Out Of My Depth

It’s currently 2:42am on the last morning of February — the 28th. It’s a Saturday, and it is hot. We have two air conditioners, and they both seem to be blowing out hot air. I’ve spoken to a few people about it, and they tell me to turn one — or both — off. But it’s hotter without them, so it’s really a matter of choosing the lesser evil.

That said, it’s actually good practice for me. If I want to be a glassblower, I have to get used to being in the hot shop, which — as its name suggests — is a very hot place. So, I’m not complaining too much.

On Thursday night I took Mum to the Adelaide Planetarium. My friend Mariah is an astronomer there, and she got us tickets to her Adelaide Fringe show Our Magnificent Moon. Below you can see the sign just outside the Planetarium doors.

As we walked down the corridor towards the lift, I noticed an A4 sign promoting the event.

Mum and I jumped in the lift and went up a level. As the doors opened, I saw people gathering in the waiting area before the show.

The Planetarium used to be part of UniSA, but after it merged with University of Adelaide, it’s now part of Adelaide University. As we stood outside the Planetarium, I noticed a sign for Adelaide University glowing on the screen nearby. It was the first time I’d seen any of that paraphernalia around the place.

I love the Planetarium. I really do. I’ve been to so many courses and sessions there — there was a time when I was practically part of the furniture.

I stopped going because of an 80-year-old man who kept grabbing my bum every time I hugged him. He also did this weird thing where he would press himself against me in a way that made my skin crawl. I had to decide whether to say something about him or simply stop going. I chose to stop going because I didn’t want to ruin him for Mariah. She loves him and, for the life of me, I can’t work out why. To me, he is the definition of a sex pest.

Mariah and I are still good friends. She knows he did something that put me offside, but she doesn’t ask about it anymore.

Our Magnificent Moon was such a cool Fringe show. It was a full house. Mariah projected a huge graphic of the Moon onto the dome and talked us through its locations and craters. I think Mum found it a little boring. I was sitting next to Mariah’s husband, Rob, who I really like, and he kept sighing and looking at his watch. Meanwhile, I was sitting there thinking how extraordinary it all was. Here he is, married to this fabulous woman who knows everything about the stars, the Moon, space, physics, astrophysics — all of those enchanting subjects — and he seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

The talk went for just over an hour and it put me right back in the mood for anything astronomical. When Mariah asked if there were any questions, I put my hand up and said, “You’ve talked about some of the astronauts who went to the Moon during the Apollo missions — could you tell us a little bit about the rubbish they left on the lunar surface?”

She explained that the astronauts did leave equipment, waste, and various items behind on the Moon.

We said goodbye to Mariah and Rob and came home.

I started thinking about the Apollo missions and all the things they left on the Moon. The sheer arrogance of man. What claim do we have to it? Who are we to go and litter on another celestial body?

It feels like that old colonial way of thinking. We deem the Moon terra nullius. But how do we know that extraterrestrials don’t periodically travel there every million years and take up residence? What if we have disrupted their space? What if we have invaded it? And even if extraterrestrials don’t do that — who are we to assume that they don’t?

The first thing I did was find an inventory list of everything left on the Moon during the Apollo missions. Then I wrote a letter to NASA asking on what authority they left it all there.

Even the rovers — they annoy me the most. Who said we could do that? What permission was given? Littering is a crime, as far as I’m concerned, and we have done it in abundance. On the Moon. And on Mars too.

I said I wanted a peaceful and gentle life. I said I was going to stay away from heavy topics. And yet here I am, feeling compelled to investigate this further.

I know there is space law and all sorts of international agreements. But surely, they didn’t agree to this — to actually leaving man-made objects and waste on a celestial body that is not our own?

We don’t own the Moon. We never have. And we had no right to do that.

As I mentioned previously, February is coming to an end, and this year already hasn’t gone the way I’d planned. I was enrolled in the Bachelor of Fine Arts at Adelaide University. I dropped the studio-based subjects because I didn’t feel physically fit enough — or aesthetically pleasing enough — to participate. And now I have deferred the whole degree.

I am not doing any university this year, and I’ll tell you why.

First and foremost, I need money. Urgently. For myself and for Mum. I have to get a job, and I am going to apply for work with the Census when applications open in April. I am also going to continue building my hospitality skill set so I can apply for a casual job at the Adelaide Festival Centre or the Adelaide Entertainment Centre.

The other primary reason I’m not doing uni this year is that I want to complete a qualification through TAFE NSW — a Certificate IV in Arts and Cultural Administration. I think this qualification might give me an edge the next time the Centre is recruiting. And the reality is, while I'm at uni, my dream is to work there.

I feel like anyone who has read even a little of this blog would advise me not to defer my studies — again. But I’ve never felt so inspired to lose weight, fix my sleep, work for the Census, and develop short-term qualifications that will support jobs around university.

Mum is a player sponsor for the AFL football club she supports. She’s been doing it for around twenty years, and my brother and I used to poke fun at her, comparing sponsoring an AFL player to sponsoring a World Vision child. But she loves it. She gets a new player every year and usually takes the time to get to know them. Over the years, she’s made a lot of friends around the club and knows the President well.

On Wednesday last week she attended the first player sponsor dinner of the year, where she is formally assigned her player. The player always sits with their sponsor and, although I’ve never been, it sounds like a bit of fun.

On Wednesday night Mum was sitting at a table with the President and other VIPs. She told me that her player — a young man in his early twenties — told her he felt out of his depth being seated among such important people. I thought that was sweet.

In many ways AFL football players have always intimidated me. They seem to move in circles of beautiful women and confidence — a world where I definitely do not fit. And yet, I could completely relate to what he said. I could be sitting at a table next to my Mum — even next to my Dad when he was alive — and still feel out of my depth.

Until The Fat Lady Sings

It’s currently 12:46am on Wednesday, 25 February.

Last Tuesday, the 17th, I attended orientation at the art school for the Bachelor of Fine Arts. I felt a little nervous going along. I was 100% certain I would be the oldest student — which I was — but I wasn’t really prepared for how judged I felt.

There were around sixteen students in total, and I think that was indicative of how many students are actually doing the course. Not many. In my mind, I had pictured fifty art students, all revved up and ready to rock the world with creativity and ideas. But there were only sixteen. And they were young.

I didn’t really get much of a chance to talk to any of them, but not only did they seem young in years, they seemed young in general. They were mostly young women — I think I only saw one man. And the women judged me. They judged me because I’m fat and because I have unconventional looks.

When I was at the Adelaide Central School of Art, there was a range of different people there — different ages, genders, physical appearances. Even though I wasn’t fat then, I still felt like someone who looks different. I fit in.

I did not get that feeling at the art school at Adelaide University.

Below, you can see the sign in the lift that directed us to the orientation.

After about an hour-long talk by the lecturers and staff, we were given a guided tour of the facilities by two students who had recently graduated. One of the graduates was this very cool chick who showed us some of her artwork. She had gone into public toilets and taken photographs of the graffiti on the walls.

I absolutely loved this. I thought it was unique and had that conceptual edge I really admire in artworks. She even went as far as to say that some of the graffiti referenced women who had been raped in those toilets, and things suddenly took a very serious turn.

But even something like that is important to document, because it invites the viewer to see the world differently. It forces you to confront what you might otherwise overlook.

The two students then walked us around the art school. It spans four floors, and we used lifts to access the different levels. Below, you can see a photo I took in the jewellery studio.

On one of the floors, they had a library with a whole stack of art books. I liked the ethos of their borrowing system — it was purely based on honour, with no cards or formal processes involved. If you wanted to read something, you simply took it and made sure to bring it back.

While we were wandering around the corridors of the Adelaide University Art School, I took note of the architecture. It felt bare — almost barren — and yet it was the simplicity of the structure that allowed the work within it to truly hold its own.

Below, you can see a photo of one of the more bland-looking corridors, and underneath it, a cool ceramic piece I found tucked away behind some furniture.

Something I have loved along my own artistic journey is life drawing. I love sitting down in front of a live model and trying to draw them. All the models I’ve drawn have been naked — men and women — different ages and sizes, and every one of them has been incredibly beautiful.

I have always felt lucky to be in a space where a model has made the decision to share themselves with us as students, allowing us to practice and attempt to perfect the art of drawing the human form. But for me, it’s never been just about anatomy. I used to try to tell a story with my drawings.

In saying all of that, I’m not good at drawing. I just love it. I love the challenge of trying to interpret what I’m seeing onto a blank piece of paper.

So I found the room at the art school where I’m sure life drawing takes place. There were mirrors everywhere, and I took a photo of two skeletons that I imagine help students with accuracy of form.

We spent around an hour walking through the facilities, and there was an abundance of resources available to students. There was a ceramics studio, a glass hotshop, jewellery, photography, woodwork, sculpture — even 3D printing and a whole range of fabrication machines.

This place was everything I had ever dreamed of. It has everything I need to create what I want and express myself — and the lecturers to teach me how to do it.

Every time we entered a new space, I felt a surge of happiness knowing it was all available. But overriding that joy was a feeling deep in the core of my being. A voice saying: I don’t want to be here surrounded by 17-year-olds — people almost 30 years younger than me. I don’t want to be here while I’m fat and feeling judged.

I know, rationally, that people don’t spend much time judging others. Most of the time they are worried about themselves. But a 17-year-old might have certain expectations of what the life of a 44-year-old woman should be like — and I do not meet those expectations.

I felt wrong. I felt like I did not belong.

I also know that thinking this way is self-indulgent. The reality is simple: if you want to be a glassblower, take advantage of the opportunity that is literally right in front of you and do it. But it is not that simple for me.

I felt fat. Really fat. So fat that I wouldn’t feel free to use the equipment. That I wouldn’t feel comfortable blowing glass.

As I left the art school last Tuesday, I knew right then and there that I would not be utilising the studio facilities this year. I am still going to complete the degree. I’m enrolled, and I will finish it if it kills me. But this year I am going to focus on the two theory-based subjects, which are held on other campuses. I am going to lose the weight and then dive into the studio subjects next year.

If you have read this blog for a while, you’ll know that last year I took the year off to write a book — and I didn’t. I tend to get caught up in volunteer roles and personal projects, and before I know it, another year has passed. But this new plan of mine is different, and I’ll tell you why.

I have one subject this semester on a Friday. I am going to spend the rest of my time doing short TAFE courses to build a hospitality skill set, which may lead to a job later in the year. I plan to travel to the Canberra Glassworks for weekend glassblowing lessons. I have applied for a job at the State Election and, most importantly, I am going to apply for a role with the Census.

I would really love a job with the Census. There are a number of different roles, but the one I have my heart set on is Community Field Officer. As the website says, “Community Field Officers engage with their local community to maximise participation in the Census. They support people who may face barriers to completing the Census form.”

In Semester Two, I have another subject for the Bachelor of Fine Arts, but I have also found a course that, the moment I discovered it, I knew I had to enrol in as soon as physically possible: a Certificate IV in Arts and Cultural Administration. It aligns perfectly with my interest in roles like the one at the centre that I missed out on earlier this year.

The Cert IV is only offered in one place in the whole of Australia — TAFE NSW. Luckily, it’s delivered via a virtual classroom, running on Mondays and Tuesdays each week for six months.

So I have a full schedule lined up. But most importantly, I will be able to spend time with Mum — and, to be honest, that’s what matters most to me right now.

In saying that, I also know I need to develop a skill set that has the potential to generate an income — and I need to do that sooner rather than later. For me, it has to be glassblowing.

I love glass. I love its nature — so fragile, yet so beautiful. I want to make objects out of glass, burn stuff into glass, and exhibit glass for the rest of my life.

I will still create the occasional conceptual political piece, but for now, I am going to gently dedicate myself to perfecting the art of glassblowing.

For the entirety of this blog, I have danced around the fact that I am fat.

It’s a big world, and there are a lot of fat people living in it. Fat people study, they have jobs, they fall in love, and many of them lead very normal lives. There are real health risks associated with being overweight, and there are practical realities too — a chair might not feel sturdy, a seatbelt extender might be required on a plane, someone might encroach on another person’s space at a concert or sporting match.

But for me, the hardest part of being fat is the way I look.

I am not one of those soft-faced, glowing fat women who seem to carry it well. I have a harsh, unconventional look, and to put it simply, I look shocking. The worst part is that I know it. I have insight. I see myself clearly — sometimes too clearly.

Before I gained weight, I was never thin. I often weighed around 70 kilograms. You can’t take away unconventional features, but other than that I looked like a fairly ordinary person. Then, in 2013, I developed health issues that required certain medications, and I gained around 40 kilograms.

Because I am so aware of how I look, I retreated. I was caring for my father, but socially I withdrew. I rarely went out. I lost friends. I missed opportunities. To be frank, I let years slip by.

I tried to lose the weight, but the health issues I was dealing with made it incredibly difficult. When I did go somewhere, I dreaded running into someone from school or an old friend. I imagined the look on their face — What happened to you?

I felt diminished. As though life was happening, just not to me. Years passed. I grew older. I missed out on things I once imagined for myself — a husband, children. It isn’t anyone’s fault, but shame has a way of shrinking a life.

I have been — and still am — a shell of a woman: present, but not fully participating.

It was always my secret hope to meet someone while I was fat — to be loved exactly as I was, without qualification. But I never truly allowed that possibility. When I did meet men, I doubted their intentions. I wondered if they were drawn to me because they had a fetish for fat women. If I had met someone who loved me in this body, I think I would have stayed with them forever.

But life is not over. It is not over until the fat lady sings.

And I am not done yet.

I am going to lose the weight.

My wake-up call came last Tuesday at university, standing in contrast to the slim 17-year-old art students. I do not want to live like this anymore. I do not want to feel sidelined. I do not want to keep postponing my own life.

I’ve stocked up on Lite n’ Easy frozen meals — 450 calories each. I’ll keep them coming and have one every morning, drinking only water for the rest of the day. I plan to start next week, after I donate blood — I’ll have a proper meal beforehand for that. When I decide to do something, I have an iron will. This is what I am choosing to do.

I will follow this regime until the weight is gone.

I am not going to engage in social activities beyond those I am already committed to. I am going to focus, work, and wait until I feel I can walk through the world with a sense of pride and integrity.

To mark this occasion, I have decided to show you photos of myself as I am now.

Below you can see two photos of me dressed in 80s gear for a party at the Museum. The second photo has terrible lighting, but I like it — it feels very 80s in its own way.

I had the photo you see below on my phone. I think someone else took it, and I was trying to hide my face.

That has been the story of my life.

In many ways, it’s hard to believe I posted those photos. Even though this is an anonymous blog, I still like to think that someone, somewhere has read a few of my posts.

If you’re reading this one, you will now see that I really am a very overweight member of the community. And perhaps, after seeing these images, you’ll better understand why this has felt like such a real social barrier for me.

I am posting them because I have had enough. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I don’t want to feel uncomfortable in my own skin. And I am determined that this will be the last time I look at a photo of myself and feel this way.

Ideally, I would look like this:

I know I can’t look that young again, and I will always have my unconventional features. But apart from that, I just looked normal. Healthy, even.

The photos I shared tonight don’t fully capture the reality of my larger body. But they are all I’m prepared to give.

I am going to document this journey on the blog, and hopefully by Christmas I’ll be singing a very different tune.

Wall Of Sexy Men

It’s 3:06am on Sunday, 15 February, and I can’t sleep. It’s not the normal, everyday insomnia I’ve been suffering from for years; this is hardcore, sick-to-the-bone, worry-soaked sleep deprivation. But I’m not going to go into that. I need a distraction. So I’ll tell you about how, over the period of a week or so, my thinking significantly shifted.

I’ve mentioned in this blog that I am creating some artwork for SALA this August, and it will be made up of coffins. Each coffin will represent one Aboriginal person who has died in custody since the Royal Commission in 1991. I have had 1,000 coffins manufactured in China, and I am waiting for them to arrive. One thousand Aboriginal people haven’t died in custody, I am waiting on the exact numbers, but I think it is just over 600. I got the extras just in case.

I had a sample coffin sent out to me from China; you can see it below. To give you an idea of its size, its internal dimensions are 7.5 × 4.5 × 2 cm.

I told my brother what I was doing, and he sent me the following message:

Out of curiosity, how many people in total have died in prisons since then? And what percentage of the prison population are Aboriginal people? Do they make up a disproportionate number of deaths compared to the prison population rate?

I responded with this:

Yes they make a disproportionate number of deaths. That's why there is a thing about it.

To which he responded:

Whilst I see the point you are getting at. I think you could be focussing on the wrong thing.Indigenous people make up circa 3.8% of the population. However, when it comes to the deaths in custody rate Indigenous people make up 37% of the prisoners but only 29% of the deaths. Non-Indigenous people make up 63% of the prisoners but 71% of the deaths. The real figure driving it is the disproportionate rate of imprisonment, deaths align with the rate of imprisonment. Thats what the stats say in any case.

I wanted to cut it short, so I simply said:

I'm going to stick with it anyway. Wyd?

The next day, I sent him this message:

I understand what you were saying yesterday about the stats but the reality is if you’re going to send more Aboriginal people to prison, more of them will die. Is that what you are trying to say?

And he responded:

Not really. That logic means you send anyone to prison you are more likely to die. The real issue is that Aboriginal people at being jailed at a disproportionate rate, deaths in custody are actually 2% lower than the rest of the prison population. Hence why so many in there is the actual issue.

Then I said:

Prison increases the risk of death for anyone. Aboriginal people are sent to prison much more often, so more Aboriginal people die in custody.

When authorities choose prison instead of available alternatives, they knowingly expose people to a higher risk of harm and death.

Then he said:

Why are you trying to argue with me?

I don't want to argue

So I replied:

Oh no, I’m not trying to argue with you. Sorry if it appears that way.

He finished the conversation by saying:

I'm done with this topic

He god damn started it!! I wasn’t trying to argue with him; I was trying to have a reasonable exchange of ideas, but he just shut me down. That literally infuriated me. He tells me my heart is in the right place in relation to Palestine, but that I am wrong. Then he calls me up and tells me to start some ridiculous origami art business. How little respect does the man actually have for me? And what did I do to deserve that?

Last weekend I went to visit my friend Mariah. We first dropped her step-son and his friend off at an engagement party at Waterloo Corner, out Salisbury way. From memory, one of the bodies from the Snowtown Murders was found somewhere around Waterloo Corner.

On the way back, Mariah and I got talking. First we talked about Palestine, and I told her I was waiting to get a ticket to see Dr Randa Abdel-Fattah, a Palestinian-Australian author, academic, and commentator who was scheduled to speak at the now-cancelled Adelaide Writers’ Week. Her invitation to speak was revoked, which caused the cancellation of Writers’ Week, but she is now speaking at the alternative event, Constellations.

Mariah started saying how much she hates Dr Abdel-Fattah. I sort of bit back at first, but then I thought there was no point because I couldn’t win that battle.

We then moved onto colonialism, but what really got me was when we started talking about refugees and asylum seekers. She was saying how we need to help Australians and not let refugees or asylum seekers into the country, and my argument was that yes, we need to help Australians in need, but that doesn’t mean we should turn our backs on our international responsibilities and indeed international law.

I then went on to say that it is not illegal to seek asylum, and that globally Australia’s border security is considered cruel and inhumane. She raised her voice at me and we got into a genuinely heated discussion about it.

She talked about how she liked Pauline Hanson and how her whole family will be voting One Nation at the upcoming state election.

We got back to her place and, before we watched Frankenstein, she told me that everyone who marches at a pro-Palestine rally supports Hamas. She said she hated Albo because he once marched at a pro-Palestine rally.

She knows that I regularly go to those rallies and that I had one coming up on Monday night. I told her that not everyone who goes supports Hamas, but she wouldn’t listen.

Mariah is unbelievably smart. She knows everything about everything and is very up to date with current affairs. I was surprised she was talking like this. She spoke loudly, aggressively, and dismissed what I was saying.

We’ve been friends for five years, and it was the first time we have had such a colourful discussion. I didn’t like it one bit.

Then came the rally. On Monday night, the South Australian pro-Palestine community held a rally on the steps of Parliament House and then marched to Hindmarsh Square to protest the Australian visit of Israeli President Isaac Herzog. I went along and, below, you can see a photo I took of the crowd gathering on the steps of Parliament House.

It is now 1:33pm, still Sunday, 15 February. I fell asleep at some point this morning. I woke up at around 6:30am for my volunteer shift at 7:30am, and then I fell back asleep until now. This erratic sleep is nothing but a luxury at the moment because, when uni goes back in just over a week, I can’t muck around anymore.

Anyway, there were around 500 people at the rally. I looked around and took some photos of the signs people were holding up.

Then I saw this sign of Albo, and it really set the tone for an event that pushed a very anti-Labor agenda.

Once the speakers started, they ripped into Albo, Mali, and Labor in general for, first of all, facilitating Herzog’s Australian visit and for Mali’s handling of Adelaide Writers’ Week, which rescinded the invitation for Dr Randa Abdel-Fattah, a Palestinian-Australian author, academic, and commentator, to speak.

I can understand where they were coming from, but I didn’t like it. Out of the two major parties, it is the Labor Party that recognised Palestinian statehood and is more sympathetic to the Palestinian cause in general. I intend to join the Labor Party and commit to it, and as I stood there, I found myself fiercely objecting to the words coming out of the speakers’ mouths.

I also looked over at the SA Labor Friends of Palestine, and the guys holding up the sign were nodding in response to the vitriol being put out into the universe about Albo and Mali. I don’t understand why they were nodding. It all seemed a little bit hypocritical to me. You can still support Palestine without supporting every hateful thing being said about the party that brought you there.

There was so much hate in general — hate towards Labor, hate towards Israel. I could feel it seeping through my skin into the core of my being. Further fuelling the hatred was pro-Palestine activist and SA Socialists member Ahmed Azhar, who is running as an independent candidate in Mali’s seat of Croydon in the upcoming state election. You can see Ahmed below.

He had a lot to say about Mali, but to me he used his entire speech as a political platform for his election campaign. After the speakers were done, we marched from Parliament House to Hindmarsh Square. As we marched, people beat on their handmade drums made from buckets turned upside down. People chanted, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free,” “Free, free Palestine,” and a whole lot of other familiar, catchy phrases.

Every beat of the drum, every sound of a chant grated on me. It annoys me when people criticise “From the river to the sea” based on the fact that they think it’s genocidal in intent. It really gets to me because even if it is genocidal in intent, Israel is committing an actual genocide against the Palestinians, and those same people who criticise the chant don’t seem to have a lot to say about that.

But as people were yelling it out on the road to Hindmarsh Square, I questioned why they were saying it at all. Were they being deliberately antagonistic and hateful?

I took these two photos during the march; you can see them below.

When I got home on Monday night, I checked The Advertiser online and saw that they had published an article about the rally, basically saying that they asked participants what “from the river to the sea” actually means and then reported that the protesters were unable to give a definitive answer.

This really annoyed me because I saw hypocrisy in it. While protesters were being questioned over a chant, far more explicit genocidal words had been spoken by the President of Israel himself, Isaac Herzog. So on Tuesday, I wrote a letter to the editor about the rally.

To the Editor,

Coverage of Monday night’s rally at Parliament House and the subsequent march to Hindmarsh Square — held to protest the Australian visit of Israeli President Isaac Herzog — focused heavily on the chant “from the river to the sea”, with particular emphasis on protesters allegedly refusing to define its meaning. The phrase is often treated as having a single, fixed meaning, yet it is understood and used in different ways by different people. Language matters. But if we are going to be serious about the power of words, that seriousness must be applied consistently.

In the aftermath of the 7 October attacks, President Herzog stated: “It’s an entire nation out there that is responsible. It is not true this rhetoric about civilians who were not aware, not involved. It is absolutely not true.” These words were spoken by a head of state during an active military campaign that has resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of civilians.

If protest chants are to be scrutinised for their meaning and potential impact, then so too should statements by political leaders that appear to assign collective responsibility to an entire population of people. International legal bodies have long recognised that language which erases the distinction between civilians and combatants is not neutral — it shapes public consent for collective punishment.

Public debate has increasingly collapsed pro-Palestinian advocacy into support for Hamas, as though protest can only be motivated by sympathy for terrorism. I proudly marched on Monday night and I will march every time, because to me civilian lives matter, international law matters, and words spoken by those in power matter.

Yours sincerely,

Me

They didn’t publish the letter. I didn’t think they would, but it was worth a try. You know I wrote about how proud I was to march on Monday night and then went on to say that I will march every time. I was, and I will, but there was so much hate, and after my experience with my brother and my friend Mariah aggressively coming at me for my opinions, or for having a differing point of view, it got me thinking.

I remember how my brother once told me that he wanted to live on an island with his family and all the do-gooders could live somewhere else, and he could focus on his family and their immediate needs and not worry about all the other stuff. I now think I understand what he means.

I believe in speaking out against injustice, but this shift in my thinking has got me to the point where I wonder: is it worth it? Is it worth having my brother constantly patronising me simply because he doesn’t like to be challenged? Is it worth having my friend Mariah attack me like I’m some sort of common criminal, all because she doesn’t have an open mind to see the other point of view? Is it worth being smack bang in the middle of a cesspool of pure hatred to stick up for the Palestinians, who themselves are met with the same hate that lives among their supporters?

I don’t want this. I don’t want this for my life. I’m going to go to the marches. I am going to make my Aboriginal deaths in custody art exhibition, but I think that has to be it. I seek peace and gentleness.

This shift in thinking has extended even to my desire to travel. For so long now I have wanted to travel to Europe. I am conscious of the fact that I would need to travel business class because of my flaw, and also I think, as a woman travelling alone, it’s good to fly business. So I would need to have a lot of money just for the airfares. Then there’s the accommodation and all the other costs involved in travelling around Europe. I came to realise that I will literally never be able to afford to do it in my lifetime.

The other place I had my heart set on seeing was Egypt. But after I started thinking about the peace I crave in relation to the issues I focus my attention on, I thought: what if I completely ditched the idea of travelling at all? What if I was okay with where I have been and accepted the fact that I’m not going anywhere else?

I honestly don’t want to travel. I want to be with my mother, make some new friends, make stuff, write stuff, and live a simple, clean, peaceful, and gentle life here in Adelaide. I want this to be enough. And I think it is.

Uni starts in just over a week, and I had to upload a photo for a student card. I elected to pick the card up at the Magill campus because it’s just up the road from where I live, even though I will be studying at the City West campus. I have studied social work at the Magill campus before, and it is so beautiful. I seek peace; well, this place is so peaceful. Lush green grounds, classic historical buildings — when I went to pick up my student card, I was reminded how gentle and lovely the campus really is.

I got a bit lost, and an Aboriginal woman who obviously worked at the uni came up to me and asked if I needed any help with directions. She explained where I needed to go. She was such a nice, helpful person, and as I left her and headed towards Student Assist, I couldn’t help but wonder about the discrimination she might have personally endured across her lifetime simply for being Aboriginal. I hoped it wasn’t too much, and I also hoped that I was wrong and that she hadn’t experienced any at all.

Walking back through the campus, I took a few photos of the peaceful path back to my car. You can see them below.

I absolutely love the following photo. I found this plastic tub underneath a tap. The tub was full, and it was just this mess of found objects, nature, rocks, and water. There were bees hanging around, and it made me really happy to see it. There was something magical about it, and it made me feel good.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day and, talking about things I’ll never do again, like travel, one other thing I know I’ll never do again is be with a man. But I am genuinely okay with that. For so long I had the thought in the back of my mind that I might meet someone who would be okay with my flaws and really, genuinely love me, but I know in my heart that that is simply not going to happen. And, like I said before, I really am okay with that.

But that doesn’t stop me loving Valentine’s Day. I always send my friend Rebecca and my mother flowers, and below you can see the flowers and balloon I sent Rebecca. She sent me these two photos because she couldn’t fit it all into one.

Mum loved her flowers and balloons. 

I was thinking about it yesterday, and I haven’t actually received a Valentine’s myself for twenty years. My Dad sometimes used to give me a Valentine’s Day gift because I think he felt sorry for me, but I haven’t received anything from a partner for twenty years. Twenty whole years. That is an entire lifetime.

I’ll be 45 this year, and I have spent the past 20 years without a man. My calculations have been based on the fact that I’ve spent the past 13 years not interacting with men at all. The last man I was with was in 2013, and it’s hard to believe, but I actually think he may very well be the last man I will ever be with, which is kind of tragic.

My last boyfriend was in 2006. I had flings, encounters, and long casual relationships after that, up until 2013, but I literally haven’t been in a relationship for 20 years. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It’s not normal. Most people are in relationships or have immediate past relationships. I think if people knew my history, they would think there is something wrong with me. And they would be fucking right.

But I am okay with that.

Over twenty years ago, before my last partner, life was so much simpler. I didn’t think too much about anything, really, and I would just go to work, and every day was a new adventure.

I had a temp job at the Service SA call centre, which was actually the state government switchboard, and we would answer for most state government departments and agencies. I temped at that place a huge number of times because they kept asking me back and extending my contract. In the end, they did make me permanent, but I up and left because that’s the way I used to roll back then.

I am the opposite now. I crave stability and security.

At that call centre, we had a designated “wall of sexy men,” and we would put up photos or magazine cut-outs of men we found sexy on the wall. I had recently done a fundraiser for my mother and contacted a former AFL footballer, asking if he would sign a few things for the raffles. We arranged it, and we kept texting each other afterwards. He wanted to meet up at my local watering hole, as he called it, but I just didn’t want to meet him.

I hated the way I looked so much, even back then, that I simply couldn’t let him see me. I chose not to meet him at all rather than have to face him judging me and not wanting to see me again based on the fact that I have looks that defy conventional beauty standards. I wasn’t fat back then like I am now, but I still looked bad.

I’m hoping to have lost a whole lot of weight by my birthday in August, but it will still be the same as back then — I can’t change the way I look.

Anyway, I stuck a photo of the football player up on the wall of sexy men, and I told him about it, and he liked it. Our little texting friendship fizzled out, but his image stayed up on the wall of the Service SA call centre.

If I were in an occupational setting with a wall of sexy men now, I would put images of two men up on it. The first is Jacob Elordi. He’s an Australian actor from Brisbane taking Hollywood by storm. He’s 28 years old, he’s 6'5", and I think he is incredibly sexy.

He played the monster in the new Frankenstein movie directed by Guillermo del Toro. He’s actually been nominated for an Oscar for this role, which proves he can act. But I don’t care about his acting skills — the man is gorgeous.

You can see photos of him below.

Photo of Jacob Elordi by Harald Krichel, licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/ via Wikimedia Commons.

Photo of Jacob Elordi by JoshPopov, licensed under CC BY 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons
Licence: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

The second man I would put up on the wall of sexy men is another actor, Javier Bardem. He’s 56 years old, he’s Spanish, he’s conquered Hollywood, and he’s married to the beautiful actress Penélope Cruz. I literally love this guy. I didn’t care about Jacob Elordi’s acting skills, but Javier is the master.

He won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for his role in a disturbing movie called No Country for Old Men. When you watch him act, you can really see that he has perfected his craft. He is incredibly masculine, and I like that about him, but he also seems to have a softer side, which I find equally as appealing.

The thing I like most about Javier is that he has publicly called out Israel for its genocide in Gaza, and he doesn’t care if it loses him work in Hollywood or affects public perception of him. He encourages other people to speak up and is very vocal about his support for Palestinians. I am currently on a journey trying to figure out how I want to express myself about issues like this, but if I had a platform like Javier, I would probably use it the way he does.

He is also incredibly physically attractive; I am particularly drawn to his dark features. While I know I will remain without a man for the rest of my life, that doesn’t make me immune to the odd fantasy about someone like Javier Bardem.

You can see him below.

Photo of Javier Bardem by Marc Piasecki, licensed under CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0 via Wikimedia Commons https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Javier_Bardem_Cannes_2018_2.jpg

Photo of Javier Bardem by Martin Kraft, licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/ via Wikimedia Commons.

I love the last photo of him where he’s grown a beard. Sometimes I like it when a man hasn’t shaved for a few days, and then when they let it grow wild every now and then.

Lately, I’ve gotten into binge-watching Australian TV shows. I watched one series on Stan called Dear Life, which stars Brooke Satchwell, and now I’m on the third and final season of another Aussie series, also on Stan, called Wonderland. Brooke Satchwell’s in it too, but she’s part of an ensemble cast.

So I’m off to watch Wonderland now as the countdown to uni begins.

The End Of A Dream

It’s currently 11:51am on Tuesday 3 February, and today I feel sad. Not profoundly sad, but sad all the same.

I’ve spoken a little about my dream job — yesterday, I received a personal email from the contact person I’d been speaking with throughout the process. She said she knew how much I wanted to work at the centre and that my application had initially been shortlisted, but I didn’t progress through to the interview stage. She recommended using the STAR method for future cover letters and advised that I would also be receiving a generic email confirming that I was unsuccessful.

Initially, I thought it was really kind of her to reach out personally, and I sent her the following response:

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you very much for your email.

I think the centre is an incredibly special space, and I’m deeply passionate about its role as both a cultural hub and a place that promotes curiosity and possibility. While I’m disappointed that my application didn’t progress further, I’m a big believer that everything happens for a reason, and I’m grateful to have been considered.

It has been a long-standing goal of mine to work or volunteer at the centre, and I will certainly continue to keep an eye out for any future opportunities.

Thank you again for taking the time to provide such thoughtful feedback — I really appreciate it.

Take care 😀

Kind regards,

Me

But thinking about it now, it wasn’t as nice as I first thought. She could have given me a chance and progressed me to an interview. I’m not suggesting I’m any better than any other candidate, but I have 29 years of experience in customer service and I really wanted that job.

Yesterday I said it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t get it, but now that it’s no longer an option, I realise just how much I really did want it.

I actually wish the contact person hadn’t tried to soften the blow like that. Why can’t anyone just look me in the eye and say, you didn’t get the job — you weren’t good enough, period.

It’s funny, I talk about looking for opportunities in the future, but it doesn’t really work like that. It’s like dating — what are the odds that you’re single at the same time as someone you like? Employment feels the same. What are the odds that I’ll be unemployed and looking for work the next time the centre is recruiting?

That sounds a little ridiculous when I write it down, given that I haven’t worked in the past ten years and am now thinking seriously about self-employment, so I probably won’t even be looking for work the next time they recruit. But still, not getting the job at the centre felt like the end of a dream.

I have to let it go, and once I do, I know I’ll be okay. To make myself feel better, I ordered some creaming soda via Uber Eats. It arrived warm, so I put it straight into the freezer. In a little while it will be ice cold, and I’ll pour myself a bubbling, fizzy glass. I know that will make me feel good.

Not getting the job at the centre has made me think about something my mother often says about me — that I go over the top. That I’m too enthusiastic, too full on. She’s probably right. I do tend to go over the top.

I’ve been wondering whether I was too keen for this job. Sometimes I think I need to rein myself in, and that’s not an unreasonable thought. Most of the time in life, you don’t need to push so hard. If you’re authentic and genuine, people usually take you seriously without all the extra effort.

But at the same time, if I’m being honest about who I am, I care deeply about the things I care about. I like being excited. I like being immersed. I want to make conceptual work that is layered, repetitive, and complicated. That instinct — to go all in — is part of how I move through the world.

Maybe the challenge isn’t to stop going over the top entirely, but to learn where that energy belongs. Some spaces want restraint. Others want commitment. I’m still working out the difference.

While I’m feeling a bit sad, lost, and vulnerable, I’ve been thinking about my rebel God, Jesus. I used to be quite critical of Jesus, but over the past year or so I’ve found real comfort in Jesus the man — not necessarily the Christ.

At one point I had the idea of going to see a medium and asking them to make contact with Jesus so I could ask him a series of questions. Any medium worth their salt should, in theory, be able to make contact with Jesus, but I quickly realised how easy it would be for a medium to simply perform Jesus for me. I would also need to be very clear that I was seeking insight from a deceased historical figure, not the Son of God — or God, depending on how you look at him.

I realised that the medium route probably wasn’t the most practical or meaningful way to draw inspiration from Jesus. So instead, I’ve been revisiting the wisdom he shared during his short life as a revolutionary figure in Roman-occupied Palestine.

I liked it when he said:

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
— Gospel of Matthew 6:21

It feels like what he was really trying to say is that what you prioritise — what you give your attention and your time to — ultimately shapes what you become.

But something else Jesus said in the Gospel of Matthew made me want nothing more than to lie down beside the man and let him hold me while I slept.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Gospel of Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

I am sick of myself. I am tired. I’m not burdened — I’m privileged — but I am so sick of my own opinions and my own arrogance. I’m tired both physically and emotionally, and I need rest.

I would love to meet someone like Jesus. Even someone pretending to be Jesus would work. Just that unconditional, gentle, humble heart.

This line actually reminds me of something Pope Francis once said. He fell asleep during a Mass and a journalist later called him out on it. Pope Francis explained that it was like falling asleep in the arms of his Father — meaning God — and he went on to speak about the feeling of safety that comes with that kind of trust.

I’m wondering if I should just surrender myself to the love of Jesus. I do have questions about the whole Son of God, or God himself, idea. But Jesus was so good. I think he was with women, and I think the Catholic Church introduced celibacy to stop wives from having claims to church property or assets.

I feel like talking to a Catholic priest, but if I’m honest, most of them scare me.

Speaking of the Catholic Church, I had an idea for a piece of conceptual artwork. I would attend Catholic Mass at the cathedral in town every single day for one whole month. The objective of the project would be to see whether repetition and immersion in the Catholic Church, through daily attendance at Mass, could make a non-believer believe.

Over the course of the month, I would document a specific set of criteria: what was said during each Mass, what was said about Jesus, how many people were there, and any patterns that emerged over time. I would also collect physical items from the experience — candles, Mass programs, and other material traces — as part of the work.

I know I’ve just said that I want to lie down next to Jesus and let him hold me while I sleep. I want Jesus the man to do that — I’m still not sure I believe he is a deity. I may believe he lives on another planet, and I’m only half joking when I say that.

But I would genuinely love to undertake a project like this and present the findings as a piece of art. Because it is art. It allows the viewer to see the world through a different lens — and isn’t that what art is meant to do?

The only issue I have with this investigation is that it feels a little dark. The method is dark, the subject is dark, and really the question shouldn’t be whether daily attendance at Mass could make a non-believer believe.

The real question is whether the daily good intentions of the Catholic Church can compensate for the fact that, in my view, it operates like a criminal organisation.

But that’s getting too close to an opinion for my liking, and I’m ditching opinions for a while.

On a totally unrelated matter, I’ve decided I want a globe of the world. Not a cheap or flimsy one — a beautiful globe that I can put on my bedside table and look at all the places I want to travel to before I go to sleep each night. My ideal globe would light up. I saw a few like that at the Australian Geographic shop when they were still in the Myer Centre — they aren’t there anymore — and I regret not buying one at the time.

Whether I end up with a job or a grant, a globe will be the first thing I buy when I have some extra money. I literally want to see the world.