still learning

I've been learning again without earning.

Some of my teeth are fixed and I have to re-learn blogging all over again.

It's taken some time to get into this page.

There's still always so much to learn.

hello

What can I say?

I keep on with my writings.

I am still trying to sort the materials that were chucked around by contemptuous people

I am still reaching for livelihood.

I am still reaching amongst my trashed paper work for taxation details because I did a lot of part time work & by god I was always so happy to pay tax.

Jeepers, the cowards who didn't want to pay tax or even pay for or acknowledge my work, they lied and said I didn't pay rent.

It was them that didn't pay.

I guess I have got over the anger but not the contempt.

Please, anyone who will help me earn again, I've had some dentals fixed.

I am better acquainted with net communications thanx to face book, but am still in serious legal and medical troubles.

Anyway. The new dental infection is a bother but its not so bad as some I had and those infections would have been treated way back when were it not for things I already complained about herein.

In terms of sorting the paperwork thrown about willy nilly by a loony flat mate, in terms of some pretty good writing I keep finding amongst the debris, I still feel that I have much to offer.

Living Water

This blog was deleted by a small cat hoping for some lap time...


No point in getting upset, it was going to need much correcting anyway (Sigh!)

All These Doings!

The camera broke, the computer broke, I fell and hit my head.

I have a new camera, the computer is fixed and there's now a new scar on my forehead.

The Computer Part (Now Replaced)

Not much I can do about my head except to keep on going to the dentist. Hurting my head while already in distress from the dental work made the dental pain seem less. I'm taking a lot of pictures with a newer faster camera and it's really quite wondrous.

I have shelves of journals and essays and my book is all but finished although the agent who first said she'd take me on, changed her mind.

I don't want to self publish. I want to be published and promoted.

I want my book to introduce my areas of study, my essays and so on.

A friend has offered me advertising space.

I wondered if I should nominate favourite charities.

He already decided what he wants to promote, which is my book!

Well, I guess I can begin to blog it, or better, get a website. It's not enclosed by covers yet, this tale of my first few decades.

I don't have a garage full of unsold books, thankfully.

The book is sitting on my old computer and I may as well do what I imagined doing eleven years ago before The Tribunal Trouble impacted so fearfully.

(Thanks guys for ruining my teeth!)

I checked my journal from 1998. In it, I'm frantically running around trying to find paid work. Whatever was happening with the Tribunals stuff, I wished to avoid at all costs and decided that I must at least find part time work and get old projects going as well.

In the midst of chasing contacts, re-contacting former colleagues and Useful Types, I suddenly remembered a dream I'd had some time before.

I dreamed I was holding my first  book in my hand & I could see its cover.

 (No, I'm not going to give away the design!)

In the dream, letters were coming from both the writers who influence me and from new friends.

So I applied for an Australia Council Literary Grant.

(No I didn't get it. You have to be better at lobbying than I am, apparently.)

I recently found out all about this stuff when I read my journal from the early months of 1998.

So, remembering this and tremendously weakened by the most recent traumatic decade, I've decided to introduce my pre Tribunal self to this blog!!!!! (I will change some names, not all.)

I am another person under the piles of lies via which various bullies provided me with disaster, ah, yes! Furthermore there still is a being I insist I am, whatever cliches may be imagined. First of all, I must confess thyat in terms of my disabilities, I'm not at my best when acute stress appears!

Today, at the Pub across the road to gather my thoughts, I've now read the local Sunday Magazines. The first recommended Acupressure, Acupuncture and Diet as a good means of dealing with hay fever.

I got penalised for choosing Acupuncture and etc to help my heath and maybe bring me closer to a career and all I can say is, why didn't They choose Ita Buttrose who apparently feels similarly to myself while not having survived the kinds of traumas I've survived.

Well, the reason I got into trouble was because my previous Doctor had scared me so much that in terms of dealing with a dental crisis which had been solved by a decent dentist and in terms of a stressful situation where no hard work was recognised or had attracted payment, I began to have regular acupuncture initially with her encouragement. Accidentally, I thought that meant she was open minded. After all the acupuncturist practiced within her clinic.

If I was stressed and if I was in the jitters or if depression threatened, I was able to step out from those treatments and resume my battles which included threatened homelessness and increased poverty as well as an atmosphere wherein I was trying to step back from bullies and exploiters.

I was happy when The Dept of Social Security accepted my Acupuncture Medical Certificates.

My Acupuncture treatments were sometimes a couple of hours in duration as opposed to the quarter hour sessions with the Ex Doctor which involved her refusal to believe that my mobility was already impaired, that I had dental problems (talk of an abscess whose symptoms were reduced by Acupuncture while I tried to round up money to pay a decent dentist(!),  and most amazingly, harangued me about how I was sort of useless and thus this meant that I should be taking antidepressants.)

This bitch even presumed to lecture me about the work I was already doing and when I said I had good reason to be sad (my sister had died, all the great jobs I'd walked into in the eighties had dried up and the behaviour of my flatmate was becoming threatening), she refused to believe my statement that I knew I wasn't clinically depressed.

I'd been clinically depressed in my teens and twenties before I found Acupuncture and therefore I Knew. I knew and I know even now when I spoke to that ignorant person that I just lacked and still lack the
self hatred intrinsic to depression.

Then the change of Government. I went to a Social Security Tribunal at the demand of a

'"Welfare Rights" Lawyer'.

Initially, I said No most definately. I wanted to be off the Dole, and OK, I'd borrowed money to pay rent,  but there was money in the offing and I knew it was coming and was willing to force the income thing. It was good, Arts Lawyers were helping me with a very juicy project which I'd inadvertantly blown before the abscess time, and I was despite the storm clouds feeling much better and very motivated.

Well that Spiv of a Welfare Lawyer kept at me and eventually I went to the Tribunal and they decided that poverty, lack of assets, eviction and so on were reasonable causes to miss a couple of appointments at that old CES who hadn't found me any job I could have done in all that unexpected time of working and not earning and trying to gather a CV.

They once told me not to do voluntary work but I said I was gathering CV material and extending my range of contacts in the hope of hearing about work. All my past jobs had come through contacts, from people seeing and hearing my work & etc; the jobs I found then were jobs I knew I could do!

I'd had voice work for a short time after that early Nineties Recession, but then that dried up too.

Anyway that Tribunal agreed I was under enough stress to rationally miss appointments, and in truth once we found somewhere to live I was back at the CES begging to learn about the Internet, claiming my previous work in communications and education and yearning to work both part time and from home on account of my disabilities.

Well, the bomb fell as we were moving house, even as the flat mate insisting on smashing up my packing and my stuff before, during and after the move which wasn't much fun anyway.

You know, it really was a last straw when the Department Of Education, Training And Youth Affairs appealed that Social Securities verdict because, as their representative explained, they'd decided that they had to 'make and example' of me as an 'exponent of "alternative" medicine'. Huh?

Well I didn't know about Asperger's back then but I do know now that Acupuncture is very helpful to those who suffer from ADHD type symptoms and it certainly kept me going during the luxurious times when I had regular treatments.

As to missing appointments, well I got my days of the week mixed up twice last week alone and when I had an exhausting full time job way back when, I once travelled the weary miles from The Mountains to The Cross only to find out that it was Saturday and I'd have to go home again.

(Thank Goodness for weekly tickets!)

I love Acupuncture. Ever since I went to the horror dentist as a youngster and probably from some wrong prescriptions and a couple of operations gone horribly wrong, not to mention being a bit of a weakling anyway I just seem to lose my appetite when stressed. Stomach 36 helps in terms of Acupuncture and Bao he Wan helps with the herbal side of things. (All plants, no animal products!)

So there it was, I was being treated as a heretic and condemned to stay on The Dole just because I chose private dentistry over public and Traditional Chinese Medicine over a System which had seriously harmed me in more ways than I feel like describing right now.

OK, tomorrow the Journal from '98 just prior to that AAT business!

I still say Fuckem, I've had enough of idiots. I never expected to be on what they call 'Benefits' anyway except I am disabled and came across too many liars in my time. Huh!!!

spring

It's been so much warmer this time of year than I remember.

Not much news. My camera is broken.

I became very ill from another dental infection.

My dentist was away. My writing diminished.

I had an extraction last week.

I still feel awful. Less pain. Longer days.

Still studying Acupuncture and Herbs. I miss the Writer's Group a lot.

I miss being mobile.

I'm grateful for the Asperger's network.

I tried to see my sympathetic doctor about it recently.

It was one day when he's been called away from work.

It's a bit difficult being doctor phobic.

Michael Jackson & Dreams

Time Magazine Cover, March 1984

Someone’s passing can bring out the worst in those gathered round, but when the person is famed and fabulous then a situation develops whereby the best is worshipped while the worst may turn to obsession.

It still feels unreal that Michael Jackson no longer walks, sings and dances upon this earth and the promised concerts exist only in shadows caught by the camera. It’s taken me awhile to begin to write of the mixed feelings, the mixed emotions relating to an artist so startlingly gifted, of an individual so essentially troubled…

Still in considerable shock from the news of his passing, I recently checked, as part of my weekly routine, an Asperger’s Syndrome site. Predictably, it was flooded by messages from distressed fans.

Someone had written that surely Michael Jackson, a talented individual who’d battled misunderstandings and extreme projections most of his life is also an Aspergian. Then followed a tide of agreement. We’d recognised him as one of our own, one uniquely gifted in his own special arena but not terrifically good at many other things and out of depth in a society whose basic presumptions may be malicious.

A large factor in my experience of Asperger’s Syndrome is the grief and alienation I felt as a child, a process leading me to the study of education, psychology and philosophies later on. As I remember, as a-social as I was in the early days of schooling, I was still able to talk my way into the homes of happier people to observe the ways they interacted with their children.

(We didn’t have television then, so unlike Michael, I didn’t learn about human relationships from situation comedies, but rather from what I loathed in feral Australian country towns.)

My childhood feelings regarding the well-being of children as the essential basis of the well-being of society was such that I was sure I would have a career as an educator. Failing that, I would find fame either as an Artist or an Author.

Now that I understand Asperger’s, I also understand why I never survived or coped very well with the politics of school or even the situations of literary or artistic in-groups or even ordinary office environments.

I could work one to one and I had some success with the administration of creative projects, it’s true, but such projects frequently involved folks even more dysfunctional than myself and most of the projects eventually came to grief….

All the same, even in terms of a considerable amount of voluntary and part time work, I continue to study. The development of learning and cognition is still an inspiring topic and research into the cultural variations regarding these theories is as absorbing as ever. For more than three decades, I’ve also studied dreams and various theories and researches relating to dreams.

Obviously, our earliest consciousness is the dream state and I feel that it’s a part of the power of artists to operate in the world of those dream symbols able to communicate far more deeply that the lofty mostly unreachable stratosphere of Pure Reason!

Back in the nineties I had a couple of dreams I thought might be prophetic.

(I must say here that my prophetic dreams are usually pretty banal.  In my own experience, dreams which are realised immediately, such as a dream of a person who I’ve not seen or thought of for a very long time, who’s then encountered unexpectedly the next day is an interesting phenomenon but usually one of no enormous import or significance.)

In my experience, prescient dreams which occur well in advance of an event, those which would probably not be remembered if they were not recorded, represent profound affect and impact.

Entangled in a long term relationship disaster, I was astonished when I re-read my dream books, to discover that I not only had dreamed the circumstances of the future meeting of that partner in sorrow, but his name also occurred in that dream… ten years before that particular disaster commenced.

OK, it’s a reasonably common name, but….

Around that time, I also dreamed that I was desperately searching for my sister who was nowhere to be found. To re-read that dream in a state of grief shortly after her death twelve years later was a shock to say the least. (These days I dream that I forgot she hadn’t died at all and she’ll appear sometimes to offer the pithy advice so much a part of her personality in life. She then always departs before I’m ready to see her go.)

Such dreams occur as if they are a part of strange moving paintings, as if sometimes they are somehow two-dimensional. At other times it’s as if they belong in different universes where inanimate objects may become animated, where animals talk and things change shape and caricature may be the rule.

They are more like crazed cartoons than the everyday world of the waking really.

Every so often my dreams have travelled to the larger world, the world of famous people. Shortly after the marriage of Charles and Diana for example, and long before the media hinted that there was any hint of marital difficulty, I dreamed that the Royal Marriage was unravelling. In this dream the couple were desperate, they couldn’t change a baby’s nappy and there was shit everywhere. In such ways dreams aren’t usually naturalistic. If anything, they’re a looking glass world possibly able to reflect and prophesy certain events symbolically. Sometimes.

Jung believed that The Child in terms of dreaming is an Archetype of The Self, the person or process that has integrated both the shadowy fearful side and their conscious side of an individual. Therefore, after the royal sons were born, I never supposed that there was any neglect about nappy changing, but that there were shadows in the environment which might possibly cause things to get somewhat stinky.

And thus it would be so in the real world.

After writing dreams for so long, it seems to me that they are something of a mish-mash of impression, (a digestive system for the mind or the psyche perhaps).

A component of wishful thinking may also be involved; at other times a caricature may present itself, for example, when in the wake world, the dreamer is behaving foolishly. (This has happened to me and you'll have to believe it because it would be too much of a side-track to particularize here.)

I also believe in the reality of the occasional archetypical dream where profoundly terrifying spiritual insights may be presented. Sometimes a dream simply makes such an impact that one feels that it MUST mean SOMETHING.

OK, it’s also true that in physiological terms, dreams are a part of our ongoing participation in life and in learning. No matter how isolated a person may be, their conscious life is an amalgam of impression and information about their place in the rest of life and in sleep, the impressions are sorted and more or less organized.

In my experience it’s rare that a dream will offer the kinds of dreams that Alison Du Bois  apparently experiences in the television show Medium.

Only once did such dream come to me as if it was a prophecy and it was so vivid that when I eventually watched Medium I was reminded again of the dream.

Two dramatic events appeared that night regarding two very famous people and since then, whenever I saw or heard about those characters who were the subject of that particular dream, I’ve wondered if the dream events would turn out to be prophetic.

(For a time, as a devoted and rational student of the irrational, I was tempted to consult with the Rationalist Society to compete for the prize they put up for anyone who can prove the irrational… an irrational procedure in itself since all one has to do to prove the irrational is to look at the tabloid press!!!)

The first part of the dream involved the assassination of a very popular public figure who, as far as I know, remains safe and well. I hope that he continues that way for a very long time. The second part of the dream caused me a lot of grief in my sleeping world and yet with this dream there was also somehow no surprise.

I dreamed that Michael Jackson committed suicide.

There seemed to be something fearfully logical in such a dream when Michael had already embarked on that disfiguring plastic surgery so surprising for such a naturally charismatically beautiful young man.

I always found his immense talent absolutely mesmerising and while I couldn’t count myself as one of the many millions of Number One Fans, I  always followed stories about him and noted and enjoyed his new music and was as awed as everyone by his astounding performances.

My first insight into the troubled reality of his origins had come with a sketch he drew of himself as a child.

I’m surprised this drawing hasn’t re-emerged recently as the media trawls through all its opinions and discussions of the man’s life and death. In those days I'd tried to save it for a scrap-book but then became so overwhelmed by all the material I collected I couldn’t organize even a fraction of it for the said Scrap Book project. (How much easier it is to keep scrap-book information and pictures with a computer these days!)

The sketch showed a small and frightened child huddled in a corner with such an expression of sorrow and isolation on his face! It was not only moving, it was in itself a brilliant self-portrait, and one showing a powerful awareness of the artist’s own childish physical presence…. but the posture of the child, the facial expression and the body language wrung my heart!

Joe Jackson may have decided that the most rational thing to do in young Michael’s case was to toughen him up, to force him to learn to deal with the slings and arrows associated with celebrity and to provide a harsh crucible for that amazing talent to emerge.

Joe Jackson may have succeeded in everything he tried to do as his son became beloved the world over as ‘The King Of Pop’, but those actions didn’t help the self esteem of a talented sensitive child.

So Michael’s brothers teased him about his wide nose.

The first nose job was therefore understandable, but the child in him sought a more idealised beauty. The suggestion that he tried to look like Diana Ross is a little bizarre since Diana Ross is a beautiful black woman and the nose the poor boy chose for himself was very Euro. The report that Michael went for the surgery because he wanted to look as little like his father as possible makes some sense, but the eventual nose, the chin and the shape of the face he paid so much to create was closely similar to that of one of his beloved friends, Brooke Shields.

Brooke had stunned New York with her beauty around the time that Michael was first running around New York, performing as the clown in The Wiz.

Of his first meeting with Michael in February 1977, Andy Warhol recorded,

“Went home and did some work, then at 11.00, Catherine… [Guinness]… and I went over to interview Michael Jackson of the Jackson 5. He’s very tall now, but he has a really high voice. He had a big guy with him, maybe a body guard, and the girl from The Wiz. The whole situation was funny because Catherine and I didn’t know anything about Michael Jackson, really, and he didn’t know anything about me – he thought I was a poet or something like that. So he was asking questions that nobody who knew me would ask – like if I was married, if I had any kids, if my mother was alive.... I told him, “She’s in a home.”……

We tried to get Michael to dance and at first he wouldn’t but then he and the girl from The Wiz got up and did one dance….”

(Andy Warhol of course is the artist who later painted the portrait of Michael for Time shown above.)

It shows a development of the shy kid who only knew about reality through television soap operas. It's a portrait of a person who was by then arresting, fascinating and awesomely talented. I’d be curious to read the actual interview conducted by the person Michael assumed to belong to the kind of soap opera family he never really succeeded in finding.

The debonair Fred Astaire later commented that he thought that Michael’s dancing was aggressive. I suppose Michael did channel an aggressive persona in Bad, but to me and to his millions of fans it seemed that his dancing was simply magnetically sexy.

After all, the era of smooth expensive cheek to cheek elegance wasn’t exactly cutting edge movement by the time that Michael’s Jackson’s video clips rocketed to the top of the charts.

Michael’s elegance and gravity defying talent was to me like a living dream, and an enrichment of people’s psychological life.

And eventually, for all his amazing success, for the new spin he brought to music, dance and super stardom, he was insomniac. And like Elvis, his ancestral Father in Law as it were, he refused il-legal drugs.

(Unlike Elvis, Michael didn’t go so far as to apply to The President for a Sheriff’s badge in order to arrest illegal drug users, but like Elvis, he entered a similar twilight world of prescription medications.)

It’s clear from the constant rehashing of the accusations of hanky panky and the subsequent ordeal causing him to leave his Neverland behind that Michael probably never recovered even a basic psychological equilibrium after the traumas of the examination and of the trial.

The truth is that many children today, thanks to the processes of Media and Culture aren’t innocent and the evidence showed that it was a set up. The kid simply guessed Michael's private bodily characteristics and the whole thing was as bad a nightmare as the old dramas of his own childhood according to those closest to the man.

So Michael was wise after that to pay primary attention to his own children.

Seeing his kids with Michael's family at the funeral and hearing daughter Paris speak of her father, my daughter commented,

“That man was NOT an abuser!"

I agreed. In fact, I never believed that he was because although he was naïve in terms of certain behaviours, his impulse felt as mine had been, to honour children and their safe lives to the best of one's ability and to treat them with respect and kindness.

So once Michael was into his years of fathering, I'd  already begun to think that my dream of his suicide was like a movie about something unlikely and impossible. No one who loves their children wants anything else but to be there for them as long as possible.

So it seemed and it still seems unbelievable that he died.

He’s joined others who I think of  who mixed too many prescription drugs when they were going through too much and thus took too much from too many doctors…I’m thinking of Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, Heath Ledger, Elvis Presley, my own grievously vanished sister….

Death by the kinds of drugs taken by Michael or any of the drugs these other individuals took obviously don't amount to conscious suicide. Surely all these people and the many more who’ve died from wrong prescriptions or from being over prescribed had much to live for.

I conclude that the suicide element of my dream reflects a fact in my psyche which is that ever since I was personally prescribed drugs which almost finished me off, after my sister died with an a quantity of drugs in her system which had me very worried, after many such things I’ve seen and experienced, I’m very scared.

I’ve experienced outright aggression from Doctors when I’ve refused some of the drugs my sister took in such good faith. One Doctor in particular released highly dangerous confidential information rather than believe my stories of life long physical weakness, damage from sport injuries and operations gone wrong and the accidents of bad dentistry.

When I eventually told her I’d developed a phobia about Doctors, she hit the roof.

I’m not saying that some of the psychological medications don’t have their place. I certainly wouldn’t advise that certain medications be dropped without expert support.

I guess I’m simply trying to say that in terms of some of the things I’ve seen and experienced, something about some of those medicinal orientations just FEELS like suicide to me.

I pray for the safety and the well being of Michael Jackson's kids.

They had and have a beautiful father.

Michael and Brooke, Brooke and Michael.

Abroad

So one moment Summer is approaching the stuck phase, the dog days, and then suddenly there are wild and serious blazes in places I remembered as exquisite glistening rainforest; sometimes even at the same time as sweet steady rain fell here in Sydney. Saying thus I'm still not caught up with all the weeds that the rain has nourished.

All computing in that time was checking for updates about the weather and the fires, contacting friends, donating, discussing donations, checking the stories in the newspapers.

A few days previous to those mighty flare ups, I'd dreamed of a huge living burning Kali figure who wasn't near me but who was big enough for all to see. She seemed unable to be stopped and everyone who saw her began to throw water at her in containers made from newspaper.

It wasn't that effectual but we had to try something.

Not long before that and then again for a few too many days afterwards, Sydney had binding unshifting heat with those essential doldrums which meant that coolest times were at The Pub.

News of friends and fire stories are slowly filtering through the last couple of storm cooled days.

I was ill from an inner ear infection during the duresses, then the computer required attention.

I thought of blogging continually, took to scrawling ideas in my notebook, the one which was supposed to be about the band. There are some good pieces I think but how to think up a link after a break?

With vertigo from the ear infection and a haze of confusion, it seemed necessary a few weeks ago to begin to sort books.

Three shelves only have I now sorted. Towers are emerging up and down the hall. There are new books and new categories. During the homeless time I wrote more than I read. In reading more than writing these days, I find I'm dreaming short stories and wake up from a different movie each morning with transforming screen plays busily humming away in the background just out of hearing.

The young Neil Simon, after being taken to his first movie in the Thirties, awoke the next morning to tell his mother he could also watch movies in his sleep. I like his book Re-Writes very much in the same kind of way as I like to read about New York and Broadway.

Several years and a few other lifetimes ago, before domestic hurricanes blew things about, my books  where basically usually where I knew they'd be. Admittedly,  locations travelled through varying fans and small towers as the processes of research and study progressed. I was very distressed when this and all the basic literary memories were hurled about.

It led to just about everything I could think of breaking down.

I'm renting a nice place here and I can't help noticing that it's sometimes looked at with jealous eyes by some of those who are suffering from Sydney's Rental Crisis.

Angelic protection would be appreciated in present times because I sure don't want to move until I've got some work and mobility issues sorted (and some of those old time messes). I don't want to move until one or more of my own already written books have been picked up.

The best thing about this place, apart from a certain gracious beauty, is reuniting with my things out of storage.

I'd been worried during the homeless years because there was evidence the storage places were being pilfered.  In the small and dreary cheap cells I inhabited in those times I basically managed to keep close to me several favourite research texts, tomes I hoped would balance inspiration and dread in the writer in me as well as a selection of cook,  herb, gardening books and so on. I also had a pile of old journals and notebooks including dream books.

I didn't much appreciate the strange file dropped on me at great cost by Federal Education and the sharks who moved among the remains of the old CES!

Even during the homeless era, my library was enlarged by friend Mike Noonan who lent and gave and borrowed, my daughter of course, some fabulous library sales, the occasional cheap book shop and the Please Help Yourself boxes which appear on the street when folks change their abodes.

Today, resting after overdoing things yesterday and lately, I read Karen Stolz's book, The World Of Pies. Most satisfying though purists would be surprised by the Texan dietary input. Recipes are included.

I've read a fair bit during the time offline (not much else to do in the doldrums of interrupted dentals and even less on TV mostly!)

 I was loaned the latest Terry Pratchett, more memoirs and some great music books.

Music wise, it seems as if we can now put together many more details of the never ending saga of Rock Icon back-stage gossip thanks to writers such as Tony Bramwell and Ian McLagan. Some of these people, Marianne Faithful and dear old Mac, you are surprised they remember anything at all!

Books take me to places I'm interested in. Isobelle Allende recently took me through San Francisco and a lot of Chile. These's also a lot of LA in the music books, which was also an interesting place in the first chunk of the Twentieth Century (as recalled by David Niven).

Elizabeth Taylor's biography was surprising. Broad Aboard.

It's an escapist world maybe, but it's work, it's history it feeds the writing and if one can't get about, at least there are other ways of travelling.

After launching this post with atmospheres, updates and various writerly subjects, I must include the News To Hand, which is that there's been an atmosphere of some Disquiet at Number Twenty as Flat Two lies vacant before the ravening hordes!

My three sorted shelves which I just photographed, I hope will initiate some functionalism but I still feel a bit inadequate.

Jeremy and Brendan, happily bookish, moved yesterday to a place where they can fit more books and music.

Neighbour Ron moved a coupla weeks ago and two girls have moved in to his place.

I shall ring the agent. I need someone quiet and considerate. I have to do my work here, see my clients, get the tutoring happening again and a few more publications etc, some entertainment...

( I just scored a client interested in publicity ideas recently!!)

There's a part time job I'm after, a bridge I hope. There's more serious dentals down the track and my appointments are already stretched, I believe because I'm a Medicare type.

Ah, Phooey about some of it.

I have to sort photographs and get my new scanner working. Both and All.