Settler's Lane.

Our land is on Settler's Lane. My god, we could hear the ocean. How wonderful. I know how much that means to some people here, and I never dared to hope for that. It's so goddamn beautiful out there. Things seem to be settling with Gray. I noticed that Angelata was doing okay with him. They made some decisions about the block together. He complimented her on her pruning skills. We were in a little too much pain to go and see but the fruit trees have apparently responded brilliantly. It doesn't surprise me. I'm a terrible gardener myself, really quite dreadful, but all those Hinchinbrook chicks have green thumbs. So maybe this will be a way for them to relate? They shared three beers which they drank in the tin camping mugs. Not much was said, but I think there was some kind of sympathy between them. Maybe.

I wouldn't want to get too hopeful.

In any case, my own relationship with Gray isn't anything other than the usual skittish truce. Mannie and I have colluded to insist on the Own Room Thing Again. There are gorgeous new linens and an antique lampshade waiting for the spare room. It all needs tidying. Sorting. Organising. Oh, how hideous. The new linens are for the single bed we plan to put in there and the lampshade has two err... lampshades.... on so we will have one pointed to give light to our writing and one to give light so we may read in bed. We'll move our wardrobes in there too. We still need a desk - the camping table is useless. We've been needing this for a while. You know, room of one's own and all that.

I had planned (with Angelata) to drive to Bigsplat myself and buy all this stuff, last Thursday, but Just Jo insisted on talking it over with Gray and in the end he came with us, and was Really Quite Helpful. (We wouldn't have bought the lampshade without his encouragement - it was very expensive!) I know Angelata wanted to demonstrate something - her right to travel alone, her right to spend money. She has a tendency to go straight to ultimatum. This life that she and I lead, vicariously married, vicariously heterosexual, vicariously loved for what we most definitely are not, that is, given a kind of accidental love in the flesh, you know, that same old tale of woe we have which is true but not true, well it wears a lesbian down sometimes, even a resilient and brilliant lesbian like me, or Angelata, and we do sometimes grow tired of being so gracious about it all. We sometimes would like to get in the car and drive a long way away and stay overnight in a roadside motel. Just Jo tells us we're Not Going Anywhere but we've already come to that conclusion. We can't run away from each other. So, Angelata and I won't be running away together either, except perhaps across the hall to the spare room.

There's a glimmer of hope here. Truly. Surely.

Why so quiet, Tom?

imaginary reader: Why so quiet, tricks of memory?
tom: Sod off.
imaginary reader (henceforth known as 'im): well, I never!
'im (which might be short for 'Tim'): now, now
tom: shut up.
tim (apparently a cockney): now just you look 'ere
tom: nope. won't. sod the fuck off.
tim (suddenly channelling my lovely friend Elke) : it's mercury, mercury in RETROGRADE.
tom: I like you better this way.
tim (still channelling Elke): of course you do. Now, sweetie, don't fret. It's ALL OVER.
tom: will if I want to.
tim : suit yourself.

Hungry Heart.

And now, my darling is playing our make up songs.
He's beautiful, my darling.
And apparently, he's got a hungry heart.

Smashed.

I feel terrible. I can't depend on anything or anyone. I can't rely on my knee. I can't rely on my husband. I can't rely on my job. I can't rely on my friends. I can't rely on anything.

So, that's where I'm at. Looking down at my feet and feeling scared.

We talked about the whole world.

Update: You can read one of Ned's poems at wantsacracker, where he is known by his other (more :P real) name.

In the morning Gray met one of the Bugsplat Sculpture Trail poets, Ned, and described him to me as a strange and wonderful man. I didn't recognise him immediately when he came into the Bugsplat Visitor Centre in the afternoon, but he introduced himself and we really connected. He went back to his hotel to fetch a book of his poems for me.
(and they're good!)
I asked if we could meet him for dinner and that's just what we did.
At Castenada's. Gray brought the last bottle of our best 2002 Bugsplat shiraz . We talked about the whole world. Music, poetry, life, sexuality, the wheatbelt, John Kinsella's Vegan Dessert. We all liked each other. It was oddly comforting. The intersections in our lives, the shared understandings. He grew up near to my mother's country. One of his poems describes her landscape perfectly. He had a lot in common with Gray - music and prodigy and similar disillusionments as a youth. I guess this is another little relief of some sort. To be able to be so civilised without losing sincerity. It was memorable. He's special. It was a night you just can't organise.

Breathe in, breathe out.

The tangles form a knot ~somewhere~ and it doesn't matter where. The precise location or situation is not relevant. It's bound to happen ~somewhere~ with all these frayed and sticky threads pulling against each other. Then, when the knot is untangled or broken, we feel relief. No reason to! Nothing has changed. The whole stupid mess is just as stupid and messy and prone to do it all again tomorrow, or next week, or next time.

Our little reliefs:

• no operation on the knee for at least three months while we wait and see whether it will heal ('Be symptom free' is correct rather than 'heal', I am told. This kind of injury doesn't heal.)
• weird email we thought got sent (by molly or angelata) to friend does not seem to have been sent
• our boss realises (after talking to the actual Bugsplat Wildflower Society rather than just listening to Ms Ant) that we Did The Right Thing by taking the book of the shelf.
• Trouble is tentatively enjoying work - solving lots of problems, anyway.

A story returned.

I'll let Roz and Viola tell you all about how their jam session with Helen Barley at Storm Point went. They'll probably write about it at The Beggar's Opera.

We had a late lunch together. After the jam session, I went to see Naomi & Pete, and discovered to my secret joy that the only copy of "The Doves" other than the one I posted at diary-x was still in Naomi's possession. I'll do a re-write and then submit it for the writing project that the Bugsplat Forest Arts Project is hosting in August.

Storm Point was gorgeous. Francesca can't believe we went all the way there and failed to pay our respects to the sea. I'm sorry! It just slipped my mind entirely. Roz and Viola were humming songs; Thea was excited about our story. The golden light of the sun sinking slowly over the sedge plain was beautiful though.

Next time, dear Hinchinbrook, the ocean, of course. If shell had been just that little closer to me I don't think I would have forgotten that we have agreed that you shall see the sea every time we go there. It's just that, as you know, there's so many of us and we all want this life.

Bugsplat Blue Stockings Club.

Lanie has organised a fortnightly chess game at the Bugsplat Family Centre.
Roz and Thea are very pleased. There is talk of discussions of Lacanian theory too. Could be sandwiches as well, if we're very lucky.

Little and big sister.

Our gorgeous sister Fiona sent us "Goddess" lipstick as requested AND a silver ring with an amber stone, and greenish gold glass bead earrings that really suit us. They arrived today; Trouble fetched them when she went to the Post Office to get the mail for work. When she opened the parcel, I (just jo) peeked over her shoulder.

She really loves this sister, though she doesn't know her well. Fiona was just a tiny little baby when they all went down to the dungeon. She didn't even get to meet Megan. Though I wonder if they got peeks. Perhaps. It's hard for us to know with any certainty.

Trouble looks up to Fiona, that I know, and admires her and feels in awe of her. It was a gentle little moment today, this receiving of gifts. Trouble likes the ring. She's wearing it on her middle left finger. It's pretty, but strong.

It makes me happy to think of Trouble as having a big sister, just as I am Fiona's big sister. Fiona knows us well enough to know she is both little and big to us.

How fortunate we are. How precious is our sister.

Mending.

Zil came 'round & we've sorted it out.

It's mending.
We're really glad about that.

An awful conversation.

More on the same theme as yesterday.

Some of our friends in Bugsplat don't like each other. It's our birthday soon and we've been planning a celebration (brunch) at Castenada's. Zil and Lilly don't feel able to go to our brunch and Lilly was okay about it - we agreed we'll have fun together some other time but Zil rang us up in distress and angry that we'd invited her. It brought up her past and reminded her of her childhood when she had to pretend all was okay when it wasn't.

It was an awful conversation and we feel covered in slime.

Trouble is very clear, to me and was clear to Zil, that it is not okay for Zil to blame us for ~inviting her~ and that it is Zil's responsibility to take care of her boundaries and not to expect us to anticipate her needs. I really like Trouble. I like Zil too, and I wanted to be kind. It was just horrible. My hands shook and my heart was aching but as well as feeling a great deal of sadness for Zil and Zil's misery I understood Trouble's fierce boundaries about this situation. I agree with Trouble. It really is not okay for Zil to do that. It's a hideous self-sabotage, a pattern she creates with the many friends she has fallen out with - she sets up these situations - creates a trespass, an occasion for outrage and for feeling betrayed. To relive old pain and old betrayals.

Always easy to see in others.

And there you are, reading this, knowing ten things about me that I would never guess; seeing me with ruthless clarity. Be kind, I plead. Is it all we can ask of each other? To be kind with your easy understanding. Let my faults be revealed to me by my own gaze.

just jo, mostly

This isn't finished; I've just run out of time.

Zil came for a cup of tea this morning and Trouble wouldn't budge. And fair enough too. Zil has been told. Trouble was tired. Pretending to be Calypso or Just Jo is hard work and Trouble shouldn't have to do it. So.

The psychic pressure to please though... to soften the voice, to smile, to behave a particular (soft, feminine) way rather than to be who Trouble really is. And perhaps Zil doesn't realise it but she's very demanding of a certain behaviour from us. She demands reassurance. This demand is made by expression (not always verbal) of her anxiety. Reassurance is something that I am naturally very good at, but it doesn't come easily to Trouble.

I (just jo) get irritated with the people who are drawn to us (presumably, by us) sometimes. I mean, what the fuck is the point of going to all the effort to let someone know, all that trust, all that truth, all that explaining - if they don't actually ~learn~ anything from it. It's annoying too that I must feed these expectations somehow - me, francesca, hannah, shell - people who are softly spoken, gentle, subtle rather than clear, frank and direct.

We've been through this with other people too. And others of us (Angelata, Francis) have also had to endure it. It's so unfair that Trouble's mere presence becomes the cause of such manipulative anxiety and projection. Sometimes I can feel very cynical about some of the people who are drawn to us. So I suppose while unpleasant this experience is useful and I do appreciate more keenly how she is known here, online, by many people - and she has genuine connections with people here - for example she knows that hyjinx really ~likes~ Trouble for who s/he is and that's been good for her.

This isn't finished, I've just run out of time.

Weary and weep.

There's been a series of scandals in the media that make us weary and weep. We try to avoid news but it leaks in. It's the bare faced misogyny, mostly, that gets us down. Little girl raped and murdered. The insulting way people talk about the woman who died nude and full of date rape drugs on a cruise ship. The way that a sexual assault on a reality TV show is being excused. I'm taking the no comments option on this one.

I feel so vulnerable today. Knees are such tender and emotional places. There's no direct connection between any of these scandals and my own feelings. I feel grief. Like I've lost someone. I feel old. Three hundred years old. I feel lost. I feel empty.

Losing love is like a window in your heart.
Everybody sees you're blown apart.
Everybody sees the wind blow.

A siren agonistes - oh, don't insult me!

How strange, how wonderful it is.
(We drink of the river.)
It takes the me away and gives me the stuff of this, our earthly life.
How humbling it is.
The whole castle is plumbed with it.
In that special place Viola made we swim in it.
(It's just like a place in the curly-haired Doctor Who's tardis!)
Those girls on the island have to swim across to the marble steps.
Then up to the shore.
Through their house if their business is not fit for Francis.
Then, across the moat.
There's a short cut straight through Francis's picture.
Visitors must sign the open book policy.
Francis becomes less like a person and more like a policy sometimes.
Mirrors show Viola's face, but her lips only smile like Mona Lisa.
There are structures collapsing, reforming, all around me.
I see it from the corners of my eyes.
I see the edges of 'the machine'.
I see stories in my feet.
They assert themselves briefly silver and shimmering green.
Webbing grows between my toes.
As a strand of seagrass is dislodged from another place (my home).
I feel it (my home) between my teeth.
There's a fish scale stuck between a pair of milk-grown.
I feel it. I see it, all around me.

Deep blue memory.

Yes, I've read how easily our life flows without me, and seen it, and know it's true.

Trouble took us swimming at the Bigsplat Pool today.
It was full of deep blue memories.

I want life too. Just as much as you do.
All the same, I do thank you.
And know that what you say is true.

On the house.

My sympathetic ear we shall call Earnestina.

My sympathetic ear, Earnestina and I went to The Blue Fish for lunch together today. Trouble & Earnestina talked about work politics - hers and ours. The situations are so similar. Earnestina is philosophical: says there's always someone, if you get rid of your problem person another one walks in the door.

Waitress and part-owner of The Blue Fish, "M." is a student of Calypso's. She brought her mum out from the kitchen, to meet us. Her mum is considering coming to dance as well. They were so cute together, Mum and daughter; both charming, vivacious Italians. Mum did a few of the dance moves that Calypso had taught M. - some very cute waitress-inspired ones. Serving trays, taking money. Cheeky, comic moves.
Mum offered us coffee on the house.

I feel proud of Calypso for attracting such admiration and making people feel so at ease and friendly. Earnestina knows who's who out of Calypso and Trouble. I don't know that she knows me too well. Shell. I guess. Earnestina is okay. I just felt so distant from it all, watching over the shoulder of Trouble and Calypso, listening to them talking, knowing again, just witnessing again, the truth: this is not my body.