Hieronymous the Anonymous

Rotto

Today was a tourist day. I went out at 9 and got back at 6. I caught a couple of ferries to Rottnest Island, where I had lunch and then hiring a bike pedalled around the island, which is just about the obligatory Rotto experience. It was hard work, up and down hills and into a headwind most of the way, but the pay-off was the succession of lovely beaches enclosed by dramatically rocky headlands, the sand pure white and the water translucent and in places a glowing turquoise. It was great, though my arse still feels it.

Coming back I sat in the beer garden of the Quokka Hotel and had an overpriced beer, while the aforementioned marsupials hopped around searching for little tidbits to feast upon, totally unfazed by the drinking public. It was a lazy afternoon.

It was very familiar, out and active, like I have been in dozens of countries before. In fact I put my hand in my bag at one stage and pulled out the ticket stub from the Taj Mahal. The truth is that when you travel you live for the moment quite naturally. And so I did, savouring the good things that came my way.

I'm back now, have showered and dressed. Dinner in a minute, then off to Northbridge i think for a couple of cold beers and good company.

Every moment

I woke this morning feeling that much of the weight I spoke of last night was gone – reduced from the size of a coconut to a walnut. I had slept well, but I figured that I felt better because I had written of it, I had opened up and let out some of the stuff I’ve been storing up.

I find I have a different attitude. The present has sometimes seemed so tough that I’ve been looking to the future. All this will pass H, I would tell myself, the future will come and it will flow before you. That may be, but to get there I have to go through now. Somehow I came to understand in my sleep that I have to live for the moment, no further. And that is my mission with Fred – to make each of his moments as happy and as comfortable as I possibly can. There’s a line from Slaughterhouse 5 I’m struggling to remember, basically though Vonnegut writes that life is just a collection of moments and the trick is to make each moment as happy as possible.

I remember very well when I first met Fred. It was a Friday night in 1990, my Mum had been seeing this guy and rang to tell me that he wanted to meet me. It was a sunny day, I remember going into a bottle-shop and buying some wine to take with me. My first impressions of Fred was that he was quite different to me. I was much more the firebrand then, happily outspoken quite often. I remember we had a friendly clash over duck shooting. That his politics were pretty well the opposite of mine was clear early also. In the end I saw through that though, as he did. We had a dinner of take-away chicken and drank the wine. Later we went into the large spa he had, and later again raided his best Port – something much repeated in the years to come. I left that night thinking that he was a good man. That he had a certain bombast, behind which was this gentle person with a good heart. I’m a sucker for a good heart. I liked him.

In the years after we formed a bond. He was keen to become close to me, and though I had my own father I was willing to go with him much of the way. I liked him, after all, and respected him; and my Mum loved him. In many ways, I think, our relationship was truer than those with his natural children. We were not constrained by that relationship, we came at each other like two men, as mates I guess, but there was a deeper element also. I was the son of the woman he adored, and in a certain way he wanted to be there for me in that role.

Our relationship was easy, I teased him – as he loved – and he would seek to help me wherever possible. We liked many of the same things, and I came to understand over the years that many of our differences were superficial, that beneath we had much more in common. And so he would speak to me. We would have long sessions raiding his cellar and drinking, sharing the happy moment while my Mum would shake her head, content that the two men she loved most were enjoying themselves. There were times we argued, inevitably. We are both strong personalities, sure of our opinion and unwilling to back down. We had some fierce clashes that shook the foundations. But always we came back to being mates. I respected him as a man, and loved him almost as a father; and in a similar way he respected me, and saw me as a son.

In 1998 I went travelling to Europe. In Munich I hooked up with Fred, who was there on business. We hired a car and for a week we travelled together, down to Salzburg first, then Vienna, Prague, Berlin. Looking back it is something I am very glad I did. He is an easy travelling companion, and keen for me to enjoy. I am sometimes nostalgic for that, and for a period thought to do something similar. I valued him.

I can remember in Berlin we went on a walking tour. There was a girl on the tour from Perth, a very attractive blonde I hit it off with. I can recall very vividly becoming annoyed with Fred because he seemed to have no notion of what was going on, and was perpetually cramping my style. Later I became very embarrassed at this; it was graceless of me. I remember it still for that reason, but hope to believe that I have made it up to him since, many times over.

Today I think he will stay in bed. That is probably best. Tomorrow is the train. I will go to Rottnest today and enjoy it.

What we did

We had our first day doing the tourist things today. We organised to be collected from the hotel and then taken to the jetty to catch a ferry to Fremantle. It was a sunny, warm day. We cruised slowly up the Swan River before disembarking in Freo. It was near lunchtime so we cut through the heart of town to the other side, to the fisherman’s market, where most of the high profile restaurants are. We sat in the restaurant and ordered, and afterwards went our separate ways for a while. Mum went to do some shopping while I went with Fred to the Shipwrecks museum, where we saw the wreck of the Batavia. Later we caught up with Mum and then made our way back to the port, where we caught a leisurely ferry back to Perth. We were back in our hotel room by 5. That sums up the events of the day.

There’s more though, much more really. Here is the chronological sequence of events, we did this, then we did that, then we returned.

What should I add? That Fred was asleep all day yesterday. That we had to get a wheelchair for him so he could get around. I wheeled him around in that all day, with him wincing at every cobblestone. How he ate half a weet-bix for breakfast and a prawn for lunch, no more, and no dinner. He can’t stomach food so he eats little and as he eats less and less he becomes frailer and as he gets frailer he becomes weaker, and so on. Once I had to go and see if he was alright in the toilet – he was, but this is the reality now. Now he is in bed again, where he intends to stay all tomorrow also.

There is something horrible about all this, but I guess we knew that. I feel terrible seeing him like this, truly terrible. I remember how he used to be, remember how on our hunting trips he would be at my shoulder up hill and over dale and through thick scrub, though he was over double my age. I remember the barrel chested man with strong legs who would sit by the campfire on those nights and regale us with tales of trips past. I lapped it up.

He has the most skinny legs now. His face is gaunt. He smiles still, cracks a joke, apologises for the trouble he’s putting me too. I respond in kind. I understand – as my Mum doesn’t – how he must be treated. And so I give him a bit of cheek, I step in to help but only when I’ve got the sign, can you help me Petey? He is proud as I know he is, and know how that must be respected. So I don’t fuss or baby him, I treat him like the man I’ve always admired. It must be hard enough for him to be wheeled around, but there is no alternative now.

People have been great, and somehow that makes it harder – isn’t it always the way?
The wheelchair makes his ill-health obvious, and everyone almost without exception is eager to all they can to make his life easier. It is lovely, and you find yourself feeling a great affection for these perfect strangers who act only from the goodness of their heart.

I feel gutted by all of this but try not to show it, obviously. I know the idea behind this trip was pure, but I think it is too late now, he is too ill. We go through the motions of being interested but our world revolves around his frailty, his health.

I feel embarrassed, ashamed almost at how bad I feel: what right do I to feel so sad? I will go on, long after he has gone. It seems to me my grief is a selfish one, I grieve for myself, for my memories and for all that I will lose with his passing. I am sad for him, I honour his stoicism, I love him deeply still, but I have come to accept his fate as inevitable. He will go, I will remain.

As I say, I try not to show any of that to either my Mum or Fred, though I don’t really know how authentic that is. That’s my way anyway, don’t show it, be the man. Well that's juvenile and I'm over it. For the last fortnight I’ve been carrying around this lead weight in my stomach, you know the feeling. It is always there, the only times it has not been there is when I’ve forgotten myself, last Thursday at the pub, and Saturday at A’s party. Then I bury myself in the oblivion. I figure I’m going to feel this way until the time comes, but I have to find a better way of dealing with it.

I have decided to show more, though not to the folks – I have to be strong for them. I’m through with bottling everything in though, it’s killing me. If someone offered me a helping hand I’d accept it with gratitude, but I would never ask for it. That has to change. I know there are no kudos in appearing strong and tough, that’s a ridiculous notion – yet the habits of a lifetime are hard to change.

The things I have written here I would never say aloud in conversation. I have to open myself. I have to be what I feel, and show it; and I have to be honest with myself. I want to be comforted, I want to be held. I want to allow myself to be weak and know that I am safe.

Vote Jessica

I'm sharing an apartment with the folks, which pretty well also means that I'm sharing their viewing habits. Which explains why I'm writing this now - I've just come from a walk around the block, I can either sit here and write this, go to bed and read (next), or join them in watching 60 Minutes. Not likely.

I did, however, join them earlier in watching Australian Idol. Now Idol is one of those shows I deign to dismiss, probably because it's so popular. All my family watch it, as do most of the people at work as well, so it's hard to avoid - still, I do my darndest. H, after all, is well above such populist pap.

The truth is I secretly like it. Not enough to make it a regular viewing experience maybe, but I always find it entertaining enough when I catch it. And I guess like most people I sometimes find myself inspired by some of the great talent out there, and moved to see these kids dreams coming ever closer to reality. That was certainly the case tonight. I happily watched.

I listened to the first song tonight, Message To My Girl, an old Split Enz song, beautifully performed. As I listened I thought what a brilliant song. I listened to the words that were sung with such clarity and feeling, and I thought, what brilliant, true words. It was heartwarming almost, real. The Finn brothers are great songwriters, Neil particularly so, one of the 4-5 best I would think.

Later there was an old Bee Gees song performed. This performance blew me away. This girl, 16, a mix of koori and Indonesian blood, a happy, delightful girl had a voice like you dream about. It was a big voice for a girl so young, but controlled too, so that as she sung Words the feeling of the song was articulated with such delicacy that the you couldn't help but feel it deep inside you. She's my pick for it all, she's a star waiting to happen.

There you go. You learn something new every day. Might just watch it next week, and hell, who knows, may even dial up and vote...

Withering away

I'm in Perth now, feeling a little frayed around the edges after a big night. The night was so big in fact that I managed to sleep through my flight this morning, and the alarm that was supposed to wake me. I could blame daylight savings starting today, but I'd have missed it even if the put the clocks back. It's an expensive lesson - $419 worth actually, which is what I had to shell out if I wanted to get here.

There's been a few lessons lately. I learned today - though I could have guessed it - that it's not really a comfortable experience flying while hungover. In much the same way I discovered the less than ideal preparation for the VBA course I had on Friday was to get absolutely smashed the night before. VBA is enough to do your head in at any time, doubly so when your head throbs and the instructor speaks a tortured version of English. I guess the other lesson is that you should never schedule a flight so early on a weekend - unfortunately I didn't make booking.

The flight was interesting in one way. I wasn't feeling particularly social, and kept to myself mainly listening to my music, and later watching the in-flight movie. This is where the odd thing happened - I seem to be writing that a lot lately. Anyway I'm sitting there and all of a sudden I start to cry. I guess heading to Perth has released some feelings I hadn't dared to express, until now. And so I fill up, my eyes glisten, a couple of small tears gather at the corners, and then I recover myself, no big deal. But then 5 minutes later it happens again. And then half an hour later when in the movie I'm watching the father dies (can you believe it?) it happens again.

Now I'm here. Fred is in bed where he has been all day - it was a horror flight yesterday. Mum is upset, and here I am. While he endlessly sleeps Mum talks to me, talks to me about the funeral arrangements, about how the situation seems to have so rapidly declined, about memories, while I listen and say little. Sometimes she cries to, as is natural. And I think how insidious this thing is. Everyone has to die, but this is a bad way, bad for all. There is nothing quick about this, nothing clean, it's a kind of torture that taunts all of us. Every day the moment comes closer, each day he is a little worse, he withers away before our very eyes. And for all of us watching this and loving him that's all we can do, only watch, feeling things slowly come apart.

Heading west

I'm off tomorrow to Perth with the folks, spend a few days there and then return on the Indian Pacific via the Nullarbor plain. This is the little trip we planned a couple of months ago as a sort of last journey with Fred. I don't want things to fade away with him, I wanted to spend some good time with and add to the memories we have. Hopefully somewhere along the way we have a heart to heart. I'm not sure what to expect though. He has declined significantly just in the last few weeks. My Mum is openly dubious about his ability to do much on this trip. He has about an hours worth of energy every day, once he was near 100 kg's, now he's under 70. I guess if you have to take any trip in that condition this is the one. Train travel is pretty comfy, doubly so for them since they scored a stateroom, the only one on the train.

We're on the train for three days, travelling through some of the most remarkable lanscapes in the world. Still, I don't know if that's going to keep me occupied. I'll take a few books, my iPod, naturally, with the speakers to go with it, and my laptop. I'll do a bit of writing, and I have a number of other projects I wouldn't mind getting a start on. This seems an opportune occasion.

Don't know if I'll be able to post here. Expect I'll get some internet access, but perhaps not on the empty expanse of the Nullarbor. I guess I do or I don't, you'll know.

That's about it. I'm off to a party tonight, A's birthday actually. It's a fake tan party so I've been in the strange circumstance of oranging up and then standing around with my shirt off waiting for it to dry. To complicate matters it's actually quite a cold day - I wore both jacket and beanie earlier. Given the theme I was going to go as a surfie - not a huge leap for me. T-shirt, boardies, thongs and beads, leave the surfboard home. Then I figured if I went like that I'd have these very orange goose-bumps on display. And so I considered going as a snowboarder, complete with goggles, but nah, that's boring. I'm going as the surfie, I'll risk the cold.

That's the deal. If not before I'll catch you in a week. Take care.

Opening doors

Interesting things the last few days, and an interesting night on Thursday, but I'm not sure I can be bothered writing about it now. Maybe later, maybe not, maybe we'll just let it disappear into the past.

Worth noting is that knocked back that job on Thursday afternoon. It gave me some angst, I tell ya, but it didn't feel right and so was not such a hard decision in the end.

Funny how the world works. I make that decision on Thursday and then rock into work around lunchtime on Friday (had been at a course in the city). My boss takes me aside. I've been at the joint about 5 months and supposed to have some kind of review, and we'd been talking about it in the previous days. Anyway he tells me that he and the CFO have been discussing me. This is were it get's murky. I was a little hazy still after the long night before, and we were walking down the street towards a restaurant as we talked, a wild wind whipping at us. Anyway, I believe the gist of all this is that I've basically been promoted. What do you think of that? he asked me. Sounds fine I said, but I guess I was still scratching my head a tad.

Nothing official yet, though he reckons it's definite - effectively I somehow partner up with the CIO to be appointed. I can't believe that I was so non compos that I never asked the questions I should have asked - I see him tonight and will rectify that. I think effectively it takes me out of the department - I now overlook the company rather than being a member of one segment of it. I presume that's because I've nagging them about the need for a systems architect - not thinking once that that could be me. I guess there is more dough too, and normally you would think substantially more. This isn't normal though.

Got to say I'm not sure I'm actually qualified for the role, but hey, I've not been qualified for half the things I've done. I guess I'll get by on the usual stuff, experience, a cool head and some inspired guesswork. It all seems pretty strange to me, but my head was pretty well swimming most of yesterday. Perhaps I imagined it all? I'm on holiday for this next week, and I don't know how things are meant to work, or when, and figure it might be a little while yet until there is anything concrete happening. Guess I'll ask that question to - I can be such a dolt sometimes.

Strange how things work though, eh? I knock back one opportunity and another comes my way, and much nicer. Good to have things go like that.

Old dogs

A funny thing happened before, or maybe not so funny, I don’t know.

Seems like the shit’s raining down lately. I saw Fred on Saturday and like every time I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut, and feel like it for days. Then I go to work and there’s more shit there. So basically I can’t escape the shit and after a while I get pissed off at it, though not enough to do any damage. And so I’ve been pissed off pretty well since Saturday.

Anyway I’m making a cake tonight and halfway through realise I haven’t got any cocoa. So I grab my keys and my wallet and head out the door. Halfway down the road I see a dog. It’s an old Bluey, gone grey and plump, waddling along like a pensioner with a dodgy hip replacement. On instinct I call out, “hey old dog”, I say. He stops waddling and ponderously looks back at me. I smile and wave and continue on.

So I buy my stuff and I’m heading back and there is a car blocking the pavement, with a young tough looking type sitting there. What the fuck, I think, and as I do he says something I don’t catch. I walk up to him. “Sorry mate”, he says, “don’t mean to block your way. Cars broke down.” I nod my head, no probs I tell him, and detour around the car.

Near the corner I come across the dog again. He’s come back the way he was going, and as I approach looks up with interest, sniffing at the bag as I go by. “Seeya old dog,” I tell him.

And suddenly I’m good. The shit’s gone. I don’t feel pissed off. Maybe I’m an old dog that can learn new tricks – like letting go.

Here or there

I went ahead and had an interview this afternoon for the job I mentioned the other day. I rocked up in my work clobber - that is jeans and t-shirt - as I had warned them I would. They sat me down and looked at me across the shiny wooden table, neat and professional and with finely honed questions. They gave me a glass of water, the usual quiz about my interesting looking CV and then got into the more hard core stuff.

Attitude counts for a lot in these situations. I’ve been in interviews when I’ve felt reduced to the dimensions of the few pieces of A4 paper containing my work history. I don’t like that. Perhaps it was the clothes or the man I am today, but I threw out a lot more than that. Basically they had to convince me why I should take the job – go on boys, give it your best shot. That was the vibe. I answered their questions and swatted them right back at them.

What’s the verdict? None as yet. The money is handy and I reckon I could squeeze a few extra grand out of them. I’d be properly resourced too, and that might be nice.

I don’t think I’ll do it though. It’s ridiculous, but maybe it’s not. I could use the money, but the reality is that I’d feel like I was abandoning the team if I left now. I’m not that sort of guy. And I’ve got things to do, good things – and getting them done on the smell of an oily rag has its own appeal. Friday is the day, think it will be thumbs down.

On the way home from the interview I got to thinking about a conversation I had with my boss last week – I hate saying ‘my boss’, though I guess he is (to be fair he gives me a free hand). Anyway, we’re talking about where we’ll be in 5 years. I posited that I’d probably be back consulting again, freelance. I’d have utilised all my experience into some kind of management consulting gig, charging a relative mint. That’s no great leap. Recently we had an outside consultant come in who charged $3,000 a day. I’d be happy on half of that, maybe. J suggested I should try business coaching, and that’s an option to. It was good to consider. Here I am, one day I’ll be somewhere else, and chances are it’ll be a pretty comfortable place.

I defy anyone to tell me that money means nothing – that’s crap. Money buys the two most precious things in the world to me – time and space. I want to do things, achieve things, and I’m not going to do that on the basic wage. I need the freedom and comfort to go my own way without fear. That’s where I’m headed, that’s what I want.

Pathetic but endearing

I went to watch Lost in Translation last night because I was in a Lost in Translation sort of mood, but in some unfortunate way the DVD was missing from its case, so I watched High Fidelity instead. It sort of fit the mood anyway.

Now the original book of High Fidelity would have to be one of my favourites. It was one of those rare books that made me laugh out loud - or LOL if you prefer (I don't). When the movie came out I was a sceptic in the way you always are when a dearly loved classic finds its way into the hands of a dastardly and philistine Hollywood producer. My fear quotient was doubled when I learned they were relocating it from Camden Town in London to Chicago, Illinois. In some way it seemed so quintessentially English - and so by extension somewhat Australian (we may flog the Poms at most sports but we do have much in common) that I couldn't possibly imagine it in an American setting.

As it turned out the movie was actually quite good - so good, in fact, that I ended up owning a copy of it. One of the things that made it work was the casting - there is no better American actor for this role than John Cusack, who has a flawed everyman quality to him - by that I mean most of us blokes can relate to him, and reckon we could happily go a night on the piss with him. He's one of my favourite second tier actors going around (others: Bill Murray, of course, Christopher Walken, um, that's all I can think of. Can't think of any first tier actors).

I reckon I've seen the movie about 4-5 times, and read the book twice, with a third reading pending. The movie is good, but the book is a classic. What makes it so good? It captures almost exactly a particular male zeitgeist. Look, not every bloke will get it, but most will because the central themes are almost universal. For me I get every bit of it - from the list making, to the fanatical passion for music even at its most obscure, to, of course, the relations with women. He nails it there, for me anyway.

I have a particular view about the book certainly, and by extension the movie also. It's my thesis that much can be learnt about the male psyche by a close reading of a few crucial movies.

Certainly for guys of my generation The Godfather would have to be one of them - if memory serves there is actually something in the book of High Fidelity about this very fact. The Godfather is a seminal movie for many men, and there are few men of my vintage who have not at some point done their own Marlon Brando-with-cheeks-stuffed-with-cotton-wool imitation. There is something about this series of very great movies that men respond to. On a superficial level you could claim it was because of the violence, and the arcane detail shown on the Mafia. I might argue it is because of the particular code on display - it may be kinda warped and a tad violent at times, but it's powerful.

The second movie would be When Harry Met Sally. This articulated quite famously a question men have been scratching their head over since Eve handed Adam a Johnny Smith: can men and women be just friends? Or does sex get in the way? I always said no. I agreed that the sex thing was something you couldn't ignore. Fact of the matter is there are few women you get friendly with that you're not going to at least wonder about at some stage. Sex is awkward, let me tell you. As it happens I now have a number of female friends, some of which I've never had 'relations' with. I've mellowed a little, and no longer have the burning desire to jump every woman I meet, and so I might add a sub-clause to this finding: it is possible for men and women to be just friends under particular circumstances.

The other notable moment in this movie is the fake orgasm scene. It was the scene that convinced many men that maybe women could fake orgasms. Just not with them.

The last movie of course is High Fidelity, which sort of shows up men in their boyishly pathetic but endearing mode. You could tick off a million things in this. Music is the obvious one, but it could easily be sport/cars/books or a combination of these and many others. Basically it is obscure obsession - and we all have those, all have those unusual passions we could rattle on about for hours to some poor sod. Then there are lists. I don't know if you actually have to make a list to be a listmaker. I've made a few lists, but a lot more are in my head and in constant revision. It's what half the conversations down the pub are about. Adding to all this are the women bits: the obsession with sex, of any ilk; the need to categorise and rationalise; the deep despair and jealousy: "have you done it?"

There are probably a dozen more movies that fit just as well, these are just off the top of me head: my list of the 3 movies that reveal most about men.