Universal Basic Income

It’s 4:27am on Tuesday, and it goes without saying that I haven’t slept. I’m alone tonight because Mum is in Canberra for a function about Dad’s death, and I hate being in this house by myself at night. I’m so scared of a home invasion. Ideally, I’d live in an apartment with one entrance and heavy security.

This fear didn’t start my sleep issues, but I’m sure it’s kept them going. Last time Mum went away, I was talking to a friend about it, and they said, “Do you think the home invaders are scared of your mum? If they’re going to break in, they will whether she’s there or not.” That didn’t make me feel any better — but it was true.

I’ve lived alone plenty of times. When I was in Tanzania, I sometimes stayed by myself in a big house with nothing but a single guard at the gate. He was a Maasai man and my friend. He barely spoke any English, but somehow I felt completely safe with him there through the night. I never had any problems in any of those places.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve somehow become really scared of people breaking in. I think a home invasion would be one of the worst things a person could experience. It’s such an intense, personal violation. Part of why I’m so afraid of it is because it’s constantly on the news. Most of the reports come from the northern suburbs, but last December there was a shocking one in Gilberton where a prominent doctor was beaten to death in his own home. The details were horrifying. I don’t even want to write about it anymore because I’m scaring myself just thinking about it.

I just finished watching a documentary called Paycheck to Paycheck: The Life and Times of Katrina Gilbert. It opens with a staggering statistic: 42 million American women live at or below the poverty line, and 13 million of them are mothers of young children. Katrina Gilbert is one of those women, and the documentary follows a year of her life.

The first time we see her, she’s showing the camera crew one of her tattoos — a bluebird with the words Alis Volat Propriis, which means “She flies with her own wings.” She says it with this quiet confidence, almost casually, as if she’s reminding herself. And over the next hour and fourteen minutes, I learned that she really does fly with her own wings.

The documentary goes through Katrina’s history: she married at 19 and had three children with her husband. Later, he developed an addiction to painkillers, and the marriage fell apart. She moved into a trailer park with her children and spent eight months trying to find work. Eventually, she got a job at a nursing home as a certified nursing assistant.

Her annual income is USD $18,678.62 — roughly AUD $28,349.91. That’s basically the same amount as our Aged Pension, Disability Pension, or Carer Payment. I know the cost of living is different in America, but I honestly don’t know how someone could support themselves and three children on that amount.

Her husband, who she’s separated from, only works sporadically, so there isn't much child support coming in. She pays her rent in instalments, and the childcare centre she uses is specifically for low-income families, so it is far cheaper than full-price centres.

I found myself wondering how food stamps actually work in America, because Katrina had them — and then, at one point in the documentary, she was told they were being taken away.

The film really highlights the small, everyday barriers poor families face, like the cost of medical care. Katrina doesn’t have any health insurance, and the price of doctor’s appointments and the medication she needs for a thyroid condition is simply too much. So, a lot of the time, she just has to go without it.

When Katrina received her tax refund, she went to a salon to get her hair done because she was turning thirty. Watching that scene made me realise how obscene it is how often I go to the salon. And it’s my birthday on Friday. I’m getting a colour, cut, and blow-dry on Thursday night, and I’ve decided that will be my last appointment for a long time.

Anyway, back to Katrina. She moved in with her new boyfriend, and her children moved in with them too. Her estranged husband moved into the trailer she had been renting, which actually turned out to be helpful — it meant he could look after the kids more often. He even got a job once he moved in, and honestly, she really is an amazing woman.

She explained that if she applied for child support, it would take away nearly half of his weekly pay. She said she’d rather just have a tank of gas or even sixty dollars to help her get through the week.

Later, she applied to go back to college to study radiology. She passed the entrance test but was initially denied financial aid. She started appealing the decision and gathering medical evidence to support her case, but the documentary didn’t say whether she was approved in the end. I hope she was.

I think about the working poor a lot. I’ve worked with so many people while temping, and there are countless people who simply can’t make ends meet, let alone get ahead. This is why I believe in a universal basic income. I’ve believed in it ever since I learned about it in sociology. From what I understand, Kamala Harris supports it too. I hope she does something with that if she gets in.

The model I like is the one where everyone receives the same amount, regardless of their income. I like it because it puts all of us on equal footing. If you want to earn more, you can — but if you can’t, you would still have enough for housing, medical care, and the essentials.

These things are basic human rights. So why shouldn’t we readjust the global economy to make sure everyone has them?

I genuinely believe a universal basic income is possible. I think back to COVID and how the whole world was thrown into uncharted territory. And yet, on an international scale, we acted swiftly. We adapted to a completely new normal almost overnight. If we can do that, we can absolutely do it with a universal basic income.

I recently joined a group that supports a UBI in Australia. I haven’t been to a meeting yet, but I plan to. They hold them over Zoom. Their proposal is that the UBI should be set at the same rate as the Aged Pension, Disability Pension, and Carer Payment — the same amount I mentioned earlier. I think that’s enough for someone to live on, but not comfortably.

When you factor in rent, it becomes even more obvious how impossible the numbers are. For example, the woman I visit through the refugee organisation pays $300 a week, and that’s for community housing. If you have to rent privately, it’s far more than that — and it would wipe out almost an entire payment on its own.

I don’t have the answers, but I truly believe a universal basic income should be implemented worldwide as a priority. COVID brought the world to its knees, and sometimes I think it might take another global crisis — a war or some other catastrophe — before people realise that poverty and homelessness should not exist. People should not lack the ability to live with comfort, housing, safety, food, and dignity.

Innocent Man?

It’s 7:07 am on Monday morning, and I spent most of the night making origami aliens for the name cards for my birthday dinner on Friday night. While I was making them, I decided to listen to some Billy Joel, and I found myself listening to Innocent Man.

As I was listening, I started thinking about miscarriages of justice and the Henry Keogh case. I’m no expert on what happened, but I remember taking an interest in it some years ago and doing some reading about it.

Last night, I wanted to refresh my memory, so I looked on my podcasts app and found a podcast called Pure Grit with Paula McGrath that featured a two-part interview with Henry Keogh.

As I folded my aliens, I listened to these two recordings, and it was interesting to hear things from Henry’s perspective. He hasn’t been acquitted, and I’m not entirely sure what that means, but as I understand it, he hasn’t been proven innocent as such, but his conviction has been overturned.

In the interview, he talked about what happened, explaining that he was engaged to South Australian lawyer Anna-Jane Cheney, who at the time was the head of Professional Conduct at the Law Society of South Australia. They were just six weeks away from their wedding.

He described how they met up one Friday night after work for drinks, and when they got home, she decided to take a bath while he went to see his mother — to tell her she wasn’t invited to the wedding. When he returned home, he found Anna slumped over in the bath.

He says he took her out of the water and called an ambulance while trying to resuscitate her, but she died at the scene.

Initially, the police deemed it to be a death by natural causes, with nothing suspicious. But weeks later, after an inspection by the chief forensic pathologist Colin Manock, it was ruled that her death was a murder, and Henry became the chief suspect.

This podcast actually annoyed me a bit because Paula’s phone rang, and you could hear it ringing. She even answered it, and you could hear her on the call! She could have edited that bit out. I mean, she had a guest who people would be interested in listening to, and for that, he deserves some respect — but she made the whole thing feel so unprofessional.

She also talked about herself a lot, which was frustrating. Another ridiculous thing she said was when Henry first went into the city watch house, she asked him:

“What sort of people were you in with there?”

And I just thought, “What kind of people do you think were in there?”

But Henry went on to explain that he spent most of his time in solitary confinement while he was in the watch house.

Henry had been working at a bank, and as a side business, he dealt with insurance. To keep his business running, he participated in a practice called “tombstoning.” Apparently, it’s called this because insurance brokers used to go to graveyards, pick a name from a tombstone, and use it to set up an insurance policy.

By doing this, the policies effectively paid for themselves because the commission was higher than the premiums — making it a way to keep your business running. Henry did this using Anna’s name on five different life insurance policies valued at $1.15 million, and he forged her signature in setting them up.

I know this would be circumstantial evidence, but if you combine it with what Colin Manock determined, it makes a pretty compelling case. In 1995, at age 40, Henry was sentenced to 26 years in prison for Anna’s murder.

He launched various appeals, and something interesting happened involving the International Court of Human Rights — which I want to read more about — but in the meantime, there was a growing legion of people who believed there had been a miscarriage of justice in Henry’s case.

It turns out the chief forensic pathologist, Colin Manock, was not properly qualified, and he later retracted his statements about some of the bruising on Anna’s legs. There was also one legal academic and researcher, Dr. Bob Moles, who did the extensive legal research for Henry’s defence.

In the end, they were successful: Henry’s conviction was quashed in 2014. By then, he had served 20 years of his sentence. Apparently, the full court still believed Henry should face trial over Anna’s death, but the DPP ultimately decided not to proceed with it.

It was sad listening to the podcast. Henry had young daughters when he went into prison, and now that he’s out, they’re all adults — but the saddest thing he talked about was how he was raped in jail.

He said two men attacked him, and while one held him down, the other raped him. Afterwards, the man whispered in his ear to keep quiet about it because they knew where his children went to school.

Reporting it wasn’t an option for him. Firstly, he didn’t know who the perpetrator was, and secondly, it would have gone against the unwritten code in jail — you don’t snitch. He also couldn’t seek medical attention, because the people administering it would be obliged under mandatory notification laws to report it.

It sounded like the most horrific ordeal, and I felt so terrible for him. The physical and emotional wounds from something like that are too much to bear.

This also reminded me of something I’ve thought about before —  about how hominins, including early humans, may have been sexually violent with each other, particularly men raping other men. I’ve always imagined this as possibly being territorial, maybe with an alpha male as the perpetrator.

It’s just so awful.

I was listening to Henry last night, and if he is innocent, it’s just an unforgivable thing — twenty years of his life have been taken from him, and he can never get that back. But something I was thinking about was… he still could have done it.

He sounds like a nice man, and after I finished listening to the two-part podcasts, I watched a 40-minute episode of Spotlight on YouTube about the case. He got teary every time he talked about certain things — like the loss of years in prison and the miscarriage of justice itself.

But I sometimes wonder if circumstances like this can make martyrs out of very bad people. He could have done it. If you took the forensic evidence off the table, he could have picked her up and drowned her, and — not that I’m any kind of medical expert — but what if that left no physical markers? I don’t know.

I’m not saying he did it. It sort of reminds me of the Brittany Higgins rape case — no one will ever really know what happened apart from her and Bruce Lehrmann.

Henry may not know what happened if he was really visiting his mother and came home to find Anna like that — but if he was responsible, no one will ever know unless he confesses on his deathbed or something like that.

South Australia has the most awesome Police Commissioner, Grant Stevens. I really like and respect him, and he had this to say about Henry Keogh in August 2018:

“It would be an understatement to say Mr. Keogh remained a person of interest.”

I remember when there was a lot of news about the Chief Forensic Pathologist Colin Manock and something to do with three babies, which I recall being shocking. But if he testified at over 400 trials, I can’t help but worry about the quality of the evidence being presented. Have the outcomes of all those trials even been reviewed?

In terms of compensation, Henry initially asked for $6 million but was given $2.57 million, which sparked some controversy. Anna’s family was understandably not happy, and I read in an article from 2018 that they were taking civil action against Henry for the forged insurance policies.

There are two things I remember about this case in particular.

I remember when one of the trials was going on, there were some graphic photos that had been reenacted of Anna in the bath. They were published in The Advertiser, and — I don’t know how I know this — but I remember hearing that advertisers had threatened to pull their business from the paper as a result of the public outrage over the photos.

The second thing I remember is when Henry was released from prison. There were people who were happy that justice had finally been served, but I also remember Tom Koutsantonis making a statement to the media acknowledging Anna’s family in all of this. I can’t remember his exact words, but whatever he said made me stop and think.

I’m not suggesting anyone in particular knows what happened — apart from Henry — but there are people who have seen all the evidence that we can’t see or have access to. There are people who know things the general public can’t know, which is why someone like me can never really know what happened.

All I know is… there are people who know.

What I want to know is this: is our legal system set up in such a way that it becomes a miscarriage of justice when a guilty man is sentenced to life in prison — simply because he didn’t leave us the right amount of evidence?

Little Religious Interventions

It's 2:27am on Sunday morning, although I think the date and time presented in this blog are a day behind. Anyway, I had a sad day yesterday. I received some messages from Nanny's granddaughter, Rebecca, saying that Nanny had been taken to the hospital. Then, Nanny's daughter told me which ward and room number she was in. I went to see her as soon as I found out, and she was very confused; in some ways, she seemed resigned to death.

Late on Friday night, she was taken to the Emergency Room at Calvary Hospital on Angas Street because she was bleeding from the mouth and was disoriented. Rebecca told me the doctors said it is highly likely she has stomach cancer, but they can't do a biopsy because of her age. Even if they did detect it, they couldn’t treat it also due to her age. Apparently, yesterday morning, before I arrived, she was throwing things around and asking for her daughter.

When I got there, no one else was around, and she seemed very happy to see me. But she started talking about wanting to take English classes because she felt she couldn't speak English and asked if I knew anywhere she could go. I said, "Nanny, you speak perfect English," but she just shook her head and said, "Come on." There was some mention that dementia might be setting in, and if it is, it’s happening very quickly.

Dad had basic symptoms of dementia for years, but then one day, he was out the back near the pool, he slipped, and hit his head on the concrete. From that day on, the dementia accelerated very quickly. I've thought a lot about whether it's better to have dementia as a significantly older person. I watched my dad, who was 95, have no clue that he was near the end of his life. You could try to have a conversation with him, but he would forget that he even opened his mouth literally ten seconds later. It was so difficult for all of us, but for him, he was carefree and totally unaware that he was going to die soon. He was also not in any pain.

I compare this with Nanny, who is beyond miserable. A big part of her decline is that she lost her son to cancer earlier this year, and she was distraught about it. She has never been the same since, and now she has lost her son, her house, her independence, her social life at the church, and her connections within the Lithuanian community. She’s lost everything, and she is very aware of it. So when I go to see her at the nursing home and she cries, I really just sit with her because, although I can't fully empathise, I can see that this God she believes in really is a cruel and merciless bastard.

So, I want to tell you a secret: if Nanny is developing dementia, I secretly hope it progresses quickly so that she becomes unaware of the fact that she doesn’t have long to live, and that she is comfortable and peaceful. It’s sort of like the Neuralysers they use in Men In Black, which completely erase your short-term memory. Below, you can see the sign out front of Calvary Hospital as well as the Emergency Department.

As someone who has spent a considerable amount of time manning a reception desk, I always take notice of them wherever I see them. Below is a photo of the reception desk at the front of the hospital. I also took a photo of some edible blooms they are selling at the café. The café was closed, but I took a sneaky peek inside and saw them on a rack. Edible Blooms is a company that creates chocolate bouquets. They deliver, and I used to use them, but now I only send flowers when the occasion calls for it.

On the way out tonight, I came across a small statue of the Venerable Mary Potter, which you can see below. I was familiar with Mary Potter because there is a hospice in Adelaide named after her, but I did not know she was on her way to sainthood. She was a British woman who did significant work in Australia, establishing healthcare facilities and hospitals.

I think about these nuns, and in some ways, I feel quite similar to them because they are all celibate. While I do believe in the contents of the first and second Testaments of the Bible, I don't support it, which makes me a dystheist. But I can relate to nuns, particularly in the absence of a man and the feeling of having a higher purpose. I don't mean that I am destined to do great things, but I do feel that I have the potential to achieve things quietly, slipping under the radar while doing so.

Someone like the Venerable Mary Potter will live forever through her name in places like her hospice here in Adelaide, and I'm sure there are healthcare settings named after her around the world. What will truly solidify her immortality will be when she is canonised as a saint. I wonder if she'll become a saint before the millennial saint Carlo Acutis. I also want to know if he is a Venerable too until he gets canonised.

I feel like I am the total opposite of these saintly people because I am a sinner. Not in a funny, jovial way, but I have genuinely sinned, and I doubt I'll ever be able to redeem myself.

I'm feeling very sad tonight, but I'm also overwhelmed with profound guilt. Nanny literally raised my brother and me, but in addition to being our "Nanny," she was also our cleaning lady. She washed our clothes, vacuumed our floors, cleaned our bathrooms, and even scrubbed the toilets. It's confusing and hard to reconcile what really happened here.

I love my mum, but she did leave me at Nanny's when I was only a couple of weeks old, and that set a pattern for the rest of both my and my brother's childhood. I'm not complaining because I love Nanny and she had a caretaker role, but she also had a role where she was doing things like cleaning our toilets and making our beds.

It was like a clash of classes. Nanny came from a working-class background and was very frugal, so she would take us to places like Cheap As Chips to buy school supplies. On the other hand, Mum, who had a lot of money, would take us to David Jones and other upscale places to buy clothes. Nanny always told Mum that she worked too much and needed to spend more time with us, but Mum was addicted to her line of work. I don't begrudge her that—I believe everyone should reach their full potential.

As well as being very working-class, Nanny is Catholic, and she would say little things to us like, "Don't whistle inside, you'll whistle the devil in," which scared the shit out of me. Another time, she told me about how the Virgin Mary turned the sun around, and it terrified me so much that I actually threw up. But these little religious interventions sparked a lifelong curiosity about religion in me. Nanny was always upset that Mum didn’t have us baptised. In my early twenties, I talked to Dad about getting baptised, but he told me it would be an act of self-promotion, so I decided against it.

Nanny only stopped working for us just after her 90th birthday. She did my washing up until then. I usually did my own laundry, but I always saved some for her because I still wanted her to come. I don't know a world without Nanny. I remember when I was a kid, I used to fight with Mum a lot, and I once told her I wanted to go live with Nanny. Looking back, I can now see how much that must have hurt my Mum, but at the time, it felt like Nanny was our primary caregiver.

Her family doesn't like Ben and me much. While I have a good relationship with them, especially Rebecca, I know they didn’t like the work Nanny did for us. I feel so guilty that someone’s life revolved around our lives. When Nanny stopped nannying us, she used to just come to clean. She came twice a week to our old house, but when that became too much for her, Mum hired two other cleaners—a couple that worked as a team and they came one day a week. When Nanny came on the other day she would ask me about them and go through our house, looking at the work they had done. I felt so bad that this was her job, her workplace. Our home was her workplace.

As I got older, Nanny and I used to sit together at her house and watch TV every Saturday night. But the thing is, we were not equals. She may have scrubbed our toilets, but she is the matriarch of a large family. She is a mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and all those lives exist and thrive because of her. She was a valuable and respected member of her church and the Lithuanian community, and frankly, she is more of a woman and has made more of a difference in this world than I ever will.

After I got back from the hospital, Mum and I went to see a singer, Rebecca O'Connor, as Tina Turner in a show called Simply the Best at the Regal Theatre. I wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. As I sat there, I found myself thinking: Rebecca O'Connor has the most powerful voice and electric presence on stage. Does she really want to spend her whole life singing someone else's songs? Does she really want to spend her life pretending to be someone else? She should get her own band and be her own act—she's too good for this. Below, you can see photos of Rebecca with her band and her dancers onstage. I also took a photo from the staircase as we were leaving. 

While I've been typing this, I've had my electric blanket on, warming up my bed. It's now 3:22am, and I'm going to get into bed and listen to the Bible as an audiobook until around dawn. Then, I'll try to get some sleep.

The Price We Pay

It’s exactly 4:00 am on Saturday morning, and I’ve been up all night making origami aliens. I’m planning to place them next to the name cards at my birthday dinner on Friday night. I know it might sound a little childish, but the aliens are surprisingly detailed — and really, they’re just a bit of fun.

I’ve been thinking about this blog today. So far, I’ve shared some thoughts, but it’s also taken on the feel of a diary — a way of recording what I’ve been doing that day or the day before. I want to keep doing that, because as I think I’ve mentioned, I want a record of my life, even if it’s just an anonymous piece of nonsensical writing drifting out into the void.

But I also want to capture some memories — and here is one that’s not so good.

When I was child, I was hypersexual. I know why that was, but this is not that kind of blog. I did want to share what I used to get up to in the schoolyard. At lunchtime, I would often climb up onto a bench attached to a classroom, lift my dress, and then pull down my pants.

My audience was mainly boys, and they would watch and cheer. I did this often. One day, one of the boys — the younger brother of a friend of mine — pulled me into a classroom and pushed me onto a desk. He pulled my pants down, and while I can’t remember exactly what happened, I think he picked up a smock and started whipping me with it.

I remember crying and laughing at the same time.

That incident didn’t stop me from climbing back onto the bench and pulling my knickers down. It only came to a halt when one of the teachers physically got me down. I never actually got into trouble at school.

But months later, after it had all ended, I remember being in the kitchen at our family farm when my mother said to me, “We know what you were doing at school, and you are a dirty, dirty girl. You have embarrassed us.”

I will never forget how that made me feel. It wasn’t just shame — it was something deeper. Something colder. Looking back, I find it disturbing that we all went on living what appeared to be a normal life, while she knew the whole time. And I hate that.

To this day, I hate it when people wait to tell you they know something about you. It almost invalidates the time in between.

The repercussions of my actions at school carried over into our home life. I remember my brother had a friend stay over one night, and at some point, he came into my room and said "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." I didn’t partake in that game.

But worse than those things was what happened a few years later, when I was in Year Four. A girl in Year Seven was running for SRC and knew my dad had an office. She came up to me and said I had to get her campaign posters photocopied at my dad’s work — or she’d tell everyone how I used to stand up on the bench and flash people.

I got the job done. 

But that moment has stayed with me all my life. The price we pay to keep our past — or our identity — secret. I still do it today.

And I don’t feel free.

I didn’t write about that memory this morning for any particular reason. I just wanted to get it out of my system. It’s such a complicated part of my childhood, tangled in two damaging threads: the first being that my mum knew about it, and the second being the blackmail.

Throughout my life, I’ve had a few unpleasant sexual experiences, and I think that’s partly because of the person I used to be. I was friendly. I was trusting. And I drank a lot — not problem drinking, but in my twenties I would often have a big night out, and sometimes I got into trouble.

I don’t want to talk about all of that right now — maybe I will one day — but this thing with pulling my pants down and showing all the boys… it was serious. It might sound ridiculous or juvenile, but it shaped things. Sometimes I think it’s a wonder I didn’t end up a prostitute or wildly promiscuous — but it’s been the opposite.

I was involved with a few men in my twenties and early thirties, but not many. I’ve been celibate for the past eleven years, and I don’t see that changing. That’s been a choice, but it’s also wrapped up in body image — I put on a lot of weight after some health issues, and only in the past few years have I started to lose it.

I’ve never felt comfortable or free with a man because of how I felt in my body. But I think that would be different now — if I were with someone.

But I know I won’t be. That’s not bitterness, just realism. It’s a bit off-topic from the childhood memory, but I’m not a beautiful or arrogant woman. I have flaws and imperfections that most men would probably find off-putting. But honestly — I don’t think there’s a man alive who would be a match for me.

And beyond that, I’m not going to waste my precious time on a man who would likely ditch me the minute I turn fifty anyway.

I wanted to mention my mother in this story. I know she said something a parent probably shouldn’t say to a confused six-year-old child, but I’ve thought about it over the years. And honestly, I don’t believe there’s a rule book for parenting. She probably didn’t know what to say — and what came out was that.

I’ve never confronted her about it, mostly because I don’t want to bring up what actually happened. But I know she would regret it now. I do believe that.

So here I am, sharing this deep, dark secret — something I’ve carried for so long. And it’s something I genuinely feel shame over. Not vague, poetic shame. Real shame. The kind that lingers in your stomach and never really goes away.

I’ve never told anyone about it in full, not because it was the worst thing in the world, but because I’m so embarrassed and ashamed that I did it — and because, honestly, who would even care?

You pay a psychologist $200 an hour to listen to your crap, and they flip through the mental textbook in their head and tell you how to manage the way it makes you feel.

I’ve managed alright. But I know this is one of the reasons I’ve never felt comfortable with a man.

In closing, I want to share something positive about my life.

There are things in my life that have been transient — schools, jobs, some friends, and a handful of men. But for the past nine years, I’ve had one true constant. His name is Maiki, and he is not only one of my best friends, but someone I truly consider a brother.

Maiki is a 40-year-old Tanzanian man I met while staying in Tanzania in 2007–2008. He was the best friend of my late ex-boyfriend, Kijanda, and we got to know each other through him. When I returned to Australia, I lost touch with both of them — until years later, when Kijanda was tragically killed and Maiki reached out to let me know.

We’ve stayed in contact ever since. In fact, we’ve spoken every single day for the past nine years.

He’s married to a horrible woman — and the primary reason I say that is because she once beat their dog with a huge rock. I think there’s a special place in hell for anyone who treats animals like that. She doesn’t like my friendship with Maiki, but she really has nothing to worry about — there’s never been anything romantic between us.

Years ago, we did sort of talk about the idea of getting together, just before I went to visit him in Tanzania. But when I got there, we both looked at each other and laughed — like, “Nah.” And that was that. It goes to show that women and men really can be friends. I have a deep love for him as a person, and it has nothing to do with romance.

He’s currently separating from his wife, and he’s in love with their housekeeper — who’s much younger than him — and I think they’re going to end up together. He wants me to meet someone too, so we can go on holiday together someday, but I’ve told him that’s not going to happen.

I’ve paid for a lot of things for Maiki. He’s never asked me for money, and I don’t really have a lot to give, but because I never had children, I decided I wanted to help him get ahead — especially in a world where it’s so hard to get ahead financially.

I paid for his Master’s degree, and now I’m paying for his PhD. I know that probably sounds like a lot, and I suppose it is, but it’s nothing like the cost of education in Australia. Yes, it’s in the thousands, but nowhere near what a student would pay here.

Maiki didn’t want to accept the money, but I insisted. I’ve also paid a small lump sum to help cover his living expenses until the end of next year. It had to be minimal — it’s all I could afford — but it’s enough to keep things going.

He’s extremely grateful, but I didn’t want that. I didn’t do it to be thanked. I just wanted to help him out. And I think I’ve done that.

Maiki makes me laugh. We talk nonsense every day. But on a very real level, he reminds me of Tanzania — of the poverty, of the resilience — and he makes me feel grateful for the life I live here, and for everything I have.

Out Of Place

Up until the end of 2022, I studied a Bachelor of Arts majoring in Creative Writing at Adelaide University. Even in the arts classes, I was the oldest person by at least 20 years. I know I shouldn't have let it bother me, and I'm not sure it would bother me now, but I felt so out of place, which is not uncommon for me, but it messed with my mind. So, I decided to study online. I enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts majoring in Creative Writing through Curtin University via Open Uni. I started at the beginning of 2023, but because I wasn't doing anything during the day, I thought I could fill my time with volunteer work.

I applied to volunteer at a nursing home, taking down the life stories of residents; another aged care provider, visiting elderly patients at home and recording their life stories; TAFE SA home tutoring, teaching English to migrants; and with the Australian Refugee Association, visiting newly arrived refugees in their homes. I had previously volunteered with the Australian Refugee Association and loved it, so I thought I would do it again.

I ended up spending so much time volunteering that study became the last thing on my mind. Open Uni has four semesters a year, and I kept deferring my studies until the end of 2023, where I was volunteering four days a week and not studying at all.

With my volunteer work, I often scheduled later starts and finishes due to my sleep issues. I took a moment to reflect and asked myself what I was doing. I decided to stop volunteering so much and focus on my studies. I finished taking down life stories and working with TAFE SA but kept my position with the Australian Refugee Association, where I still see my mate, though I've stopped for a while due to my sleep problems. I tried to leave this position, but the lady I visit said she wouldn't see any other volunteers apart from me and would wait for me to return. So, I'll go back to her in the next couple of weeks. However, I haven't been able to do much due to my sleep being so disorganised.

This year has been totally disrupted by my sleep issues, and I'm ashamed to say I haven't accomplished much. I've enrolled in studies and then deferred again because I keep thinking I’m going to put everything I’ve got into fixing my sleep, but it never works. I enrolled in a semester starting on August 26, and I am going to go ahead with it, completing one semester for the year, and then next year, I’ll finish the degree once and for all.

I am a communications officer for two organisations, which takes a lot of work, but I've been able to do that during the night. It’s been good for me to stay connected to the world.

I know I started this entry today talking about my studies, but it ended up being about my sleep because that’s all it comes down to for me. I know I’ve said it before, but I think I’m going to have to go back to my old routine of getting up at 7:00am, regardless of whether I've slept or not, and just get on with the day. The only issue with that is I can’t drive, and there is a risk I might fall asleep somewhere, but it’s better than living like a vampire, which is what I’m doing at the moment.

It’s now 3:36am, and no one is awake. I’ve been watching YouTube videos and Ancient Aliens. I have to stay up until 7:00am because I need to send an email to the membership of one of the organisations I volunteer for; I didn't want to send it in the middle of the night, as it might seem strange.

I've been trying out gilding cranes. It's not real gold leaf, just gold metal leaf, and I think they look great. Underneath the gold ones, you can see the pink metal leaf I bought from Temu. I think these types of cranes would be good for jewellery.

I Could Do That

I wanted to share the story of my recent experience attending university in person. Back in 2020 — which is hard to believe was already four years ago — my mother and I had just transitioned my dad into a nursing home. When he first went in, we visited him every day, but over time, those visits became less frequent.

With Dad settled into the nursing home, I found myself at a crossroads. I wasn’t doing anything at the time, and I needed to decide what direction I wanted my life to take. For years, I’d thought about earning money by writing letters to government departments and elected officials and using their responses to create artwork that I could sell. It was always my “secret weapon” — an idea I believed I could make something of.

The problem was, I didn’t fully understand copyright laws, which would make pursuing that idea much more complicated than I initially thought. When I have the funds, I still plan to consult with an intellectual property lawyer to explore my options.

In the meantime, though, I knew I needed to focus on something else — something that would help me develop a career. I didn’t want to go back to temping; I wanted something new.

At the time, I had fallen in love with the TV show Ancient Aliens. I was fascinated by their stories, ideas, philosophies, and perspectives on almost everything. They often made compelling arguments, focusing on the idea that what we know as “gods” were actually ancient astronauts who came to Earth and genetically modified the hominins who were already here — creating the humans we are today.

There are countless theories and interpretations on the show, but that gives you an idea of their central message. Watching it lit something up in me. I wanted to research the places they visited, speak with the people they interviewed, and immerse myself in those mysteries. More than that, it inspired me to start writing — to take those ideas and weave them into science fiction stories of my own.

I began reading classic science fiction novels like War of the Worlds, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Time Machine, and Frankenstein, along with more modern books like Carl Sagan’s Contact. I thought to myself, “I could do that.” I could take inspiration from Ancient Aliens and build my own stories around those possibilities.

Instead of going back to university to study creative writing, I started thinking about studying astrophysics. I wanted to really understand what I was writing about when exploring ideas around aliens and the universe. The only problem was, I had absolutely no scientific background. To enrol in physics and mathematics courses, there were introductory subjects I’d need to take first, and for a while, I thought studying astrophysics just wouldn’t be possible for me.

Then I discovered the University Preparatory Program (UPP) — a one-year course offered by Adelaide University. Technically, I could have gained direct entry into a Bachelor of Science and then transferred into astrophysics using one of my Certificate IV qualifications. But because I had no foundation in science, I decided to apply for the UPP, which had a dedicated science stream.

The course covered introductory physics, biology, chemistry, and geology — everything I needed to build a basic understanding of scientific principles. Completing it would grant me direct entry into the Bachelor of Science, which I already qualified for, but I saw the UPP as a way to prepare myself properly and give myself the best chance of success.

The course was free, but they took it seriously, and it attracted a lot of younger people — some who didn’t get into their desired courses, some who needed prerequisites, and others who hadn’t finished Year 12. So, at the beginning of 2021, in what was my 40th year of life, I embarked on the UPP.

I was at uni four days a week, and I was older than most of my lecturers — but I loved it. Back then, I was already struggling with my sleep, so I usually drove into the city. Sometimes, during breaks between classes, I’d nap in my car in the parking lot… at least until I realised just how dodgy some of those car parks really are.

One day, I was parked on the top level of the old David Jones car park, and while I was napping, I woke up to find a group of about ten young men standing nearby, smoking cigarettes and pot. They looked like they were up to no good. I got out of the car and felt incredibly intimidated. They spoke to me a little, but I just walked away quickly and didn’t look back.

Another time, I was parked in the car park at the end of Rundle Street near Café Brunelli’s. While I was waiting for the lift, there were two young guys nearby who looked completely out of it — high on something — and they were smoking, too. An older man waiting with us told them to put out their cigarettes. They ignored him at first and got into the lift still smoking. The older man got really angry, and eventually, they put the cigarettes out. I honestly wish I’d just gotten out of the lift altogether because those two were scary, but the older man’s presence made me feel safe.

I know I’ve sidetracked a bit here, but those car parks attract some truly dodgy people. If I owned one, I’d have a 24-hour security guard on duty. I’m actually surprised I haven’t heard of more bad things happening there — although I do remember hearing about a woman who was raped in one once, and sadly, it didn’t surprise me one bit.

Anyway, I lasted a full year walking around like a zombie at Adelaide Uni while doing the UPP. We studied subjects like essay writing, computer studies, Indigenous studies, and culture. It all felt pretty basic to me — not because I had any prior education in those areas, but because of my age and life experience.

I ended up getting really good grades in everything, which made me feel great, and I especially loved the science component. One of the absolute highlights of that year was hiring a tutor. Initially, I brought her on to help me with math, which I needed for astrophysics, but we also covered a lot of the science I was doing in the UPP.

My tutor is hilarious. When I first met her, she was 19 years old, and I found her on a tutoring website. The second I saw her profile, I knew I wanted her. She was wearing a hijab in her photo, and her description said she’d been dux of her school. She had this confident look — like she might have a bit of an attitude — and I liked that, so I reached out, and she became my tutor.

She’s from Iran, and because she was an international student, she couldn’t study medicine as she’d hoped, so she chose nursing instead, which she’s now completed. Over time, we became like family. She would come to my house sometimes three times a week after uni and even during holidays. She can be a little feisty — but as I always tell her, that’s what makes her the dux!

She would take the bus to my house, and either Mum or I would drive her home every night. She’s also a writer, and one of the things I love most about her is that her first book was about a princess who was also the head of an army — a strong, unapologetic character.

Sometimes after uni, we’d go to the museum together and wander around. I’m sure people thought she was my daughter — and honestly, I don’t care. I wish she was.

Being an older person among so many young students meant people often made certain assumptions about me. Most people I spoke to thought I was married with children, and even one of my science lecturers made a comment in class one day about having kids. He looked straight at me and said, “Is that right?” I just nodded because there wasn’t time to explain, and honestly, it was easier than going into the whole story.

When I finished the UPP, I felt like it was one of my greatest achievements — mostly because it had been so hard to attend classes while running on almost no sleep. A couple of times, I actually fell asleep in class and apologised to the lecturer afterwards, explaining that I was dealing with sleep issues. I should have just told them I had narcolepsy, even though I don’t, because it would have been a lot simpler.

That one year at Adelaide University was honestly my best year of study. I know I was much older than most of the students, but I loved it. I even started attending lectures at the Astronomical Society and the Field Geology Club, which I absolutely loved, though I have stopped going now because of my sleep problems.

At uni, I also joined the Mature Aged Students Association and somehow became their Equity and Diversity Officer, which didn’t actually involve doing anything, but it was fun to meet other mature-aged students. Most of them were postgraduates, and I really enjoyed hearing about their journeys.

I wish I could do the UPP all over again, and honestly, if I could, I would in a heartbeat.

After the UPP finished, Mum went to London to stay with my brother for three months, and I stayed home to look after the cat. We only had one cat at this point. During that time, I made 1,000 paper cranes and spent hours listening to audiobooks, which I loved.

Uni started again in February 2022, and I was excited to dive deeper into science. I initially majored in physics with plans to transfer into astrophysics. In the UPP, I had been the oldest student, but there were at least a few other mature-aged people around. This time, though, in my science classes, I was the oldest by more than 20 years. There wasn’t a single other mature-aged student in any of my lectures or tutorials.

The classes were also incredibly challenging. Unlike the UPP, where I could manage the workload, I quickly realised that physics was on a completely different level. I knew I wasn’t going to scrape through this one. I didn’t have the maths background I needed, and even if I had a tutor working with me every single day, it would have taken me a lifetime to catch up.

I hate admitting that because I’ve always believed that anyone can do anything at any time if they put in the effort. But I had to be realistic about my age, my circumstances, and the time it would take to master something so technical. That’s when I started thinking about why I wanted to study astrophysics in the first place: it was because I wanted to write science fiction novels.

So, I made the decision to transfer into a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Creative Writing. I completed a few subjects in that degree through to the end of 2022 at Adelaide University.

I’ll stop there for now and continue tomorrow with where I’m at in my current studies and creative projects.

Obama Hasn't

On Tuesday, I reached another milestone in my project and sent out all my letters to the Chief Justices and Presidents of the Supreme Courts of the world. In total, I sent out 189 letters, and it is so exciting to have them all out there in the universe.

I’m not worried that I haven’t received any responses from heads of government yet. Like Jimmy from the post office said, it takes a long time for letters to get from one place to another. I’ve got my fingers crossed that some letters come in soon.

Since I last wrote, a couple of things have happened — one being President Joe Biden succumbing to pressure to bow out of the 2024 Presidential race.

Prior to pulling out, there was a lot of pressure on him to “pass the baton” from celebrities and members of his own party, and he was quite stubborn about the fact that he wasn’t going to withdraw. I said to Mum that that is the natural human response: if people tell you to do something, of course you’re going to say, “No, I’ll do it my way.” I was very surprised when he eventually said he wasn’t going to run and that he endorsed Kamala Harris.

I don’t know what I think about that. Biden is 81 years old, and Trump is 78, so there’s not really a lot of difference in their age, but Biden seems to be a very old 81.

My mother has a friend who is a physician, and he’s 81, and he still works as a consultant at one of the hospitals. He is youthful and energetic, and you’d never really know his age. But then you look at Biden, and he looks like a very sweet old man whom you want to help across the road.

It’s funny — now that I am 42, just about to turn 43, I look at those younger than me and I see a real difference from myself.

I see it at uni when I’ve been there; I see it through a human rights organisation I’m involved with, and I don’t feel threatened by younger people. What I feel is a sense of excitement for them and the possibilities that are going to be around in their lifetime — things like AI.

I see a place for younger people in the world; I see hope, expectation, dreams, and the future. There is so much possibility ahead of them, and watching younger people step into a world that is changing so quickly — with things like AI — actually makes me feel excited for them rather than threatened.

And then I look at older people like Joe Biden, and I see experience and a level of wisdom that no young person could ever replicate. There is a place for older people in this world too. We need them, and I genuinely cherish them. That’s why I didn’t like the way the media tried to make Joe Biden look like an old, senile, stumbling idiot when that is far from what he really is. It felt disrespectful, reductive, and unfair.

And it’s a shame that he is going out like this, to be honest. The Democratic Party really had to force their hand to get him to step down, and the whole thing feels a bit unceremonious for someone who has dedicated so much of his life to public service.

So Kamala Harris is now the presumptive presidential nominee, and people like Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton have endorsed her. Obama hasn’t, and I don’t know if that’s normal or what that means.

I think I’ve mentioned how I’ve been watching Fox News at night, and they are making her look like an idiot. But I said to Mum, they’re not just making her look like an idiot — they’re making her look like a woman idiot.

Trump’s running mate, J.D. Vance, made a comment in 2021 implying that Kamala Harris is a miserable, childless cat lady. I need to do more research about that, but apparently it has just resurfaced, and I’ve already seen celebrities like Jennifer Aniston and Rosie O’Donnell on Instagram criticising him for those comments.

I hope she wins. I don’t know what to believe about her; Fox says she is a serious leftie, but I like that about her. I like that she supports a universal basic income, which is something I would love to get passionate about in life.