more days at Edwardstown
The playstation stuff is a particular drawback. It’s quite similar to gambling, with its instances of success or near-success, its gratifications, its hooks. You keep going because you want to work it out once and for all, to master it. Kids hardly have a fighting chance. I know I wouldn’t, at that age.
Feeling slack. Yesterday I had three champagnes with Sarah at the Royal Oak, and that was too many. My pedo reading consequently suffered; it was down to 4239. I must decide, do I want to loll about indulging myself, watching the bubbles winking at the brim, feeling my arm muscles turn to butter, seeing at the end of the day an unsheathed body that looks like pubic hairs sprouting from a tub of rancid lard? Or do I seriously want to achieve superspecimenhood? Besides, I’m now suffering painfully from acid because of those champagnes, and I didn’t bring my H2 blockers with me.
So, 5524, 5539, 4239. Must graph them, even if the thing’s unreliable, and must get the average up to 6000 plus a day and rising. Almost time for a walk.
During yesterday’s conversation, in which I brought up my issues with Sarah’s mother, Sarah assured me that her mother only ‘had a go’ at me, or made as if to, because she was annoyed about the dedication ceremony herself and felt put out that others could turn up to the festive stuff without having to sit through the grind of the religious ceremony. So, the tirade I invented about how can such a mean-spirited, manipulative one presume to tell others how they should behave within this family, might’ve been a little over the top. Of course, she didn’t have to attend the ceremony any more than I did, and there was certainly something wrong in her thinking that I should somehow conform to a view that all members of this family should show ‘solidarity’ by attending any and every weird and wonderful ceremony devised by particular family members in conjunction with some aspect of the wider community, however much it goes against the grain.
I think, though, there were other issues involved, such as my place in this family. Sarah’s mother tends to patrol the boundaries of family as much as she can, like a sheep dog rounding up the sheep and trying to keep them together. My own place in this family is of course doubtful and so I stand out as a week or anomalous link, ripe for particular attention. She seems to feel the need to snap at me from time to time to see if I’ll fall in with the rest of the flock or go my separate way and no longer be a matter of concern. None of this would be in any way conscious of course.
Which brings me to the real issue of my place in this family. Strictly speaking, I’m not Sarah’s partner. We’re friends, and we support each other. We’re also a separated married couple. When family members have something on, such as this recent dedication for Zach, Sarah’s youngest grandchild, I am never invited separately, it’s just assumed that I’ll be informed through Sarah.
Sarah, feeling floaty with alcohol (it really would be a great drug if not for all the terrible side-effects), spoke of us getting city apartments side by side, or even one to share, strictly as housemates, one (or two) provided by the government or the housing trust via the co-op. Someone at the trust did make positive noises about this a few months ago when as Tenancy officer I handed back our two city flats. She was harking back to the early years of our marriage, book launches (the days when I looked like having a future as a writer), art exhibitions, café breakfasts and the like. She finds her wonderful garden (largely my creation I’m proud to say, in terms of the physical work at least) too much to maintain, and would love to simplify her life. And of course I’d be delighted to live in the city. Then of course there’s the really vexed question of privacy, autonomy, and sex.
From my perspective, foster-caring is a vital part of my immediate and possibly long-term future, but I definitely think we should pursue the trust or whoever we can pursue for some city dwellings to replace those we handed back. An important start.
Almost officially unemployed at last. I won’t feel that way until I’ve received an actual benefit.
Pedo reading for yesterday up to 7140, a wee record but clearly to get up to the 10000 mark, thus being in with a chance of superspecimenhood, will require regular almost daily bushwalking and the like. Can’t wait to see if cycling will work, but I doubt it.
The news is that I’ve got only two more sleeps here, will be paid till Sunday, will receive a bit of money from Esther, and quite a bit of back money from Centrelink on Monday, and then more money from them in the middle of next week, and my final CYFS money for a while on Friday. Sorry, but it’s the energy that pushes the social world around.
The sex life? Well… New Scientist contains a letter about asexuals, those with no sex drive. Yes, in some sense I am jealous. The writer makes a plea for asexuals; don’t treat them as abnormal, as genetic mistakes. ‘Sex is not like breathing. It is not for everyone.’ Could be a problem if they were too many of them, but I suppose the same goes for exclusive homosexuals. Still, suppose it would be pleasant to be released from ‘confusing, overbearing, life-limiting drives’. Remember childhood, before dick rose his head? And now I’m subjecting myself to the tyranny of trying to achieve superspecimenhood, in the hope of maybe experiencing one more inout-inout before I drop off.
As to superspecimenhood, it’s damn clear I’m not going to achieve it through pedometer-power, but it’s a start. So far, I’ve not really pushed myself, not at all. Going full tilt, I can clock up between 1000 and 1300 steps in just ten minutes, so there’s really no excuse for not yet having broken the 10000 in a day. I think I should make it today though. And I’ll make sure it’s a regular thing from now on, even if I have to sleepwalk.
And then there’s the gym, when I get back to Devon Park. No more buttery arms. In fact I’ll have to research superspecimenhood and how to attain it when I get back. It’ll probably require a full body wax and various piercings, as well as endless Pilates and the like.
Slight embarrassment of encountering Sarah’s half-witted younger bro (he was oxygen-deprived at birth), who lives round here, while on my walk this arvo. Carrying pillows from Castleplazaland, returning to Beryl to give her a piece of his mind for standing him up. “I’ve been waiting there two bloody hours, yes I have. She could’ve rung me on my mobile, there’s really no excuse, not in the post mobile age.” He flashed his big black mobile. Can’t imagine he gets many calls on it. Always makes me sorry and slightly shame-faced and uncomfortable.
Some of the boffins are now saying the global warming phenomenon could be worse in its effects than previously thought. Hoping the bastard naysayers will have their noses rubbed into their wrongness, which isn’t very rational or scientific of me. Need to know more about this one.
Pedo 9392 yesterday, so 10000 is v possible, but the pedo’s none too scientific, it can depend where you put it on your clothing, which side of the belt, really quite ridiculous. This morning, helping the new carer Carol move in here from two doors down, and the first half-hour of backwardsandforwardsing chalked up a mere 19 steps. Shifted the pedo to my left side, and the next half hour had it up to 1800. Well, keep it on the left from now on and just go for it. Physique unchanged in the past few days. Why does it take so long?
Tomorrow, home for spring-cleaning, just before the end of spring. Loovly Esther here for the review yesterday, but Nat didn’t turn up. Allowed us to natter without him. All considered, it was an easy placement, which could’ve been tougher if I’d bought in to trying to reform him. Nat has potential, which frustrates. Foodwise, and this is the hugest issue, he is more open than the other kids, yet he can’t beat a lifetime of junk food. Fact is, Nat’s obese, as are his parents, especially his mum (grotesquely so, sadly). So, although he likes mushrooms and avocado, unlike other kids, he’d be happy to live on potato chips and lots of em. While stretched on the couch, remote in hand.
Not that I refrained entirely from comment. I told him one evening, after asking him to clear his chip packets out of the living room, that of all the junk foods, this stuff was about the worst, just flakes of fat. He gaped, perhaps shocked that finally I’d chosen to state the obvious. And for a couple of days, or maybe a day, he didn’t eat a chip.
Poor Nat. He’s up against a lifetime of conditioning, and perhaps even a genetic inheritance or predisposition. Clearly it’s a losing battle. Not that he’s putting up much of a fight, but how can anyone like myself see things from his environmental/genetic space? How can we experience the forces operating upon him? Esther says he’s much improved since entering the program. Home life was particularly chaotic for this young couch macfeast. He loves to cook, and speaks at least of loving salad and the like, but he snacks hugely between meals on high fat rubbish, almost always chips, proving Charlize Theron’s point that such a diet can horribly blotch up your skin as well as swelling your waistline. So that when he wails that no girl would ever look twice at him, it’s hard to resist making again the obvious point. For of course he knows that he eats way too much. And he probably knows too that the oleaginous morsels he’s addicted to constitute the main obstacle to his possibly achieving the male equivalent of Charlize Theron superspecimenhood, and moving with new agility toward blissful communion with the girl next door over whom he languidly languishes.
On the evening of my arrival here at Edwardstown I asked Nat about any interesting attractions in the neighbourhood. This was his answer, honest injun. ‘Well, there’s the Red Rooster just up there on the way to Castle Plaza, that’s the closest, and across the road from it’s a KFC. Further up the road there’s a Hungry Jack’s, and there’s a Macdonald’s in the opposite direction, over there… uhh, that’s about it.’ I must say that I gaped at him with an exaggerated horror. Not wanting to be overtly didactic, I needed to give him the idea via my astonished look that such preoccupations were a little unusual if not disturbing, and I think it worked. He began to look self-conscious and uncertain. He’s certainly smart enough to work it out, but I suspect it’s an addiction, and the will to change is certainly not there right now.
Feeling slack. Yesterday I had three champagnes with Sarah at the Royal Oak, and that was too many. My pedo reading consequently suffered; it was down to 4239. I must decide, do I want to loll about indulging myself, watching the bubbles winking at the brim, feeling my arm muscles turn to butter, seeing at the end of the day an unsheathed body that looks like pubic hairs sprouting from a tub of rancid lard? Or do I seriously want to achieve superspecimenhood? Besides, I’m now suffering painfully from acid because of those champagnes, and I didn’t bring my H2 blockers with me.
So, 5524, 5539, 4239. Must graph them, even if the thing’s unreliable, and must get the average up to 6000 plus a day and rising. Almost time for a walk.
During yesterday’s conversation, in which I brought up my issues with Sarah’s mother, Sarah assured me that her mother only ‘had a go’ at me, or made as if to, because she was annoyed about the dedication ceremony herself and felt put out that others could turn up to the festive stuff without having to sit through the grind of the religious ceremony. So, the tirade I invented about how can such a mean-spirited, manipulative one presume to tell others how they should behave within this family, might’ve been a little over the top. Of course, she didn’t have to attend the ceremony any more than I did, and there was certainly something wrong in her thinking that I should somehow conform to a view that all members of this family should show ‘solidarity’ by attending any and every weird and wonderful ceremony devised by particular family members in conjunction with some aspect of the wider community, however much it goes against the grain.
I think, though, there were other issues involved, such as my place in this family. Sarah’s mother tends to patrol the boundaries of family as much as she can, like a sheep dog rounding up the sheep and trying to keep them together. My own place in this family is of course doubtful and so I stand out as a week or anomalous link, ripe for particular attention. She seems to feel the need to snap at me from time to time to see if I’ll fall in with the rest of the flock or go my separate way and no longer be a matter of concern. None of this would be in any way conscious of course.
Which brings me to the real issue of my place in this family. Strictly speaking, I’m not Sarah’s partner. We’re friends, and we support each other. We’re also a separated married couple. When family members have something on, such as this recent dedication for Zach, Sarah’s youngest grandchild, I am never invited separately, it’s just assumed that I’ll be informed through Sarah.
Sarah, feeling floaty with alcohol (it really would be a great drug if not for all the terrible side-effects), spoke of us getting city apartments side by side, or even one to share, strictly as housemates, one (or two) provided by the government or the housing trust via the co-op. Someone at the trust did make positive noises about this a few months ago when as Tenancy officer I handed back our two city flats. She was harking back to the early years of our marriage, book launches (the days when I looked like having a future as a writer), art exhibitions, café breakfasts and the like. She finds her wonderful garden (largely my creation I’m proud to say, in terms of the physical work at least) too much to maintain, and would love to simplify her life. And of course I’d be delighted to live in the city. Then of course there’s the really vexed question of privacy, autonomy, and sex.
From my perspective, foster-caring is a vital part of my immediate and possibly long-term future, but I definitely think we should pursue the trust or whoever we can pursue for some city dwellings to replace those we handed back. An important start.
Almost officially unemployed at last. I won’t feel that way until I’ve received an actual benefit.
Pedo reading for yesterday up to 7140, a wee record but clearly to get up to the 10000 mark, thus being in with a chance of superspecimenhood, will require regular almost daily bushwalking and the like. Can’t wait to see if cycling will work, but I doubt it.
The news is that I’ve got only two more sleeps here, will be paid till Sunday, will receive a bit of money from Esther, and quite a bit of back money from Centrelink on Monday, and then more money from them in the middle of next week, and my final CYFS money for a while on Friday. Sorry, but it’s the energy that pushes the social world around.
The sex life? Well… New Scientist contains a letter about asexuals, those with no sex drive. Yes, in some sense I am jealous. The writer makes a plea for asexuals; don’t treat them as abnormal, as genetic mistakes. ‘Sex is not like breathing. It is not for everyone.’ Could be a problem if they were too many of them, but I suppose the same goes for exclusive homosexuals. Still, suppose it would be pleasant to be released from ‘confusing, overbearing, life-limiting drives’. Remember childhood, before dick rose his head? And now I’m subjecting myself to the tyranny of trying to achieve superspecimenhood, in the hope of maybe experiencing one more inout-inout before I drop off.
As to superspecimenhood, it’s damn clear I’m not going to achieve it through pedometer-power, but it’s a start. So far, I’ve not really pushed myself, not at all. Going full tilt, I can clock up between 1000 and 1300 steps in just ten minutes, so there’s really no excuse for not yet having broken the 10000 in a day. I think I should make it today though. And I’ll make sure it’s a regular thing from now on, even if I have to sleepwalk.
And then there’s the gym, when I get back to Devon Park. No more buttery arms. In fact I’ll have to research superspecimenhood and how to attain it when I get back. It’ll probably require a full body wax and various piercings, as well as endless Pilates and the like.
Slight embarrassment of encountering Sarah’s half-witted younger bro (he was oxygen-deprived at birth), who lives round here, while on my walk this arvo. Carrying pillows from Castleplazaland, returning to Beryl to give her a piece of his mind for standing him up. “I’ve been waiting there two bloody hours, yes I have. She could’ve rung me on my mobile, there’s really no excuse, not in the post mobile age.” He flashed his big black mobile. Can’t imagine he gets many calls on it. Always makes me sorry and slightly shame-faced and uncomfortable.
Some of the boffins are now saying the global warming phenomenon could be worse in its effects than previously thought. Hoping the bastard naysayers will have their noses rubbed into their wrongness, which isn’t very rational or scientific of me. Need to know more about this one.
Pedo 9392 yesterday, so 10000 is v possible, but the pedo’s none too scientific, it can depend where you put it on your clothing, which side of the belt, really quite ridiculous. This morning, helping the new carer Carol move in here from two doors down, and the first half-hour of backwardsandforwardsing chalked up a mere 19 steps. Shifted the pedo to my left side, and the next half hour had it up to 1800. Well, keep it on the left from now on and just go for it. Physique unchanged in the past few days. Why does it take so long?
Tomorrow, home for spring-cleaning, just before the end of spring. Loovly Esther here for the review yesterday, but Nat didn’t turn up. Allowed us to natter without him. All considered, it was an easy placement, which could’ve been tougher if I’d bought in to trying to reform him. Nat has potential, which frustrates. Foodwise, and this is the hugest issue, he is more open than the other kids, yet he can’t beat a lifetime of junk food. Fact is, Nat’s obese, as are his parents, especially his mum (grotesquely so, sadly). So, although he likes mushrooms and avocado, unlike other kids, he’d be happy to live on potato chips and lots of em. While stretched on the couch, remote in hand.
Not that I refrained entirely from comment. I told him one evening, after asking him to clear his chip packets out of the living room, that of all the junk foods, this stuff was about the worst, just flakes of fat. He gaped, perhaps shocked that finally I’d chosen to state the obvious. And for a couple of days, or maybe a day, he didn’t eat a chip.
Poor Nat. He’s up against a lifetime of conditioning, and perhaps even a genetic inheritance or predisposition. Clearly it’s a losing battle. Not that he’s putting up much of a fight, but how can anyone like myself see things from his environmental/genetic space? How can we experience the forces operating upon him? Esther says he’s much improved since entering the program. Home life was particularly chaotic for this young couch macfeast. He loves to cook, and speaks at least of loving salad and the like, but he snacks hugely between meals on high fat rubbish, almost always chips, proving Charlize Theron’s point that such a diet can horribly blotch up your skin as well as swelling your waistline. So that when he wails that no girl would ever look twice at him, it’s hard to resist making again the obvious point. For of course he knows that he eats way too much. And he probably knows too that the oleaginous morsels he’s addicted to constitute the main obstacle to his possibly achieving the male equivalent of Charlize Theron superspecimenhood, and moving with new agility toward blissful communion with the girl next door over whom he languidly languishes.
On the evening of my arrival here at Edwardstown I asked Nat about any interesting attractions in the neighbourhood. This was his answer, honest injun. ‘Well, there’s the Red Rooster just up there on the way to Castle Plaza, that’s the closest, and across the road from it’s a KFC. Further up the road there’s a Hungry Jack’s, and there’s a Macdonald’s in the opposite direction, over there… uhh, that’s about it.’ I must say that I gaped at him with an exaggerated horror. Not wanting to be overtly didactic, I needed to give him the idea via my astonished look that such preoccupations were a little unusual if not disturbing, and I think it worked. He began to look self-conscious and uncertain. He’s certainly smart enough to work it out, but I suspect it’s an addiction, and the will to change is certainly not there right now.
posted by Stewart at 3:55 pm
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