’d never want to work there in a paid role, because I feel like it only truly means something if it’s done voluntarily.

But I’m beginning to feel like maybe my conviction will prevent me from continuing as a volunteer. Plus, actually starting as a volunteer without having completed my police check—even though it was a genuine misunderstanding—probably wasn’t a great move. I did follow up on it, but ultimately, I’ve got to take full responsibility.

So I started thinking about something else meaningful I could do if I struggle to volunteer with my criminal conviction. And I found the perfect solution: Trauma Teddies.

They are these adorable little teddy bears that volunteers knit for the Red Cross. They're given to children in ambulances, to refugees, and to kids affected by bushfires, floods, and other disasters—any scenario where a child needs comfort. There’s a specific pattern you have to follow and criteria like the type of wool and stuffing that can be used. Once you've knitted a teddy, it’s inspected by someone at the Red Cross. If it ticks all the boxes, they put a special tag on it and it’s given out.

I’ve decided I’m going to learn to knit so I can make these Trauma Teddies. Luckily for me, my mother is a master knitter. She used to own a knitting shop and can knit just about anything. I asked her if she’d teach me how to knit the Trauma Teddies, and she said she’d love to.

In Australia, there are around 600 volunteer knitters and knitting groups who hand-knit Teddies. Together, they create 50,000 Trauma Teddies a year. I’m going to be number 601. I don’t know how many Teddies I’ll be able to make in a year, but I do know that mine will be colourful, meet every specific requirement the Red Cross asks for and most of all, they’ll be knitted with a whole lot of love. 

Help Me Let Go

I spent days in bed without even getting up or having a shower. During my waking hours, I was writing a book which, at the time, I thought was brilliant—but looking back on it now, it was utter madness. The book started as a letter to the judge, but it kept going and eventually became quite a lengthy body of work.

Around this time, my housemate had decided to move in with her boyfriend. She asked if I wanted to take over the lease of the apartment or move out. That’s when I made the decision to move to our nation’s capital.

She moved all of her things out, and while I should have been packing and arranging for my stuff to be taken away, I just lay in bed. I stared at my laptop screen, thinking of things to write that I found funny. I laughed out loud at the strangest things. It was becoming a surreal experience.

I asked my parents if they would meet me in Canberra for my 30th birthday so I could look around for a place to live, and they agreed. But when my birthday came, I was still in bed. I remember they kept calling and calling, and I just couldn’t tear myself away from the book. Eventually, I answered, and my mother—clearly unimpressed—asked me, in a not-too-pleased tone, where the fuck I was.

I told her I was still in Sydney, that I’d been held up, and I’d come the next day. But the next day turned into the next day again. When I finally gathered the strength to get up and get dressed, I made my way down to Canberra. My hair was unkempt, and I was wearing two different shoes. My parents were very concerned, but they showed patience and forgave me for leaving them waiting for a few days.

I found somewhere to live while I was there. The Hotel Kurrajong—an elegant five-star hotel—had an upstairs area with budget rooms for $400 a week. They were very basic, but I loved them, so I booked in for a month. I said goodbye to my parents as they urged me to come home. Instead, I drove back to Sydney and climbed back into my warm bed. I opened my laptop and began writing again.

The deadline to move out was approaching. All I had to do was clear out my things and return to the Hotel Kurrajong in Canberra. My housemate had arranged for cleaners to do the final clean, but I still hadn’t organised what to do with my bed, the couch she left behind, and everything else in the apartment. I spoke to the cleaners, and they agreed to take everything. We arranged for me to give them the key the day before I left.

But it didn’t go that way.

In the most irresponsible move I’ve ever made, I didn’t get the key to the cleaners. I left the apartment partially furnished on the very day the new tenants were due to move in. I had taken my clothes and a few belongings and loaded them into my car. Then I drove to a motel and, as if in a trance, ignored the countless calls and messages from my former housemate and the real estate agent. I didn’t even check the messages—I knew they wouldn’t be kind.

I was completely oblivious to the mess I had just created. All I wanted to do was write my book. Nothing else mattered.

I can’t remember even getting to Canberra, but I made it there safely, thank goodness. I unpacked my things and settled into my little room with its single bed. It was the middle of winter, and the Hotel Kurrajong is such a cosy place. There was a toasty fire in the lobby, with couches you could sit around to warm yourself.

I found myself sleeping through the day and staying up all night. Sometimes I’d sit by the fire or chat with the receptionist. Because I was a smoker, I’d often talk to people as they came back from their night out. I met so many people that way. We mostly talked about the Bali Nine.

As I mentioned earlier, the book I was writing had started as a letter to the judge in Sydney. But it became so long, I decided I’d turn it into a novel.

I’ll summarise the storyline and share some exerts from the book. As you will see, it is absolutely insane and I was in a very foreign and unfamiliar frame of mind when I wrote it.

It starts with a family that walked through the customs area of the Adelaide Airport with wood to declare. A senior customs officer recognised the father of the family and let him walk through the security checkpoint without having to open his bags for inspection. The family then goes on to live a charmed life funded by the proceeds of the heroin empire they established with the proceeds of the drugs that were concealed within the suitcase.

This scenario unfolds within a beautiful garden within an Eastern suburbs home, and the wife of the father tends to his every need, getting him a drink whenever he asks for one — usually a Bloody Mary — and she removes thorns from all the roses in the garden upon his request.

This then draws a comparison between that scenario and the chain of events after it, to the experience of Andrew Chan — the ringleader of the Bali Nine.

I referred to Andrew Chan as my pen pal in this book — because at this time I used to send him smokes and soap and stuff, and we wrote to each other a few times, although it wasn’t a solid traditional pen-pal type scenario.

Andrew Chan is brutally executed, and the book then goes on to outline how two princes watched while that happened — the Prince of Peace and the Prince of Darkness. The following is a brief description of his execution.

My pen pal was sleeping in his home one night, and as a disease infested rat attempted to crawl into his ear, this filthy piece of vermin woke him up to the sound of voices in the hallway getting louder and louder, speaking a language he didn’t even know or understand. But he knew what they were saying. They were saying we are coming to resurrect the final moments of life from a body that a rat arose from slumber.

He was paralysed with sheer terror and his body involuntarily locked itself to the cold concrete floor and he got a final whiff of the odour of his own body sewerage, the same odour he had smelt for years. But the smell of urine and faeces was perfumed bliss compared to the stench of death his entire body reeked of.

The men who spoke the foreign language appeared in his doorway holding batons and shackles. They looked at each other and smirked. The biggest guard swiftly rose his baton into the air and lunged forward at Andrew as he curled into a ball of sheer terror… they brutally shackled him and watched as he bled.

They rose a black hood, he managed to dodge it and he got down on his knees to beg for a taste of water in what would almost certainly be his last moments of sight.

He looked up from the ground cuffed and at the mercy of three men with guns and a license to kill. He cupped his hands together and tried to release a few simple words from of his mouth.

He was trying to tell to the men whose language he didn’t even understand, that he was thirsty.

But he didn’t need to tell them, they understood what he was trying to say.

I Thirst.

They slipped a black hood over his head, and removed the life from his eyes without a drop of water. They dragged him out of the room, and by the time he slipped back into consciousness he was in a forest. He couldn’t see it but he knew - he was about to be slaughtered. He could smell the life around him in the deep dark forest that was to play host to his death.

It was a clear still night with a full moon, and stars winking in a blanket of darkness. The magnitude of trees and greenery around this very moment – did not flinch in fear they too would suffer the same fate. He was consumed with sheer terror. His body did not shake – it convulsed because he knew what was to follow would be gruesome.

He was being dragged, like a dead rat – across what felt like prickles on a Scarlett rose - under his body. All he could hear was the voices of a language he couldn’t understand assaulting his ears like a loud trumpet. The voices were laughing and diluting his very existence with their words.

His mouth was so dry, he couldn’t whisper let alone speak. He just stared into darkness and listened to the last moments of his life. His life being scripted away by foreign people in a foreign land. In a foreign forest in the dead of the night.

My pen pal, felt his arms being tied to a piece of wood. They were being violently restrained with rope that burned his wrists. They tied the rope so tight that he could feel himself suspended on a piece of wood. So cheap to erect, yet worth more than his very own life. The rope was so tight, he thought his hands were about to burst from the blood that they held alone. He didn’t know what his hands looked like because he couldn’t see or even move his head to look the other way – but he could feel it.

He heard the men laughing at him, as they loaded their rifles. Then a soul brutalised to the very core, lost the only thing he hoped to keep that night. He couldn’t hold it any longer. He could feel it crawling down his leg burning him and completely exposing himself to the people in front of him. His body lost complete control. He wet his pants.

He then heard all the men laughing at him even harder than they were before. He dry reached which pushed him forward and rocked the makeshift crucifix he was tied to before a bunch of men with guns.

His body as if possessed by the most cruel and merciless god convulsed in the middle of a foreign forest as his heart started to pump the very blood that would soon become a fountain of immortality into his ears. It beat like a drum deafening him. But it didn’t drown out the sound of the men standing in front of him. Laughing. It wouldn’t stop, it just kept getting louder and louder. They had removed his eye sight, and now they were deafening him. With laughter.

He wanted to cry but he was so dehydrated. He had just wet his pants and he couldn’t even summon a drop of spit from his very own mouth to quench his thirst let alone deliver a tear. Completely clothed, yet completely stripped bare.

He could barely breathe through the horror or the hood. But in that very moment of time, in the world, in the universe, my pen pal’s priority was to savor every last breath his savior would allow him to have. It was so hard when he couldn’t control his body.

All the men who spoke a foreign language in front of him, had guns. And they were laughing at him. My pen pal’s heart was beating so fast, he thought it would explode. Father Time was prolonging his fate.

Then he heard the men count. He didn’t need to understand this language. The counting needed no clarification or explanation. Nothing needed to be said. Because he understood.

In dark cavities of his mind, which at that very moment became crystal clear, he got down on his knees in front of Jesus. Although he couldn’t see, he forced his eyes shut and bit his lips so hard they started to bleed. He just wanted it to be over.

Claps of what sounded like thunder broke the eery silence in the woods. The men in front of him issued bullets towards the very heart and soul of my pen pal.

The bullets pierced his body and gave him what he thought would be some reprieve from a world governed by a most the most cruel and merciless god. But the bullets didn’t kill him.

He was still alive, in excruciating pain. Andrew remained erected completely powerless over his very own body, he convulsed in the air his body making noises without his permission. Blood dripped from his mouth and every other part of his body that had the decency to allow him to release it.

He was bleeding to death on a crucifix worth more than his own life and men with guns, watched. The weight of his body was starting to push the crucifix forward, it started to rock and with an almighty force of gravity and a loud thump he landed at the feet of the men with guns.

Then finally, when the most cruel and merciless god became vulnerable to the idea of granting reprieve on a man choking to death on this very own blood – he made it stop and he lay dead and powerless at the feet of the men who killed him. They started to cackle like a pack of hyenas and he was completely powerless.

But it wasn’t the moment bullets pierced into his body and surrendered his life to the mercy of men with guns that he became powerless. It was the moment that perfect strangers were invited to deliver and watch the most intimate moment of his very own life.

His death.

And the thing is they get to watch him die twice. Because he already lost anything that means anything to anybody.

When he wet his pants.

After Andrew Chan dies, he goes to hell and this is a positive thing, because he gets to spend eternity with The Prince of Darkness, Saint Lucifer.

Saint Lucifer holds such a heavy burden that it weighs him down so much he can only survive in hell. This is because he had shared a burden with every single person who ever lived.

Which is why LIVED, appears as DEVIL in the mirror. It is also the reason why sometimes when people look in the mirror they see EVIL, and stresses a need to be more forgiving because that is what it means to LIVE.

The concept of mirrors appear a lot in my descriptions of hell, including one bit where I described God as a cunning sexually frustrated woman. The devil being opposite to God has had skills with women in particular with his tongue, which is why he sometimes appeared in the mirror as cunninglus.

Because in this one bit, God was a woman, that made Jesus respectfully a son of a bitch because God in the mirror is Dog.

Saint Lucifer makes hell a warm and welcoming place and has a good sense of humour which he uses to try and distract the tenants from the real horror in hell, which is to suffocate in your own silence for eternal life.

He recounts how he observed the Great Flood and watched Noah building an ark. He thinks about how he tried to offer Noah some of the wood that was fuelling the flames in hell so that he could build a bigger ship – however Noah didn’t want it.

During the 40 days and 40 nights that it rains, Saint Lucifer looks up above the clouds and sees a cruel and merciless God, spitting every single one of the pellets of rain, in the face of his own children, as the entire population of the world suffocates and drowns.

He then makes more room in hell as it becomes overcrowded with the influx of new tenants.

It then introduces Jesus as a character into the book. Jesus is a mentally ill man who is introduced to the head of a political organisation, St Peter. St Peter is looking to overthrow the Romans occupying Palestine at the time but he is not good with people, so he takes advantage of Jesus’ charisma and encourages him to become the face of his organisaiton.

My book draws a comparison between the relationship of Jesus and Saint Peter to the relationship of Fidel Castro and Dr Che Guevara and in the same vain as Dr Che Guevara, in the end, as Jesus’s power grows, he becomes a megalomaniac and loses sight of the compassion and humanity he once had.

During Jesus’s crucifixion at Calvary, Saint Lucifer watches the Virgin Mary kneeling at the bottom of the cross, covered in her son’s blood. She looks up and sees the same Dove from Noah’s Ark remove a berry from the crown of Rose thorns, which seems to be protruding it deeper into her son’s head. And as the Dove is doing that, its chest becomes stained with Jesus’ blood and magically morphs into a Robin Redbreast.

After the Virgin Mary saw that, she tried to point it out to show everyone else at the bottom of the cross, but by the time they look up the bird was gone and no one would believe her.

There was a lot of reference to blood which I think I unconsciously did, so much so that when concepts like vanity and being vain are in it, I have spelt the word vain VEIN. That probably sounds a little bit disturbing to you, however what I think I meant by that is how everything in the world that is considered bad comes back to the colour red. Code red, in the red, I see red, paint the town red, red blooded, and then if you think about it further Scarlett letter, Scarlett Woman, and Scarlett Fever.

It is also the common experience that everyone shares, the colour of my blood.

There was the Pied Piper and lots of rats, Rupert Murdoch and Wendy, eternally damned tortured souls as well as a number of other dark undertones, some which I don’t even understand how I even thought of that. I fed off my lack of sleep and I was completely wired. I had this unstoppable burst of creative energy that I put into obsessively writing this book. I named it after my favourite song, Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd to represent how powerless I felt at the time.

The following is how the book ends. 

It wasn’t long before Saint Lucifer set his demonic dazzlers on my pen pal. Saint Lucifer had seen my pen pal before but he never told him he saw, he just went about his business.

My pen pal was now comfortable sitting next to Saint Lucifer in the best place he could ever be, sitting next to a warm, crackling fire. Saint Lucifer’s business was to make my pen pal feel protected and safe, so he warmed him up by the fire and made him feel at home. They toasted marshmallows, and Saint Lucifer listened to him and made him feel heard.

Andrew turned to Saint Lucifer and asked if he could use the facilities. Saint Lucifer escorted my pen pal to the toilets and waited out the front so my pen pal knew that no one would ever hurt him again, and he was safe with Saint Lucifer.

As Saint Lucifer waited, he watched his tenants walk past him, sweating, blistering and burning. As Saint Lucifer was observing the people who were suffocating in silence for all time, a young lady ran right past him and tried to barge into the facilities.

Saint Lucifer knew that she should be going to the facilities on the other side of his satanic pit hole of nothingness. But she liked to go to the male facilities because she liked to be original and so he always allowed her to do so.

Saint Lucifer instantly blocked the facilities to protect my pen pal from the injustice of having to do his business in front of anyone ever again. He looked at the young lady and said:

“Patty dear, you can’t just push in like that, you know you must wait.”

And in the midst of the facilities flushing, my pen pal was at the right hand of Saint Lucifer once again. Saint Lucifer had delivered the most intimate moment of my pen pals immortality. By taking the time to wait for him and make him feel protected.

Saint Lucifer looked at Patty, and opened the door for her so she could go about her business. As he did that, Patty turned to the right. She saw a man anxiously watching Citizen Kane choking back tears like he always does. She turned to the left and she saw a black man with an afro and some shifty looking folk who looked like they were up to no good. They kept taking notes looking at the man watching Citizen Kane, and they kept looking at Patty every time she flinched.

Saint Lucifer knew Patty had she had something she would like to say. All she needed was for someone to listen to her and hear it, so he said:

“Come on Patty, get on with it”

And he motioned for her to go to the facilities. Patty turned to Saint Lucifer, she looked him dead in the eye, and she said:

“My name is Tania”.

St Lucifer didn’t bat an eyelid. He knew there was nothing further Patty needed to say. She was now free to do her business in peace.

When I read these pieces of writing now, it makes me very sad. The ideas are so warped and unhinged—it’s a clear reflection of the frame of mind I was in at the time. I was deeply wounded.

By this stage, I had two separate files: one was my book, and the other was a letter to the judge, which had been inspired by the book itself. I hadn’t slept in weeks. I was living in this strange, heightened world where the Bali Nine and Saint Lucifer consumed my thoughts.

And then I did something that changed the course of my life.

I kept writing, editing, and eventually sent the letter to the judge. I still have it saved somewhere on my computer, but I cannot—and will not—look at it.

I remember it talked about the strange connection we supposedly shared—that we were once sperm in a race for our own lives. It claimed he had the power to save the Bali Nine on death row. It said a lot about Jesus. It also mentioned that I’d nearly been married three times. I can’t recall most of the wording, but I distinctly remember saying something about attempting adultery with him. And then this: “I know women who would have walked out of the Downing Centre with baby deer and seven dwarfs following them out of the building—for doing what I did.”

It was inappropriate. Completely insane. Cringeworthy. Quite simply, it was the worst thing I had ever done.

I don’t know what came over me.

Well, actually—I do. I was living in another world. I’d drive around Canberra and everything I saw seemed phallic—especially the buildings and the fountains.

After finishing the letter, I thought it was so good that I physically drove to the airport, put it in a DHL overnight envelope, and sent it. I wanted it to be in his hands as quickly as possible.

That night, I finally got a good sleep. The next morning, oddly enough, one of my conservative friends from the Young Liberals messaged me. He said he was in Canberra and asked if I wanted to go out for a coffee.

It was serendipitous—my friend from the Liberal Party was at their headquarters, which happened to be right behind the Hotel Kurrajong. We arranged to meet for coffee nearby. There was something about seeing him that gave me a bit of a reality check. We talked about real things and real people, and suddenly the strange bubble I’d been living in burst. And it burst with a bang.

After we finished coffee, I ran back to my room at the hotel and started packing. I had a lot of things, and by the time I was done, it was well into the night. I checked out, pointed my car in the direction of Adelaide, and drove.

I would never do that drive now—I don’t drive on country roads anymore—but back then, I did it without a second thought. I had The Seekers' The Carnival is Over playing on repeat. I smoked cigarettes as I drove the lonely stretch of road, and I cried a lot.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the judge’s associate opening that letter. They were so close; I was certain he would have passed it on. I imagined them both laughing at me. And then another fear crept in: what if the judge thought I was unhinged? What if he believed I might try to fabricate something about us? I know women who have threatened to do that sort of thing—to bring someone down—and I was terrified he’d think I was one of them.

But most of all, I was afraid that my dad would find out.

The next day, I stopped in some small town and knew I had to sleep. But before I did, I found the local post office. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote another letter to the judge. It said:

“I am so sorry for my previous letter. I was just so upset about being let go from the Downing Centre. I have worked with barristers who became judges before and that is why I took such a casual tone with you. I promise never to write to you again.”

I sent it off quickly and felt a little better. But all the way home, I have to admit—I thought about crashing the car more than once. I was that far down in the dumps.

The idea that my dad would find out about how I behaved at the courts—and about the very unusual letter I sent to the judge—haunted me. When I got home, I stayed with my parents purely because I was terrified the judge himself would call my dad. And my dad would have been so ashamed of me. Not because I acted like a tramp, but because I had failed to fully win over the judge’s affections.

This was also when I started to become very creative.

I first wrote to all the judges’ associates in Australia—excluding Sydney—and asked whether the judge gets their mail personally. After I sent the letters, I realised it probably looked like I was seeking employment. I got a few replies, mostly from registrars asking if there was something they could help with. One registrar in Adelaide wrote back to tell me I was “not to write to all judges as [I] did.”

I sort of scrunched up my nose and, in the back of my mind, thought to myself: Don’t I pay the judges’ salaries? Anyway, I suppose it was a waste of their time.

I then began writing to chief justices around the world, asking for a copy of the oath used in their courtroom—or the oath or affirmation they swore when they were appointed. I didn’t write to all of them, like I did this time around, but I got a decent number of responses. I wrote to the entire District Court judiciary of New Zealand. I wrote to barristers’ chambers, prisons, and every institution in Australia that administers an oath.

I wrote to all these people for one reason: I needed something to help me let go of this very upsetting experience.

My plan was to collect all the letters, scan them to keep a copy, and then physically burn the originals in a glass furnace—turning the paper into glass. Then I wanted to blow a vessel or some kind of sculpture from that glass. It would represent the madness and confusion I felt around judges and the law.

I kept writing my letters, but I slowly snapped out of the little world I’d been living in, and I started working again. I got a job at Highgate Park, which was the old Julia Farr Centre. It was rich with history, and I was working in the clinic alongside a couple of nurses and admin staff.

One day, this woman walked towards the reception desk, and I went weak at the knees. She looked like the female version of the man who exposed himself to me—and the judge. She had that distinct look about her. Once again, I would have put money on her being a relative of one or both of them. And just like that, I felt an instantaneous attraction to her.

I’m not a lesbian. I’ve never been attracted to a woman before. But I felt this overwhelming sense of desire for her, and I wasn’t shy about making it known. I had no idea who she was, but I got up from my seat, walked over, held out my hand, and introduced myself. She was a little taken aback, but we got talking. It turned out she was a senior nursing manager. We got along really well, and I’m sure she must have thought the amorous way I was carrying on was a bit odd—but she didn’t turn me away.

One day, I noticed she was wearing a glass necklace. I told her it was beautiful, and she said she’d made it herself. I mentioned that I had some experience with glass, and she said she was actually looking for a new supplier. So I went home and spent hours online researching glass suppliers for her. The next day, I came to work and presented her with a full list.

Meanwhile, I kept having real-life sexual fantasies about her. There were so many consulting rooms at the clinic—I imagined slipping into one of them with her. I don’t know what I’m doing with a man, so it would be even worse with a woman, but I think if you have a sense of humour about these things, it’s okay.

Then one day, I told her about my project collecting oaths from supreme courts around the world. She asked if I needed an oath from the Supreme Court of South Australia. I said I’d love one. And then she said, “I can get you one—my father used to be a Supreme Court Justice.”

That actually happened to a person. That actually happened to me!!!

There is some judge gene out there, and I seem to have a vulnerability to it.

We later found out that her dad knew my dad. Apparently, they weren’t exactly friends, and our friendship kind of fizzled out after that. But she—she was so much like the exposer and the judge, it was almost the strangest thing that has ever happened to me.

While my commentary on this whole judge saga comes to an end with this post, in real life it led me down a path that pretty much ruined my life for a long time. I’m really only just now coming back up for air.

When I think back, in my eyes he really was an arrogant bastard. I remember once telling his associate that the judge reminded me of my father, and the associate told the judge and he was genuinely offended. He said that the judge said he couldn’t believe I’d think of him like a father figure. Of course I didn’t—not in that way. But they both shared a similar kind of arrogance.

The judge displayed it again one day when we were in the lift together. I told him I’d identified an attractive barrister in his courtroom. He asked me who it was, and I said, “You should know—you’re the wise judge.” Then I added, “He’s the most attractive barrister I’ve ever seen.” The judge bellowed as he replied, “That’s because you never saw me when I was at the bar.”

Years later, I was sitting in a psychologist’s office telling her about what had happened with the judge and the letter. It was a cold winter’s day, and I remember it was raining. I sat there watching the rain drops slide down the window as she asked, “Why does this matter so much to you? Why can’t you let it go?”

A tear slipped down my cheek. I just said, “I don’t know.”

I could light-heartedly suggest that what I do know is this: the judge is retired now, but he probably thought twice before flirting with his court officer again.

I had handwritten a second letter to him in a frenzy—trying to rectify the fact that I’d singlehandedly written him the anthem of my madness, sung to the tune of my love for him. And in that last letter, I told him I would never write to him again.

Well… I went back on my word.

I wrote one more letter, about a year later. I didn’t include a return address, and I didn’t invite dialogue. It was just something I needed to share with him.

Dear Your Honour,

My name is Me and I am a 31-year-old woman from Adelaide, South Australia. I worked at the Downing Centre District Court as a temporary staff member working as a Court Officer, March 2011 – May 2011.

After my temporary contract ended at the court, I wrote a number of letters to you which I am deeply remorseful for.

Although genuinely unintentional, the letters were mostly lies and highly exaggerated, twisted truths.

I sincerely apologise for the content in those letters.

Bram Stoker worked at the Dublin Court of Petty Sessions, now the Dublin District Court. I am certain the letters in Dracula are inspired by a similar experience to my own.

However, in the short time that I worked for you at the Downing Centre District Court, I shared a similar experience to C. S. Lewis.

My reason for this is because of his story The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Four children — Lucy, Edmund, Susan, and Peter — walk through the back of a wardrobe and step into a world called Narnia.

They introduced life, warmth, and goodness into what seemed to be a cold, pointless, and eternally damned place to be.

They became Kings and Queens of Narnia and lived an enchanted, meaningful life filled with courage, inspiration, and beauty.

Then one day, when they are old, they walk back into the wardrobe and become children again.

And only a moment had passed.

I always wondered what sort of thing had happened to C. S. Lewis that gave him the ability to see an entire lifetime of magic in just one moment.

And now I know.

I have since built an enriched and fulfilling life for myself, and sometimes draw upon the frame of mind I was in at that time to remind myself to ensure a high standard of personal conduct at all times.

The reason for my letter today is I have something I wanted to say to a judge, and I hoped you might recall me in some small way prior to the serious disrespect I showed you.

Last weekend I saw on the news the story that Jill Meagher, an ABC journalist, had gone missing. I followed the story with interest, but when I saw the CCTV footage of the accused talking to her, I felt physically sick.

I felt desperate for news about it all day at work, constantly looking for updates online, and that night I didn’t sleep. I stayed up all night and watched on TV and online as the police arrested the accused, managed to get the location of her body from him, and then charged him.

I could feel what happened to her to the core of my being.

Assuming that the accused is guilty, I feel angry at the judiciary that he was out on the streets, and I don’t understand why the crimes he had already committed weren’t enough to lock him up for longer.

I have never cried so much for someone I don’t know before. I have had trouble sleeping and I feel like he raped me and murdered a little bit of me too.

He did that to every woman.

Lady Justice is a woman, and he raped and killed her too.

From,

Me