Autumn

I love autumn because I separated from a 10 year marriage on 14 February 1990. I smoked a packet of cigarettes a day and drank diet coke instead of eating and I lost 2 stone. I loved being slim and I loved being able to bring up my girls on my own, make my own decisions, right or wrong, take risks on decisions and suffer the consequences of wrong decisions, and there were lots. It’s probably not such a good idea to let children have a tv and computer each in their own bedroom but lessons learnt I’ll do that differently next time. I love autumn as the leaves fall and everything dried up is discarded.

Winter

I love winter. . I used to love getting home from work with both my girls safe inside the house and watching the rain outside, knowing that we were all together, safe at home. Winter also means hot-water bottles, bed-socks, snuggly blankets, and watching a series in bed on an ipad with a partner if you have one.

Spring

I love spring because as a young person growing up in Melbourne spring was the beginning of looking forward to the end of a school year, end of exams and a massive holiday. Even though I don’t do exams anymore and I don’t have school holidays I still have that same feeling that spring is the start of something and the end of something else. I love the apple blossoms and new green leaves that appear everywhere. It’s so fresh.

Summer

I love summer because time stood still while we lay on the beach at the peninsula for seven weeks, and I can’t have that again, but I can dream about it.

The way I remember it, he was sitting on the couch, hugging his dog and glaring at me. Words had been said. Harsh words, words that stayed in the air and could almost be felt on the skin. I could still hear the echoes of his last shouted words. I could barely see through the tears. I shuffled around, looking for my coat, my bag, my hat. He was starting to get angry again, impatient that I wasn’t already gone and out of his life. All I could think was, no, not again. How can I be such an expert at meeting wonderful men, men who I could happily spend the rest of my life with, and then fucking it up? Gary. Stephen. Now David. The same pattern. All my counselling sessions, all that money spent, the medication, and I am still repeating these toxic behaviours. Belongings finally located and in my hands, I walked out the front door and shut it softly behind me.

It’s normal to have feelings of shame at poor behaviour, but in this instance my shame felt like an endless well. Like I would fall and fall in a never-ending cascade of remorse. I tried to recollect how things had deteriorated so quickly. Was it really just the whisky talking, or had I been bottling things up and needing to let them out? I remember asking what he wanted from me, and becoming very upset and crying. I think his scorn and disdain hurt the most. Such anger. Such an absence of compassion. He seemed quite disturbed that I had tried to verify parts of his extraordinary back story that he had shared with me, through some online sleuthing.

Around the corner I called an Uber. Poor Uber driver, he arrived promptly whilst I was still sobbing, and tried his best to make some small talk but I was not capable. It was a sad and lonely journey home. My cat always responds to my tears, she seems to know that I need comforting, and she was on my lap the instant I collapsed on the couch. Feeling sick, I stroked her soft fur, trying to get my usual enjoyment from her quiet purr. She gave some small meows, her little questioning meows when she is working out what’s going on, what’s happening next. And what will happen next? All I want is a chance to talk to David again. Bit difficult when he’s blocked my number on his phone. My only chance is to drop round his house, ring his doorbell at the front gate and see if he answers, if he will let me in, even just for five minutes.

Yesterday started out with such promise, and ended as one of the worst days of my life. Which is saying something, given there have been some bad ones. Strange how the worst days usually end up with me feeling remorse and shame. I sit here wondering…what if? What if I do go straight to his place and ring the doorbell? Will he even answer? Will he call the police, like he threatened to last night when I didn’t immediately leave?

White, I think it was white, the corners of his mouth. His lips clenched so tightly together. Or perhaps it was red? Such a small detail to fixate on when there were so many other details I could have noticed. I’m struggling to understand why this detail above all others seems so important.

The Japanese believe that societal bonds are breaking down from the negative impact of social media, of smartphones, of constantly being connected. I feel this keenly. If it wasn’t for my anxiety-fuelled obsession with checking up on people I’m dating, with endless googling and searching, monitoring when they are online, speculating on the meaning of this or that little detail, then perhaps I’d have a chance at happiness. I have always prided myself on not having an addictive personality. Have you ever been a smoker, people would ask? No, I’d respond, smugly. Instead, I’ve developed an even more harmful addiction and to the end of my days I will live with this shame.

It was a hot day in Hull City, the sun was burning brightly. No cloud was in the sky, from above it looked like a rubbish tip, and from the ground it didn’t look any different. Instead of buildings there were just hulls of ships stacked on top of each other in an attempt to make cheap housing for the vastly overpopulated world. There were hardly any buildings that were actually built out of conventional materials, only the transport hub, the recycling centre, and the town hall. The town hall was just a scrappy building with TOWN HALL in red paint on top but it looked reasonably majestic in comparison to the rest of the city. Inside at the central meeting room sat several people around a table waiting for The Empress to arrive. The Imperial General Cortana sat with her short blonde hair glaring at the mayor. As usual she was dressed in battle armour, even though she hadn’t been on a battle field in years she said that dealing with bureaucrats was more treacherous. “In all of the Empire your city is probably the most shit but it is also the one that keeps reproducing the most. The posivirus makes no need for repopulating so control your fucking people.” The posivirus was a technology given to the Empire by an alien race called the Librans. It was a ‘virus’ that immediately made humans immune to nearly all diseases and generally were healthier. It also drastically improved fertility so that from coitus sex nearly always resulted in pregnancy as well as making pregnancy last only three months. Originally it was a great thing, everyone was living longer but then the Transmitter, another technology that the Librans had gifted them which provided their electricity, stopped working. Having to use a few old power plants had caused serious issues and with the population increasing it was uncontrollable.
The mayor was smirking at “Look Cortana, we educate people on the dangers of heterosexuality, what more can I do? If a man and a woman love each other, stuff happens. Who am I to judge?”

“Fuck you we all know that isn’t how it happens.”

“Hey, sixty percent of pregnancies definitely come from relationships, at least it is probably more. Like sure other stuff happens but not much we can do.”

“Eat my fucking clit you little shit. By other you mean rape just fucking say it you shit head.”

“Shut the fuck up you bitch, aren’t we meant to be discussing the Imperial guards needing to use my city as a relay for their forces?”
“Yeah but you know I can’t comment until the Empress gets here.”

With that moment the door opened and in came the Mayors assistant. “Please rise and welcome the Empress” They all stood up and started to hum the national anthem. In olden days it would have been played but now that was a waste of electricity. In She came, the Empires fearlessly fashionable transvestite Empress. She was wearing a long peached coloured gown with glittery make up and a wig that looked like an exploded fire. Sitting down and reading the room She said “I know how to read a room, I know you lot don’t get along but I don’t care let’s just get down to business.”

Even now, when it is too late, I was unsure why I had come. Unsure  which of my realities would dominate in this place of magical beauty and persistent nightmare. Beauty is a magnet but this, here, may come with too heavy a price. The ghosts from the past are surfacing.

Only if I hear their call. Listen to the sea, listen to the sea, listen. Feel the sand, hot, abrasive slipping in between sandal straps, feel my clothes sticking in the hot humid air. Eyes shut I listen to the sea calling me to the present. Eyes shut I hear the sea, smell the sea, let the rhythm of the waves sooth me, relax me and am comforted.

Eyes now open the magic of this alien place enchants me. My eyes trace the edges where the rocks have been shaped to enchant and the circling emerald sea ….  Stay in the moment, focus on the now. Eyes shut again I listen to the sea but the waves are not loud enough to block my imagination. The smell of the sea has changed bringing memories of other times, other smells. Look at the rocks, high round beautiful rocks plunging into… stop do not go there! Focus on the plants The rocks sprout trees, trees like I had never seen, beautiful or sinister I can’t decide. In the shadows the green of the sea turns dark, dense and frightening.

Look up. Look at the sky, clear, clear blue, soothing blue peaceful blue. Gradually I return to the present and feel my reality. I walk to the tideline watching the waves break in the shallows. Look at the seaweed, the shells and the tidal debris. I bend and pick a fragment from the tangle. Once this was crisp, new and in someone’s hand. Now, now it is the ghost of my friend, this tattered piece of five dollar note, here on a beach in Halong Bay.  Trapped, she drowned in her sleep as the boat sank quietly beneath the waves. Trapped, but debris floats only to be trapped again. I no longer see anything but the suffocation of her drowning.

I was unsure about whether to wear the green dress of the blue. In green I always feel quite frogish and not unlike the silly toy my sister gave me for my 9^th birthday. It was meant to be a prank gift, a bit of a throw away and a reminder of the story that Grandad would tell us every school holiday when we went to stay with him on the farm.

I don’t know why he told the story of the green frog, we never saw any of them on the Mallee farm. The colours of the farm were full of browns and rusts, the red sand and golden wheat. Black and white cows, ducks and drakes. There was the purple flash of the bougainvillea that grew over the arch at the farm house gate, but not a lot of green.

Grandad was a man of few words, but when he did speak we would hang on to his every word, so when the story of the green frog came out we were mesmerised, fixed. Next minute he was laughing, his strange little giggle, tears rolling down the side of his cheeks ‘city kids’ he would mutter under his breath, shaking his head, ‘city kids’.

My mother Merle was born in the Mallee and raised on this farm but lived in the farm house that I remember only a few years before moving to a country town. When Merle was younger she lived in what they called ‘the ranch’, nothing much more than a shed with few windows and a hard earth floor. It was after the war and she lived there with her father, her sister Roma, Uncle Gill, Uncle Ces, her cousin Joe and ‘Mother’. Mother was her Aunty but was the only mother she’d known after her own died some years earlier. ‘Mother’ kept the family and the house every Christmas and would paint the walls of the kitchen the most beautiful shade of green.

Merle and Joe loved to play together and as Roma was older, she often left them to their own devices. It was on one of these occasions that Merle and Joe stole the cowrie shell from old Tom the Indian tinker who camped on the plain when he was in the area selling his wares. The two children were fascinated by the shell taking turns in putting to their ears, smelling its scent and trying to imagine the creature who lived in its belly before it had been plucked from the sea. They kept the shell hidden in a wheat bag under their bed knowing they shouldn’t have stolen it but hoping to keep the treasure for their own. The possession of the coveted treasure wasn’t to last long as Mother soon knew there was something up, for she possessed the gift that many mothers have and knew before Joe and Merle did, that they were up to no good.

It was a strange procession of two large men followed by the trembling children that travelled across the plain to old Toms camp. Grandad and Uncle Ces in front with Merle and Joe trailing behind. The two men wondered out loud what the fate of thieving children would be, talk of police and retribution put terror into their hearts.

Struggling to keep the laughter out of his voice old Tom interrogated the two thieves asking them why they took the shell, ‘I don’t know’ muttered Joe, ‘I could smell the sea’ whispered Merle, only just holding back her tears. Old Tom smiled and thanked them for having the courage to apologise and bring the shell back to him. He wrapped the shell in a green silk cloth and placed it in box at the back of his wagon.

The knock at the door gave me a start. I was late again daydreaming of the farm, my mother, the past. I looked in the mirror and gave a silly giggle, put on my green dress and ran out the door.

Where did we sit before the chair? I often ask myself that question-we have two comfortable couches, clad in chic veloury goodness yet everyone wants to sit in the chair. The couches are more strategically positioned for  optimal television viewing, plentiful leg room, ease of access to the coffee table for resting hot beverages, proximity to heating and reduced sun glare interference…yet the chair is always the winner.

The chair is not stylish, it was a third hand purchase from a face book buy, swap and sell page and came in pre-loved condition. Real estate in our lounge room is quite tight so it is squished in a corner -definitely not facilitating optimal television viewing-one has to turn your head to the side. It is poo-brown leather and has now become sprinkled with tiny little scratch/claw marks from cats sharpening their claws or just sky-diving onto it from other perches and using their claws as brakes.

As I sit in the chair I wonder about its popularity! The lever on the side and foot-rest that plummets up quite awkwardly and the fact that you can lean back and it reclines (again quite awkwardly) and the puffiness of the upholstery make it pure magic.

This is the place you go when you are feeling sick, you can snuggle and be comforted by the chair. It is also a great place for beating insomnia, one does find themselves slowly drifting off to sleep in the recline position and waking to find a sticky drool patch and amazed that you did actually fall asleep. Its great for reading, relaxing, chit-chatting to friends on the phone, writing and I’m sure if I was breast-feeding it would be perfect for that too.

Apart from the emotional and physical support the chair provides it also the pet whisperer. If you sit on the chair-then it is an open lap invitation for either or both or our dogs to jump on your lap and at a minimum couple of cats and at a maximum four. The prime position for whoever is top cat of the day is on the head-rest, purring directly into your ear.

Once you are laden down with pets, you become immobile and unable to do anything for yourself as it means disturbing the pets and they all look so adorable. Cups of tea, glasses of wine, newspapers, snacks, lighting and heating preferences all need to be done by the couch sitters.

If you are a guest in our house and a non-pet lover this may change the seating arrangement. Guests often sit on the couch (as they look much more enticing) and the pets will move from the chair as they try converting the non-pet loving people to pet lovers. They do their ever so cute “puss in boots circa Shrek” eyes, rub against legs, bring toys/balls/old bones and gift them and won’t take no for answer when they continually try despite constant rejection to get onto that lap.

So the chair is the throne in our house and special privileges are bestowed upon the sitter. It is getting shabbier with age with but its glory remains.

The wall wobbled as I steadied myself. Arms out like a flailing surfer, I stepped forward and waddled my way to the green chair.

“Keep going Nicki!” Cheered my squad of supporters that made up of both sets of grandparents, Mum and Dad. On this particular day, Granny and Pop had come over to give Mum and Dad a hand.

I was almost there, yet so far from reaching my destination. Mum instinctively reached out to guide my hand. No, don’t help her Leanne! She’ll never learn that way.” Dad snapped.
“I just want her to make it, Dennis. She’s so close.” Mum’s desperate frustration rang through. This was a big moment for her. For all the family. Looking back now, I can only imagine how devastating it was for my parents to be told, at the age of 19, that their first born daughter (first grand daughter for both sides of the family) would be unlikely to walk or talk independently. Who would be medicated on anti epileptic medication for the rest of her life.

“Keep going Nicko!” Pop yelled enthusiastically. One more lurch forward and I grabbed onto the chair for dear life. My body sagged with pure relief. I made it. I could breathe again.
“Yeahhhh!” Everyone cheered. It was though I had just ran a marathon. I didn’t quite understand why this moment was so emotional, but I’d take it. I could do no wrong. As long as I tried.