A Pile Of Golden Fur

Writing about my experience working at the Downing Centre District Court as a Court Officer for three months back in 2011 has really brought back a lot of feelings. I feel shame, humiliation — and in so many ways, I feel angry.

On one hand, I’ve let the issue go. But on the flip side, it’s still a raw wound.

I think about it now and I’m a middle-aged woman. A sixty-year-old man doesn’t seem old to me anymore, and it wouldn’t feel unrealistic to become romantically involved with someone that age now. But back then, I was 29 years old. The judge was 60.

My housemate kept telling me he sounded like a dirty old man, and she asked why on earth I liked the way I interpreted that he was behaving. In many ways I feel the judge was completely out of line. There was a massive power imbalance. But it did feel like we danced a mutual dance.

The way they let me go just ruined me. It ruined me. I’ve never experienced an emotion or a shift in my own being like I did that day. I know it happened 14 years ago, but recently I made a decision I was going to claim workers compensation from the courts.

I have evidence of how this very experience completely ruined my life, caused reputational harm, wrecked my employability, and completely fucked with my head. I did a lot of research into workers compensation, and from what I found, I could be looking at at least $250,000 if someone took the case and sought special circumstances for the time that’s passed. On top of that, I could potentially seek damages of over $500,000.

It looked pretty appealing for a hot minute.

I contacted a no-win-no-pay law firm in Sydney and told them my story. They wrote back saying they were at capacity and couldn’t take on any more workers compensation claims, but they encouraged me to try other firms.

And I’m 100% certain that if I got approved for special circumstances, I would get something for what happened.

But then I remembered something: That is not who I am.

I don’t want to seek compensation from the courts for something they could never really pay the full value of. I don’t want to get the poor old judge in trouble for being what I have interpreted as a shameless flirt. I do want my boss and the senior court officer to be held to account for laughing at me but ultimately, I say:

Fuck Worker's Compensation.

I am so much better than that. You could offer me $2,000,000 and I wouldn’t take it.

I don’t want a cent from them, or anyone, because while it was, at the time, the worst thing that had ever happened to me, you cannot put a price on the life I’ve lost as a result of the cruel, degrading, and unfair treatment from a bunch of fuckwits at the NSW District Court.

Speaking of lawyers and the law, I finally sorted everything out with the volunteer organisation. But that’s not before I discovered just how much of a big deal my case had become.

To re-familiarise you with what happened: I started volunteering without having filled in the correct paperwork, including a police check. I asked them numerous times if I’d completed all the onboarding tasks, and they told me I was good to go. After I’d already started, someone from HR asked about my police check. I told them I hadn’t done one and that’s when the drama began.

My file said I was terminated, and I threatened to get a lawyer because I didn’t want that on my record.

The other issue was a conviction I thought had been spent, for using my mobile phone while driving. But because the police check was for working with vulnerable people, it came up. That needed to be investigated.

The whole thing was a mess.

Eventually, I heard back: my conviction wouldn’t impact my ability to volunteer with them. They said someone would be in touch to let me know when I could start again.

So I emailed them, asking if they needed anything further. No response. I followed up with another email, asking if they’d received my first one. Still nothing.

I called and left a message. A woman from another state called me back and had no idea what I was talking about.

Eventually, someone did respond via email. I asked if I could be put on this weekend’s roster.

Again: silence.

So I wrote back with a full timeline of everything that had happened. I asked, very clearly, that if there was another issue, someone should tell me so I could seek internal support from the larger organisation, or alternatively seek external advocacy.

That finally prompted a response. The manager of the entire national program called me personally. She told me there had been a full investigation into my case. They had seen the emails I’d sent, where I’d asked for help and been either ignored or given incorrect information.

She apologised. She said they had let me down. She thanked me for my passion and for sticking with them. Honestly, it’s incredible how many hoops I had to jump through just to get back to volunteering.

I started back this morning. One of the people I spoke to was a man I’d spoken with a couple of months ago. He asked if there was service where someone could call him just to have a conversation. I remembered him. I saw the note on his file. So I stayed on the line and had a long chat with him. When we finished, he thanked me. He said it was nice to have someone to talk to.

But honestly, I should be the one thanking him. He was such a beautiful soul. And after everything, the emails, the phone calls, the silence, the fight to be heard — that one conversation made it all worth it.

I just finished watching a two-part David Attenborough series, and it was truly amazing.

Something I learned: young puma siblings — also called mountain lions or cougars — are incredibly close in their early lives. After spending their first few months nursing and playing under their mother’s care, they start learning to hunt together. They grow up side by side — stalking, tumbling, sharing kills, sometimes sleeping in a pile of golden fur. For a little while, they are their entire world.

But then — as they near adulthood — something ancient and inevitable takes over. Around 18 to 24 months, the instinct to carve out territory kicks in. And with no ceremony, no goodbye, the siblings part. Sometimes it’s peaceful, sometimes it’s a sudden scuffle. But either way, they vanish into their separate wildernesses.

They may never meet again.

When I watched this segment on young pumas, I was deeply moved. It reminded me of my brother and I. So I sent him a message and told him that when they’re young, sibling pumas are great mates — and then, when they grow up a bit, they part. I then told him it reminded me of us. And it’s sad.

This was his response:

“We were not great mates when we lived together. We fought more than any siblings I know of.”

Those two sentences hurt my feelings more than anything has in a very long time.

I felt it physically — a kind of hollowing out inside me.

My brother and I fought a lot as we got older, yes. But when we were younger, I truly believed we shared something special. A bond. I thought we had a common experience — especially growing up with the particular, unique shape of our parents’ lives.

I’ve talked a bit about wanting to buy Mum’s old house in Canberra because it reminds me of my childhood. So much of that has to do with the bond I thought my brother and I shared.

For him to dismiss it like that — so bluntly, so casually — didn’t just hurt. It robbed me of something. It robbed me of my childhood.

And without it, I feel like I have nothing.

All those years I thought we were in harmony — I was alone. And now I can feel it.

I want to hug someone. But there is no one to hug.

I was alone then. And I’m alone now.

A Life Of Coincidence

I think I’ve fallen a little bit in love with the President of France, Emmanuel Macron. I just read an article about how he and his wife recently met with the King and Queen of England, as well as Prince William and Princess Kate. President Macron kissed both Camilla and Kate on the hand when greeting them, and this prompted Charles to kiss Macron’s wife’s hand in return.

I love that this happened. Macron would know it’s borderline inappropriate in the eyes of the Brits, but he just charges in and does what he wants. Just like he does with his politics. Just like he does with his love life.

Meanwhile, Benjamin Netanyahu has just nominated Donald Trump for a Nobel Peace Prize. Apparently, Pakistan had already nominated Trump, but I can just see Netanyahu and Trump sitting in a room together, plaiting each other’s hair and talking about how they want to forcibly remove all the Palestinians from Gaza, make it look like free choice, and classify it as peace.

Speaking of powerful men, and seeing as I’ve been on the topic of the Judge and Sydney in my last few posts, I wanted to share an interesting little fact with you.

After I was let go from the courts and came back to Adelaide, I started writing to Chief Justices all over the world, asking for a copy of the oath used in their courtroom, or the oath they themselves swore when they became a judge. In the process of corresponding with so many judges overseas, I discovered that Bram Stoker, the actual author of Dracula, once worked at the Dublin District Court.

Do you remember how I told people at the courts that this particular Judge reminded me of Count Dracula?

So, I looked into some of Bram Stoker’s other work… and discovered that he also published a short story titled The Judge’s House.

Other key findings — Bram Stoker’s wife had once been engaged to Oscar Wilde.

Oscar Wilde, later turned out to be a homosexual.

I know it sounds far-fetched — but if Stoker’s wife had a pattern of attracting closeted homosexual men, then I think there’s strong evidence within the novel itself to suggest that Dracula may have been inspired by Bram Stoker’s own experience with a male judge.

Dracula is a novel that centres on the concept of the vampire.

The undead.

One of the key features of the mythological vampire is that they cast no reflection in a mirror. I found that fascinating, because they are undead, which doesn’t simply mean they’ve died… it means they haven’t truly LIVED. They do not LIVE.

I genuinely believe that, woven into the novel’s many themes, is the idea that immortal life would be far more of a burden than most people imagine. But what makes me certain — in my own mind — that Bram Stoker had an experience not unlike mine, is the modus operandi of the vampire.

Because of the burden of immortality, their need to sustain it becomes more powerful than their hatred of it. And that need is an eternal thirst for blood.

Which is one of the themes I found in my novel, and also in the Second Testament of the Bible.

I thirst.

I believe the metaphoric value of the characters within Dracula have the potential to have been inspired by a Judge, which, to further expand on that platform, has the potential to demonstrate the power of power, and the power of powerlessness.

And the ability of the five senses, when in a heightened state, to express this in ways likely foreign and frightening to the author — and, coincidentally, as true in Dracula — sometimes in a letter format.

The idea that an Irish Judge could have served as an influence or muse for one of the classics is not unreasonable, as Jane Austen was in a relationship with Lord Chief Justice of Ireland, Thomas Lefroy (1852–1866), prior to him becoming a Supreme Court Justice.

It has been suggested that the character of Mr Darcy from Pride and Prejudice was based on Chief Justice Lefroy in his formative years.

And to further elaborate on that, whilst Mr Darcy is not identified as a legal professional in Pride and Prejudice, Bridget Jones’s Diary is based on this story, and the character of Mr Darcy is a human rights barrister — which I now wonder is the author’s silent nod to Chief Justice Thomas Lefroy.

It's currently 5:14am on Wednesday morning, 9 July. I've been up all night, and I'm going to watch a David Attenborough documentary and go to bed at around seven.

I'm feeling really happy at the moment because the volunteer organisation got back to me, and I am right to start volunteering with them again. It was actually the bureaucracy that I complained about that saved me in the end, and they didn’t deem my criminal conviction of using my phone while driving to impact my volunteer role with them.

As I've mentioned previously, I am also going to knit the trauma teddies for the Red Cross. It was such a coincidence. I was talking to my mother about the teddies yesterday. And as I've also mentioned, my mother is a master knitter and she is going to teach me. But just after we finished talking about it, they did that “Ray Of Sunshine” at the end of the news and it was a lady who was knitting trauma teddies. She was doing it for Lions Club, but that was just another coincidence I can put in my bag of tricks.

I actually have another one. Just a few days ago, I wrote here about my trip to Mt Gambier and the Gold Coast in search of bioluminescent mushrooms and glow worms. I talked about this man who wanted to come up to my room and he called me, saying all this inappropriate stuff and he literally just added me on Facebook.

That is a massive coincidence. That was nearly three years ago, and just after I spoke about him, he added me. That is also deeply concerning, because I don’t know how he knows my last name. I didn’t accept his request, because I hate it when people just come out of left field like that. It is such a violation of personal boundaries.

But I had a look through his Facebook page, and he’s a snake catcher as well as a glow worm tour operator. So maybe he wasn’t lying about working at Australia Zoo.

Anyway, I live in a life of coincidence but I’ve stopped going on about it, because it makes me look flawed.

Natural Appetite

When I was a child, the murderer Bevan Spencer Von Einem had a profound psychological effect on me. I can’t remember if I saw him on the news or what it was, but his face was crystal clear in my mind. I had horrific nightmares, as well as a deep-seated response to just the name.

I also had a number of behavioural problems myself. For example, one day I came home from school extremely distressed and told my parents I thought I was possessed by the devil.

I became hysterical and got into such a state that I was physically sick and vomited everywhere. I was still under the age of ten, and it kind of freaks me out that I even knew about this, but I begged my parents to get me a Catholic priest because I wanted to go and live in a church.

Mum tried to carry me into the bathroom to wash my face, but I was just kicking and screaming to high hell. I refused to look in the mirror because I kept telling her I thought I would see the Virgin Mary crying blood.

At school, a friend of mine—Emma—and I used to hang around the back gate at lunch every day. And the same car was always parked there around the same time.

We could always see a shadow in the back seat, so we pretty much monitored this car, based on fears tied to my obsession with Von Einem.

I know I didn’t think I physically saw him, but one day I could see his face in my mind. So we got a piece of paper and wrote down the number plate of the car.

We took the number plate to our teacher and told her we saw two people having sex in the back of the car. I don’t think we actually conspired to lie, but I know we both knew it was a lie—and it was mostly driven by me.

The teacher called the police, and I do know that this time we planned it. We lied point-blank to their faces, and just kept talking about sex and our general fears we’d heard about Von Einem, who was incarcerated at the time.

The lie that Emma and I told the police was discovered because they went to the address registered to the number plate. Every day, a middle-aged cleaning lady from St Andrew’s School used to park her car there and eat her lunch.

I remember when the police—or someone—called my parents to tell them. I was watching television, and my dad came rushing in and absolutely lost his mind, yelling at me, demanding to know why I had lied to the police.

In an incomprehensible state of absolute fury, he told me that when the police went to that lady’s house, she had family over—and how upsetting and embarrassing it had been for her.

Thinking about it now, I hope it wasn’t as bad as I’d always imagined it might have been—and believe me, I did think about it a lot. But as I got older, I liked to think there must be some process for that kind of thing—some level of discretion in how questioning is handled.

Emma is the daughter of the man who exposed himself to me and another friend that night at her house. After the other girl - Melanie -  told her parents, they went off their tree and called the police. And after they did that, both of Emma’s parents—including the perpetrator of the crime—came over to our house and blackmailed my parents, using their public profile against them.

To support their objective, they used the fact that I had been the key player in lying to the police with their daughter. I don’t know what happened financially—I only found out bits of all that years later—but it was pretty serious.

After the exposure incident, a lot of kids at school were talking about it. I didn’t tell anyone, and I have no idea how they found out, but one day my teacher got wind of what was being said in the schoolyard.

And—no joke—I still can’t believe a teacher thought to do this, even if her accusations had been true. She got Melanie and me up in front of the class and asked us why we were lying about Emma’s father.

We didn’t say anything—first of all because we were so upset, crying, and second of all because it was pretty hard to know what to say, since the teacher made a number of points about how I’d already lied to the police and now I was doing it again, this time about my friend’s father.

I did tell my parents about that, and I think some of the other kids told their parents too. That teacher got into a monumental amount of trouble and was nearly sacked for it.

But thinking about it now—although God knows what part of that woman thought to tick "Junior Primary School Teacher" on her university preferences—it’s very easy to see why she thought I was lying. Standing in front of the class that day has stuck with me throughout my life. I’ve always been waiting for someone to come forward and say, “Well actually, she’s a phoney. She did this,” or “She said that.”

And now, with my flaw, my worst fears could come true at any time—someone could expose me for who I really am. In my next life, I want to be the sort of person who is known for “what you see is what you get.” It’s just... in this life, I feel like I’m too far gone.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. It’s this blog, I’m telling you. After writing about my time at the courts, I’ve pretty much relived all of that uncharacteristic attraction to the judge—and the humiliation. It’s 14 years on, but I can feel it like it was just yesterday.

After I’d written to the judge, I found myself writing about it to a barrister who was informally advising me on the matter. During one of the cases before that judge, there was relevance to a crocodile. That inspired me to write the following:

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always had a general interest in the way crocodiles kill their prey in such a calculated, systematic way.

They first kill you in a brutal, elongated attack involving pain, blood, suffocation, and eventual death by either puncture wounds or drowning. But what gets me is that the crocodile obviously enjoys the act of killing like that—and takes personal pride in its conquest.

What leads me to believe this is more than just a natural appetite is the fact that once you’re dead, they don’t eat you straight away. They have the forethought to take the body and store it under a log for a few days—as well as the sense and motivation to refer back to it, as though for further sadistic pleasure.

Not only did they torture you in the slow, painful death you’ve already had—they do it again once you’ve died, by eating you gradually, while your body is left alone to rot in the elements, undetected by anyone above the water who might even care.

The existence of your half-eaten carcass remains in play to serve its true post-death purpose: an unconventional avenue—which, in another circumstance, I would salute—for reliving the pleasure some animals take in extinguishing life.

It’s similar in principle to your fellow lawyer and hopefully not hero—the love-deprived Mr Ted Bundy.

An exit from a not-much-better life that would not only be horrific, but so incredibly degrading and cruel.

That death was preferable to ever discovering what the judge thought about my letters.

I know it’s pretty dark, and I can’t judge my own work objectively, but I just sent it to my brother and asked him what he thought. I asked, “Do you think it’s good writing?” He said no—it wasn’t, and that it was factually inaccurate.

But that’s wrong. It is factually accurate. Crocodiles do that—it’s called “death rolling” and “caching.” They kill their prey and often store it underwater for later. I don’t even like the topic, but I still think it’s vivid, descriptive, and true to the feeling I was trying to express.

Fuck my brother for once again trying to dampen my spirit.

Aftershock

Mum told me she “loathes” my brother for what he’s been saying about her. She’s so angry with him, and she said their relationship is irreparable.

In some ways, I feel bad—like I shouldn’t have told her what he said—but the truth is, if I hadn’t, I would have felt like I was betraying her by engaging in those conversations behind her back.

If I want to be a responsible person moving forward, I need to really assess whether it’s the right thing to do to relay those conversations to her.

There are two things I’ve noticed about Mum that make me wonder if something might be wrong. One is that she often stays in bed until 3:00pm. In the past, she used to get up at 7:00am, tune in to 5AA radio, and get her day started. But now she’ll spend long stretches in bed during the day. Not every day—but enough for me to stop and think, that’s not like her.

The other thing is that she’ll watch the same movie over and over. Last night, for example, she watched The Bodyguard, even though she’d only seen it a couple of days earlier. I know she doesn’t mind watching things again, but last night I really thought to myself—did you not remember watching this just a few days ago?

But you know what? I hate it when people gaslight or mock older people by making them out to be demented or incompetent.

When Joe Biden was still President of the United States, I hated the way Sky News and other ridiculous outlets called him things like “Sleepy Joe.” They’d say things like, “Time to take the car keys off Grandpa,” and I found it so deeply disrespectful.

And in some small way, my brother is doing the same thing to Mum—diluting her dignity by making her sound like a blithering idiot.

Mum has told me she’s worried my brother wants to put her in a home or have her detained. I promised her I would never allow that to happen.

I understand what it’s like to have someone question your sanity—what it feels like to have your mind and credibility undermined. It’s degrading. It’s dehumanising.

And I will never let that happen to Mum.

Now I want to tell you about an incident that happened when I returned home from Sydney in 2011. There’s no way I would have ever worked at any of the courts again—nor would they likely have had me. But the experience did spark a very keen interest in the Table of Precedence, and when I eventually came home, my new career goal became to work as a Protocol Officer at the Department of the Premier and Cabinet. You should have seen the résumé I started putting together for them.

Positions in the Protocol Office don’t come up very often, so I figured I’d just temp until I saw one advertised in the Notice of Vacancies.

To say I didn’t feel capable of physically looking a man in the eye—if he was of the same vintage, marital status, or station in life as the judge—is an understatement. And the very first temp job I was offered? It was on the reception desk within the Office of the Chief Executive Officer in a state government department. I almost didn’t accept it for a number of reasons.

But I did. And once I settled in, I was okay.

At the time, they were also trying to manage someone out of the office. Eventually, they placed her on the reception desk with me. She was nice enough—and I’m sure there are plenty of jobs she’d be well suited to—but they were managing her out of the department for a very good reason.

The department had just extended my contract, which I accepted. Then they offered to create a position for me—which they often do for temps once you’re trained up and there's an ongoing need. But this offer felt especially positive, given the previous six months I’d had.

Then, one day, a former Mayor walked into the office for a meeting with the Chief.

I actually only knew he was a former Mayor because I used to go to school with his daughter—and I now hope to God he didn’t remember me. Just as he walked in, the other girl on reception was at the tail end of yelling out, “Fuck.”

I had previously—rather prudishly—outlined to her that she really shouldn’t be swearing at the front desk of the Office of the Chief Executive Officer. But on this day, after the former Mayor was hopefully far, far away in a meeting room with the Chief, in light of what she’d just done, I snapped.

And I absolutely ripped into her. Verbally.

I went off about how she was dragging down the integrity of the Office of the Chief Executive Officer with her behaviour and language. I was so loud—so full-on—that people came running out to the reception desk to try to calm me down.

I was so passionate about it that I ended up in tears. I was loudly — and quite inappropriately — trying to make the point that my coworker had violated the principles of etiquette associated with those who hold a seat at the Table of Precedence.

Someone ran upstairs and brought down two high-level managers, both of whom I had, up until that point, very friendly professional relationships with.

At first, they were incredibly compassionate. They took me into a private meeting room, trying to work out what had just happened—what had gotten into me.

But you would not believe how shocked they were when, instead of calming down, I launched into a damning review of management’s incompetence—based on what I had just witnessed at the reception desk of the Chief Executive Officer, in front of a former Mayor. Both of whom, at one point or another, held seats at the Table.

I was absolutely relentless.

I systematically outlined faults within the department—touching on public perception, the conduct of the Chief—who was only temporarily in the role—and eventually even the Minister, who was also the Attorney-General at the time.

And that—that—unleashed the wrath of Satan’s Child.

I started yelling at them—high-level managers—in utter disbelief that they personally didn’t understand how serious this was. That they didn’t grasp the weight of representing the Attorney-General in such an unprofessional, undignified way.

Even after that, to their credit, they were nice enough to tell me to calm down, take the rest of the day off, and come back tomorrow to work it out.

But then I launched into the most venomous oration you could possibly imagine—detailing their own very personal failings in relation to the whole thing. It was so full-on that one of them eventually snapped herself. She started yelling back at me, but honestly? I didn’t care. I matched her tone. I fought her on it—anger for anger.

I quit on the spot.

I started storming out of the building. A couple of the girls I was friendly with tried to stop me, but I just turned to them and echoed my disgust—telling them plainly that I would never be part of a department that would allow something like that to happen.

You know, I don’t find a thing about that funny because as ridiculous as it sounds, there were real consequences. But still—you could not have witnessed a more dramatic scene in a more mundane government office, over quite possibly the weirdest thing in the world.

To this day, I’m still surprised I wasn’t actually detained—purely based on the ridiculousness of what I was saying. But I had clearly, genuinely, taken what had happened to heart.

And yes—I know the above story makes it sound like I completely snapped and took it out on this poor woman working next to me at the Chief Executive’s reception desk. But the truth is, the real moment I snapped was after I was let go from the courts.

I’ve never experienced anything like the rollercoaster of emotions I felt when I started working at the courts and then when I was so devastatingly let go. 

This incident?

It was an aftershock.

Who Thinks Like That?

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are advised that the following post contains the names and stories of people who have passed away.

Yesterday was the Fourth of July, and it was also my auntie's birthday. Mum asked me to arrange flowers to be sent to her unit, so I called Blooms Florist at Mum's request. Mum has been using them for over thirty years, so when I mentioned her name, they knew her. I told the florist that I was happy with "florist's choice" up to the value of $150. She then said something like, "Leave it with me, I'll put together a nice bunch."

Whenever I say "florist's choice," I am placing a huge amount of trust in the florist—that they can use their creative and artistic instincts to produce something magical. Something that is going to blow the receiver away. I know when Mum has sent me flowers from Blooms, they have been beautifully coloured, whimsical-looking arrangements that I simply love having in the house.

But today I was very disappointed. It's actually the second time in a short period of time that I have been let down by a florist—first Tynte Street Flowers, and now Blooms. Below you can see the flowers my auntie received for her birthday, and I don't mean to be overly critical, but I feel like they would have just depressed her and not provided any birthday joy.

My sleep is in a really, really bad place. I think it’s the worst it has ever been. I’m up all night and then go to bed around 12:00pm the next day. I sleep until about seven, then rinse and repeat. I have to fix this now more than ever, but I feel like there isn’t a specialist alive who could help me with this.

The thing with this problem is, I’ve never really made good use of time overnight. Lately, I’ll write in this blog, but mostly I’ll binge-watch a show or watch YouTube. It’s pretty lonely, to be honest — there’s no one else awake. But I have got Maiki in Tanzania; the time difference makes it easy for us to talk. Less so my brother in London — we sometimes send each other WhatsApp messages. The other night I sent him a message at around 3:00am and asked what he thinks of Aboriginal deaths in custody. This is how he responded:

"Why do you always want to talk about controversial topics that have nothing to do with you personally?"

"It always feels like you're just looking for a gotcha moment to get on a high horse when you talk about stuff like this."

"What do you think about the great ocean clean up and their work to stop it at its source?"

"What are your thoughts about fusion energy?"

"What are your thoughts on Chuck Norris?"

I responded with the following:

"Who thinks like that? I was asking because there was recently a young Aboriginal man in Alice Springs who was killed while in police custody. You are seriously messed up."

The young Aboriginal man I am talking about recently died after being restrained by police in Alice Springs. His name was Kumanjayi White, a 24-year-old Warlpiri man from the community of Yuendumu. He was living in supported accommodation under the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) due to treatment-resistant schizophrenia and a frontal lobe impairment — conditions that affected his memory and impulse control.

On May 27, 2025, Mr White was at a Coles supermarket in Alice Springs when he was allegedly involved in an altercation with security guards after placing items down his shirt. Two plainclothes police officers restrained him, and witnesses reported that one officer had his knee behind Mr White’s head during the restraint. Mr White lost consciousness during the incident and was later pronounced dead at Alice Springs Hospital.

The NT Police have declined calls for an independent investigation into the death of Kumanjayi White. Acting NT Police Commissioner Martin Dole stated that the investigation would be conducted internally by the NT Police's Major Crime Division, asserting confidence in their oversight systems and describing them as "robust and well-established."

That is a fucking joke. This incident absolutely requires an independent inquiry, and it just makes my blood curdle that they are allowed to get away with this. No one cares. It’s like the Palestinians — they are in the way. No one cares about the Aboriginal people, about Aboriginal deaths in custody, or anything at all. I shouldn’t say that — of course, some people care — but we, as a people, we as Australians, are racist, and we are all complicit in this type of thing because we allow it to happen and are satisfied with the consequences.

My heart bleeds for Kumanjayi White. This country — and indeed this world — was not set up to nurture people like him, and I feel shame to call myself Australian, where we would allow something like this to happen.

I don’t really know anything about Aboriginal deaths in custody. I know there was a Royal Commission over thirty years ago, and I am going to read up more about this. This incident with Kumanjayi White has caught my attention, and I feel compelled to act in some way — which I will. First, I’ve got to work out what I want to do.

My brother identified this as a controversial topic that has nothing to do with me personally. I disagree with that wholeheartedly. This has everything to do with me, and every single responsible person alive today. Because not only was his death a crime against the laws of the Northern Territory and Australia, it was a crime against the very humanity we so wrongly pride ourselves on.

It is the duty of all people to speak up when injustice has been done — to make noise, in whatever way we see fit, until someone listens. I think I’m going to write letters. And lots of them. Because I feel for that young man. It’s bad enough that these things happen, but the really bad bit is how we allow them to happen. Over and over again.

In my opinion the NT Police are racist murderers.

My brother didn’t respond to my response, so I sent him another message that said:

"I don't really think you're messed up, I still love you".

He then called me back and we had another chat. 

I have a flaw which I don’t live openly with. No one really knows about it, and anyone who does — such as family members my mother told — I do not associate with at all. I don’t like the way I’ve been treated by the family members who do know about it, so I will not have anyone in my life who knows, apart from my mother, brother, and Rebecca.

I could go a whole lifetime in a friendship or relationship with someone and they would never know about it — but because it’s there, it’s a game changer. I am confident in myself and my abilities to look after my mother, and I am damn well going to do that if it comes to that. Funny thing is though, sometimes when I meet people, I feel like I’m lying by omission by not telling them about the flaw. It’s been a journey of acceptance and maturity, but I think I’ve finally found the way to live with it.

After my brother talked about Mum for quite some time, we got back onto the topic of Aboriginal deaths in custody. I told him why I was interested in it, and he started saying things like, “We are not responsible for what the colonisers did,” “I am not responsible for what my great-great-grandfather did,” “I should not have to pay compensation to the children of victims — or the children’s children.”

I talked about the invasion, and you know what he said? “Well, we won.”

He talked about the amount of tax he pays in the UK — I think it’s around 46% — and how the government is telling him that half the time he spends away from his family is worth it to pay that tax for things like council housing and their equivalent of the dole. He brought up tax because he linked it back to Aboriginal deaths in custody, asking what I wanted to happen as a result of it, to which I responded: I want it not to happen.

He then went on to ask, “How much tax is it going to cost us all?” He asked if “Aboriginal people are not responsible for their crimes.” Then he moved on to Palestine. He told me he “liked where my heart is” but that “that’s not the way it is.” That is so fucking condescending, but I copped it because I didn’t want to get into a fight.

I said we are allowing a genocide to happen, and he just went on saying, “No we are not — who is going to stop it?” And I’ll tell you right now who could stop it: the United States of America. They can stop arming and supporting Israel while they ethnically cleanse an entire population of people to a global audience.

My brother suggested that he didn’t care. He basically said everything I say is what he hates about the West — and that I’m apologetic for being from the West. He then went on to say he wants to go and live on an island with all the people who don’t care about these things, and all the do-gooders like me can fight each other out.

Just like my auntie would have found those flowers, I find my brother really depressing.

Does he genuinely not care about these things?

He’s a massive snob too. He told me about the cost of private education in London — which is a lot more than here — and said he had to pay it because he didn’t want his son going to school with “council children.”

I love him, but we could not be more different.

So I’ve been open and transparent with Mum about what my brother and I have been saying about her. All along, I’ve said that I don’t think she has Alzheimer’s or dementia. She can’t have it. But if, for some unknown reason, she does — I will devote my life to ensuring her comfort, dignity, and quality of life.

A former Beauty and the Geek Australia contestant, Tamika Sueann-Rose Chesser, has been charged with the alleged murder and decapitation of her partner in Port Lincoln. Chesser, 34, was a runner-up on the 2010 season of the reality TV show and has since worked as a model and OnlyFans creator.

On June 19, 2025, emergency services responded to a small fire at the couple’s home on Flinders Highway. Inside, they discovered the dismembered and partially burned body of 39-year-old Julian Story. His head was missing and remains unrecovered despite extensive searches across the Eyre Peninsula. Chesser was found in a catatonic state in the backyard and was arrested at the scene. She has been charged with murder, interfering with human remains to pervert the course of justice, and assaulting a police officer. She is currently detained under a mental health order and is scheduled to appear in court again in December 2025.

It sounds to me like Tamika may have had some sort severe episode —  and this horrible thing has happened. It’s so sad, of course, for Julian, but also for her, because her life has changed forever.

I think the media have been really insensitive when reporting on this case — almost making a joke of Julian’s decapitation. A lot of it has been in really poor taste.

I'll finish on a high note. The other day I was looking through the Jam Factory's online shop and I found these sterling silver Adelaide Festival Centre 50th Anniversary Brooches designed by Jam Factory Studio artists Kath Inglis and Danielle Barrie. The moment I saw one of them, I knew I had to have one so I ordered it the other day. Below you can see the cool box and the brooch itself.

My dad had a lot to do with what was then the Adelaide Festival Theatre, so the brooch reminds me of him. Mum loved it so much she asked me to get one for her too. 

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.