Everything comes down to this...

 ("Sunset & Twilight: Art made with Lasers & Maths: Epilogue Part 2" & "The Resurrection Deluge Part 5" & "Metacursion II")

Musical accompaniment (convergent song title only partially coincidental):
Gary Numan - Everything Comes Down To This 

The night before Becky came round, at one minute to midnight, Scott dropped me at my new not-yet-feeling-like-home apartment. I set up the litter tray (which was used immediately) and laid out some food (which was immediately nom'd) for Beckett, emptied my backpack and hit the pavement heading through Braddon for Coles. Sandra had stocked the fridge and cupboard with thoughtful supplies, but I needed... I wasn't sure what else, and wouldn't until I browsed the aisles, but mostly needed to get out and feel the city under my shoes. I was shaking just slightly when I boarded Qantas 737-800 'Bungendore', exhausted and drained after cutting the last part of my departure so close I was surprised the next day when I still needed to shave. 

As I plodded, stumbled even, down Lonsdale St I felt my fatigue, fading, falling through the veil of my world, a blanket of despair through which somehow I kept walking. 

"I live here now. I'm home," I thought, "and now I can never go home. Where the fuck am I? What the fuck have I done?" 

Throughout last year's trips back and forth, I'd taken strange solace in existing in both places but living in neither. Wherever I was I wanted to be in the other, wherever I went I was Going Home. My inability to find comfort became excusable because comfort was always on the other side of the looking glass. Now my super-position was collapsing, and as the world around me began condensing into something concrete and Real, it felt like I myself was becoming less so. 

As the terror took hold and the tears rolled invisibly behind my face I convinced myself that I really just needed to eat something substantial and drink a bunch of water, and walked on. 

I went to work the next day, and through the motions. It wasn't a productive day, but was never expected to have been. I pinged Penpal, feeling that a switch to SMS was acceptable, and confirmed that the Presentation was still on (it was), and skived off early to run some errands on the way home. The painter needed paying, and had discounted a good 20% for cash which needed acquiring. I needed pillows (the one I'd brought in my luggage got me through the first night, but too much longer and my neck would begin to protest) for a start, a better solution for Beckett's litter tray than a cardboard box was required, and now the cheese-and-crackers comfort food I'd picked up the night before were to be the evening's hospitality platter, the lack of a chopping board (or knife) was going to be a problem. 

Arriving back with a heavy backpack, and two heavy latex pillow under my arms I met Painter Jack out front of the building and handed over his shiny ducats, thanked him for the good work, ran around replacing now-stinky litter box, high-speed tidied to make the place presentable, and realised something was missing. For starters, I only had the one bottle of wine (and the dessert wine, but that barely counts) and no idea if she liked red. A backup would be good (after all, whatever doesn't get drunk that night I'd go through later), but something else was missing - the cheese plate felt incomplete, needed some light sweetness to offset the rest. 

Apples. 

Shit. 

Upending my pack and shouldering it again, I dropped through the a-little-bit-fancy bottle shop on Lonsdale St, bent the shopkeep's ear a bit and left with a locally-made Barbera (somewhat esoteric in Australia because there are few climates which suit it and I'd only ever come across it once because my winery-client happens to grow it, but it's a light, bright, fruit-driven red which would go perfectly with what I'd prepared) and a lightly-oaked Chardonnay for the white-option. I haven't had an excuse to play my wine-wanker card in longer than I could remember, and I left Blackhearts & Sparrows with something of a spring in my step. Leaving Coles for the 3rd time in two days I cranked back to the flat again, rapid-fire setup up the Friday photo I'd been planning since December: 

(which caused me to receive a confused/concerned ping from Sandra: 

Because that was the first of two reveals I had planned for tonight and I'd be damned if I wasn't going to squeeze them both in. 

Out of the bathroom, into a clean shirt, and no longer smelling like I'd power-walked a good 6km with a heavy pack, I started preparing the cheese-board as the seconds ticked down. 

A few weeks ago I'd sent Becky an email ("Ricky..." Mon, 27 Feb, 03:20) which, after two weeks she hadn't responded to. She usually replies within a week and a half, generally on a Monday morning, so this was out of character enough that I sent out an "R U OK?" follow-up ("Heartbeat check" Mon, 6 Mar, 20:49). I hadn't told her that I had my landing date booked yet, and *really* wanted to, but had reached my self-imposed "don't spam the poor girl" limit, so I broke my own rules and included it in the message. In one of the flurry of responses she mentioned how pleased she'd been to be invited to "an actual grown-up event" ("Resurrection" Thu, 16 Mar, 14:16), and as I cut up Truffled Brie, Wensleydale-mixed-with-Cranberries, and fresh green apples I found myself existentially satisfied with how nicely this complemented the concept; because what could be more pleasantly "grown-up" than warming my new apartment with some nice wine and cheese? 

I'd just finished applying a bandaid to where I'd stabbed my hand, so my heart didn't quite leap when my phone pinged to say she'd arrived, but I was still relieved that I'd cleaned the blood up (and not got it all over the sliced apple) when I ushered her in to meet Beckett and my pretty blue wall. 

Although it did sing just quietly when she squee'd over the view, which we sat down to enjoy, drinking good wine from shitty high-ball glasses, burying ourselves in conversation which flowed deep, rich, and smooth like honey over glass; the moment I greeted her at the door on Mort St it didn't seem so much to 'start' as 'continue'. It seems impossible to be this comfortable with someone you've laid eyes on precisely twice before; it's as if we shared a past-lifetime in each other's company, have only just found each other again now half-way through our next, and are just catching up on the things we missed. 

You'd think that in the three months I'd been ticking along with my Art Project I'd have come up with a stylishly elaborate method of doing The Reveal, but moving into this little apartment the day before defeated me. There was nothing I could come up with which wasn't going to give it away from the start, so I'd decided to go with simple and just hid them in the wardrobe of my room so that with everyone comfortably settled in I pulled the trigger by gesturing towards the Telstra Tower and saying "OK, do me a favour and keep looking that way," before ducking inside and coming out with Sunset, leaning it against the balustrade angled (I hoped) so she could see herself in it. 

If she'd been anxious up until that point she'd hidden it well, but to describe her reaction... 

Well she didn't hurl it off the balcony (2-3% probability). 

And she didn't respond with a "Well... that's nice?" (2-5% probability). 

But... 

If you've ever seen a water balloon popping in slow motion, you might have an idea; a cascade of reactions which happen so quickly they're almost simultaneous. 

The tension on the rubber causes it to snap back on itself along the surface of the water no-longer-contained by it. 

During this process, the water's surface tension holds most of the way through, but the violence of the balloon's retreat tears droplets away from the main body, flinging them perpendicular to the angle of the rubber's retraction; to wit, spraying outwards. 

The main ball of water, now subject to both gravity and air pressure, shatters as it falls in a gushing splash. 

Or one might say: 'sploosh'. 

So I got to watch her face contort as she tried to process a paragraph's worth of thoughts and emotions simultaneously. 

Words like "what", "but", "WHAT", "how...", "oh", and "wow" pinging off in all directions. 

Gradually she put her thoughts in order, and a wave of warm, glowing second-hand amazement washed over me. 

Through all this, I just sat there and grinned. 

As she started getting her oscillations under control, but before she could quite get her feet under herself, I told her to "keep looking that way" again, darted back inside to get Twilight, grab my phone and, after a month of waiting, finally got to hit "Send". Placing Twilight down next to Sunset I got to watch the whole process again twice as fast, and with twice the magnitude. 

Once again, I sat, grinned, and waited. 

"There's more tho." 

"Huh...?"

"Check your email."

"Wha... now?"

"Yeah. Now." 

"But... what the... how???" 

"Magic."

I asked her to read it, and read it now - I'd wondered whether she might take the opportunity to have me read it to her (33-49% probability); actually hear one of my emails in my own voice, but she buried her head into it quicker than a 6yo left unattended near a chocolate fountain, and devoured it just as greedily; the speed she read it was ferocious - so quick I couldn't keep up (my eyes can't focus quickly, and I only skim when I'm looking for something. Speed reading is something I can only do in quick bursts and it exhausts me; I can see keywords, or detail, but not both at the same time) I completely missed the mark where I'd planned to hand her my laptop to coincide with the suggestion to "switch to a larger screen" and caught it far too late to score that particular point. I hadn't considered this delivery method when I wrote that - I hadn't even expected to be here to deliver it. It was going to be something I sent once I knew the mirror had been delivered or handed over (if I used a proxy). 

Far-too-quickly she handed me back my laptop and picked up Sunset to look at it more closely. 

Whether because she smashed through it, was overwhelmed by the whole experience, or was just too subtle (I hadn't noticed it myself until the 3rd editing read, and I wrote the fucking thing), she missed the final twist (20-40% probability). I zoomed in on the last paragraph and had her re-read it, then prompted "now look in the mirror", then watched as, reflected in Sunset, the sun came out and lit up my balcony. After months of planning, construction, thousands and thousands of words, running around, and only barely scraping things together in time, I made a pretty girl smile at herself in the mirror. 

Finally my Project had created Art, and the clock struck midnight. 

Becky hugged Sunset for a long time after that. As if it was something magical, ethereal, which would evaporate or somehow disappear if she lost contact with it. 

I wonder, now, what she was thinking. I was too caught up in relief that it had gone so well. I suspect that if I'd asked at the time the answer would have amounted to "Glow," but now there's been time to settle and for the thoughts to coalesce it occurs to me that I should ask her. On the plus side, now that I'm so much closer the opportunity shouldn't be too far away. Likewise, opportunities to make her smile; as epically entertaining as "Sunset & Twilight" has been, I do rather hope it doesn't always take this much fucking effort. 

Although every once in a while...

But now the Pete-pocalypse Clock is moving into unfamiliar territory. That moment was the culmination of everything I had in the pipeline. It isn't to say that there was nothing but a balcony swan-dive in my future, just that with how much strain the move has placed me under I just haven't had space for "next". There is, nonetheless, plenty to do. 

Moving back to The 'berra has been all about creating space; removing the clutter, junk and weeds so that there's room for something new to grow. It isn't about who I want to be - when I came here first, half-a-lifetime ago, all I wanted was to not be who I was. Now I've seen what I CAN be; this time is about creating the freedom and space to be The Best Me. Not Peak-Pete, but Pete-fected, Pete-volution; 

Pete-surection. 

I died, I think, a long time ago. Two and a quarter years in limbo waiting to find a way to be reborn, for a life into which I could resurrect. 

Before she left, Becky put Sunset down facing Twilight, creating the infinite hallway effect. I'd just been saying that if I'd PLANNED to have two I'd have put the words on opposite sides, mirroring-the-mirrors. In that moment she showed me how I'd been wrong - I'd never actually tried facing them towards each other. I had, after all, had them in my possession for only a couple of cumulative hours, but it stuck me as almost shameful that after all I'd thought and planned, I'd never considered doing that. 

I looked into the mirrors and saw the words reflected back and forth into infinity, saw the unplanned perfection that to her was inherent; it took her to show me what I'd missed. 

Looking over as she takes the first hesitant steps towards a resurrection of her own ("Resurrection" Thu, 16 Mar, 14:16) I'm starting to suspect that despite her doubts and unbelief, the only way either of us is going to make it through will be with each other's help.  

Even if it means I need to drag her along with me. 

Accept the fall...

 "Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next." 

No musical accompaniment for this one - I don't have anything in mind, but I'm listening to "Happy You're Gone" by Placebo right this second if that helps. 

I slid across the line and onto the plane with no safety margin, no time left, and nothing left in the tank. I cut it so fine my checked luggage weighed in at 22.8kg, and I was 8th-last to board. I originally had 40-50 minutes leeway until I picked up my suitcase and freaked out at how heavy it was, so I lost 10min pulling out some things I can live without for a while, then another 15min having Dave swing past mums place to drop them off. 

The rest I lost when I realised just as we were pulling in to the airport that I'd left my Kobo on the side table in the living room. Dave managed to get home and back whilst I did my bag drop and pre-flight nicotine-fix, handed it to me through the window of his car and I bolted for the gate... after he did a quick bog-lap of the car park to give me my keys back. 

Then I ran. 

From the moment I sat down in my nowhere-near-as-comfortable-as-my-usual seat I've been falling inexorably sideways, sliding over the surface of the globe on a shockwave generated in the space where physics and mechanics meet. Moments like this remind me of an Andy McNab book I read half of once where he talks about parachuting. All the planning of your jump, packing the chute, double- and triple-checking, ends the moment you're in freefall. At that point the only way is down, so stop worrying and get ready for what you need to do when you get to the end. The same goes, in a way, for falls of much smaller distances. If you trip you can flail and struggle on your way down and try to prevent it, or accept the fact that you're falling and focus on what's important; it's not the fall that hurts after all. 

So I had to dump a bunch of things with my mother, but they're mostly boxed up well enough I can call in a courier pickup when she gets back from the trip she's on. 

I'd completely forgotten that one of the power sockets in my (old) bedroom has a damaged mounting and is hanging loose on the wall, but it's safe enough so long as you don't go poking the back of it and I've already called in my Pocket Sparkie. 

I left the place a lot messier than I'd have liked, but I apologised whilst waiting for Dave to get back and will book a cleaner for them. 

I've missed, forgotten, or dropped the ball on a whole lot of odds and ends, but I can't change or prevent any of that now. I have 61min now before I hit the ground, so far better I focus on ensuring it's my shoes which catch and release the pavement with a rapid cadence. 

55 min (I just zoned out staring at the cursor blinking patiently in front of me) and I need to start running again; every step another fall. No point in kicking and screaming, just keep kicking the ground to keep my feet between my face and the pavement until, one way or another, the falling comes to an end. As the Pete-pocalypse draws closer that's all I have room for. Whatever the other side looks like, I'll kick that in the face when I get there. 

Regards, 

Peter. 

Well, fuck...

What day, man. What a fucking day.

Musical accompaniment #1 - yeah, it's Freak Kitchen (because I totally planned it out this way (I did not in any way plan it out this way, but if there's a gift I've gained later in life it's been recognising where there's a flow and going with it (then leaving myself enough wriggle-room when it comes to whether or not I take credit))):

(Hold onto your hat for this one)  Freak Kitchen - The Ranks Of The Terrified

Ricky left a little while ago - she has work tomorrow and yet another bout of sinusitis, so we hung out in the garden rather than venturing further afield. I've sat staring at the city lights across the water so many times I could almost draw it from memory (if I could, in fact, draw), and whatever happens next will have a chance to to do so again. After tomorrow the opportunity to sit in my Emperor-of-the-scrap-heap homage-to-thrift-and-upcycling-writ-in-Jarrah throne-of-the-Wog-King chair is far less certain. It was a goodbye which neatly fit my theme of exeunt-anti-climactic and what-the-fuck-even-is-goodbye?

We were sitting here when her phone pinged with a message from her Strata Nemesis to say that he was resigning from the Council.

Shock was experienced. 

Chairs were fallen out of. 

The email was read out to me (which was a hilarious reversal of our usual roles) and I sat here stunned, before dictating her reply: 
"Resignation accepted. 
Be well, 
R-- A--."
Then I had her message her ally on the Council of Owners, who immediately complied with her request to second it.

I've been consulting on this for years now - mentoring and guiding from the shadows Machiavelli-style as she's navigated his constant barrage of racist, misogynist derision and harassment. Even more gratifyingly, she triggered this without my help; simply followed the patterns, applied what I've taught, and backed this white middle-aged fuckstick into a corner he couldn't claw his way out of. For him to give up like that... was almost depressing, as much as we were elated. We were supposed to defeat, destroy, and demolish him. Having him concede and capitulate like a coward seems comparatively pyrrhic, but a victory is a victory deserving the highest-of-five's, even if was a confusing catharsis we'd not chosen. 

And on this of all days...

We hugged, and I made her promise to come and visit in the depths of winter so we can goth up to the max, then we argued about whether I'd come to her "I FINISHED UNI" Party or her graduation, then we hugged, and I helped load the last cerulean-blue pot I found in my garden into her car, then we hugged some more.
Then she left and I grabbed my laptop. 

What a day. 

Musical accompaniment #2 - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdzokBL0JNM

I had Dan-from-The-Bottlo helping me today - the only help I needed or accepted through all of this. I dropped him off afterwards rather than sending him away on his eScooter because I'd given him so many of my discards he wasn't sure he could carry it all. I'd already given him my desk (I'd told him I'd pay him, and compromised by letting that payment be the desk). The pile grew as we talked, and got a bit silly. When he dropped around on Saturday I gave him the Fletcher Jones suit coat I'd bought when I was 18, which I wore on my first date with Marcia, which was decently older than he is. By the time I dropped him off he had some other nice threads, a rivet gun (and a lesson on how to use it), and my Wahl clippers (he was saying how he really wanted the same haircut as me with the shaved sides.

I asked "Really? I could do that right now." 

He accepted, so I grabbed my clippers and made it happen.
Then I kicked him out of the seat and told him to help me out in kind.
So we cut each other's hair.
How bro-mantic is that???
So I gave him the clippers. I have a cordless set I use more often, and it saved me from trying to juggle the weight). 

We shared the last two cigarettes in my pack and as we binned them I turned to this guy I've known properly for maybe three months, who nicknamed me "The Beer Connoisseur" when he served me at the bottlo and I knew the difference between a Russian Imperial Stout and an Oatmeal Stout, who's literally half-my-age and young-enough-to-be-my-son (but treats me like a mate, not an ersatz-dad), who wanted to hang out because he's only ever been to Bunbury and Perth (which barely count as two separate places in my world), and after three random anecdotes decided that "[I've] been everywhere and tell the most amazing stories," and wanted to hear as many as I could cram into what time we could find (he thinks you're fascinating and would rather like to meet you, just so you know), said "Hey, bring it in, man," and we hugged. Now we're Friends on Facebook because he asked, and why the fuck not; how could I possibly decline? 

What a fucking day. 

We'd taken Beckett to the boarding kennel he's spending tonight in, took my bed and a few other odds and ends to Binky's Studio, and loaded mum's station wagon up with stuff I'm either giving to, or stowing with, her when I realised we'd left some stuff out of both deliveries. Silly things; honey Dave had given me for mum, and the whale-shaped doorstop which Jenna bought from Bunnings forever-and-a-day ago, has held open the dividing-door ever since, and which Binky had grown fond of when she was house-sitting (she told me when I returned after my month in Canberra that she routinely said good-night to it), so I pinged her with an "Oh fuck!". 

So she came out to collect it, and was kind enough to drop mum's stuff off on her doorstep for me. It gave her one more chance to tell me to "Be good, don't do anyone [she] wouldn't do," and get a hug

So we hugged, she managed not to cry, and she fanged away in her hardtop convertible to complete my obligation and grab some fuel from Costco. 

What a day. 

Now I'm sitting here listening to Freak Kitchen, drinking the last of the booze in my fridge and trying... not so much to make sense of it all as present it so it makes sense. Hide just came on, which brings things full-circle for me in a way; I told you in one of those early emails post-Project that it had been the theme song for my Masters Aftermath (Master-math?); I can't find the email to cite, but I swear it to be true. I find myself now unwilling and unable to hide. 

All these loops tying themselves off so neatly; snakes biting the tails of snakes biting the tales of snakes so thoroughly and concurrently that none of them are quite sure who's biting whom, but they're all latched and swallowing, drawing the the gordian knot of Huginn and Muninn so tight it resembles nothing more than the full stop at the end of a sentence of 12 years from which I've finally been granted parole. 

Oh, and Scott pinged me to say that the parcel I've been anxiously tracking for the last 8 days arrived this morning: 

What a fucking day. 

Witness me. 

As if I leave you with much of a choice. 

Regards, 

Peter. 

Two minutes to midnight...

 Initial musical accompaniment - More Freak Kitchen: 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHkLU0BgeM8

I'd a romanticised thought a couple of days ago as I sat here in my one-size-fits-me outdoor chair how cool it would be to write you every day through this last week, without purpose or subtext, for no more glorious a purpose than to drain the ideas from my brain, provide some light entertainment for both parties, and because really what better have I to do? Tonight I feel I am undone. I know not what to say. 

So I thought I'd start with that. 

In the interest of saying that which need not be, but cannot be claimed to have been said otherwise, there is of course no reply expected. Read, consider, enjoy (should it so inspire you), and comment if and As You Like It (flashback humour; see what I did there?). 

The FrogRocket left today without incident, and with it the last of the bulk possessions I'm sending over. Whatever doesn't fit in my Qantas allotment goes to my tenant (although there's still a box of fragiles which I'll bundle up carefully tomorrow and organise to be couriered). I hiked over to my mother's house (only 2km) to collect her VW Station Wagon. Tomorrow I'll hitch a rented trailer to it and use it to deliver my bed (which I'm sure I've mentioned before won't fit in the new place) to a friend who'll use it as a spare until I one day ask for it back (it's almost entirely Jarrah, and the mob who made it no longer exists. Jarrah is a beautiful hardwood native exclusively to the south-west, the colour of drying blood. Look it up). With that gone I need to do a rapid clean of what used to be my bedroom, stuff things into my suitcase, then drink anything alcoholic left in the fridge. 

And hang out with Ricky, of course. We'll probably go sit by the river; it's pretty down there as you've now seen both in day and night, and it's kinda my Thing. 

This whole episode has been exhausting and painful. I will, I expect, crash hard come Sunday. It's served as a valuable distraction from work which has been a whole different eyeball-melting flavour of stress. I've been spared much of it by my lack of proximity, although that carries a stress all of its own; when you can see the effects, but not the cause, it's easy to assume that you're being cut out of the loop For Reasons. I've anecdotal indication that it's Not Just Me, but Bosslady's facade finally broke enough today to show the strain she's under; she actually admitted to how much she's looking forward to my being there which, whilst gratifying, is even more terrifying (where you, Becky (I still have no idea how you feel about that - your email address formed my nickname for you. I find it glorious in a way - so ostensibly vacuous, so fundamentally misleading. It's like suggesting that jumping in a puddle is the same as falling into the middle of the Pacific Ocean at terminal velocity because either way your feet will get wet, or describing stepping out into a tornado as "a bit breezy". On the other hand, you call yourself "Bec" which somehow feels diminutive and dismissive. I, on the other hand, am the only person I know who calls me "Pete"), have mastered the art of communicating in half-spoken allusion, Bosslady communicates exclusively in negative-space. For her to express a direct sentiment like that goes beyond a cry, into the territory of screaming for help). 

"It will all get easier once [I'm] [there]," has become a recurring phrase in our conversations. 

I'm increasingly convinced that this staggering fall across the finish line is not so much the end of a long Exodus into the land of milk and honey as it is the prelude for another march to war. After the last year of fighting on beaches, landing grounds, fields, streets, and hills. I've become thoroughly sick of constant, total war. This year was supposed to be the time where swords were beat into ploughshares, not taken up as arms against a sea of troubles. 

This was supposed to be my return to Eden, not a new Battle for Utopia. 

"But," I remind myself, "this is why they pay me the big bucks." 

I've not been so singular in my purpose, let alone idle, this last year that I arrive without a path laid in advance. I keep reminding myself that I don't need to fight every battle through to the last; I just need to set up the field and pull the trigger. 

"Gort, Klaatu barada nikto." 

Another day, another melodrama. I'd be ashamed if any of this was planned more than a few sentences in advance, but that would spoil the fun of finding out what I'm going to say the same way you are; one line at a time. The time for scheming is long-since past. We're deep into execution-space now, and as the hours tick by I'm rapidly approaching the end of my plans. By midnight Friday the hands on the clock will have lined up at the vertical: Pete-Zero. 

The Pete-pocalypse. 

What happens next is anyone's guess, but I've no doubt that you'll be listed under 'I' on my RACI at the very least. 

Regards, 

Peter. 

On the twelfth day of packing I kinda miss TV...

Musical accompaniment - Swedish Prog Rockers Freak Kitchen: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJ-3r2aEYcM

I broke the back of it today after reaching a despair-point last night when I test-packed the car only to find that a depressing amount of stuff wouldn't fit. Today, after being utterly demoralised by The Big Bossman, I sucked it up and repacked, with the aid of Actually Folding Clothes rather than just stuffing them into the bag, spending the last of my stockpile of Vacuum Bags (stuff full, connect nozzle to the valve and suck the air out), and reloading whilst humming the Tetris theme, I got it done. I have a ridiculous pile of clothes to discard, but they're things I'm unlikely to fit again, or sufficiently the wrong side of threadbare. 

Other discards consist of cleaning supplies, mostly-empty shampoo bottles, and the like. Things you take because waste-not, but unjustifiable if you're paying by the cubic metre. The bin will eat hearty once the op shop has taken their cut, otherwise hopefully my tenant will make use of what I leave behind. 

I sat down in my creaking-Frankenstinian-Monster outdoor chair (which I'm going to miss until I build a new one - I see some Ikea Hacking in my future; by Odin, my power tools will meet me in Valhalla) with a beer to unwind and look at what was going on in the world, but the world proved to be boringly depressing, so I thought "fuck it" and hit the Compose button to open a new email. 

This is another "no reply expected" email - I'm writing because it seems like something to do, a pressure-release vent for my head, and a victimless crime (in that I'm yet to hear you complain about receiving guilt-free content). Tonight I'm trying to avoid too many 'death' metaphors - I may have gone overmuch to that well in my last, although far from unintentional and once again I apologise for nothing. 

I've been doing this, obligatory social interludes aside, near-on non-stop for nearly a fortnight now, an asymptotic, Sisaphyan task which never quite seems to be done. I know that when I roll off the couch (my bed is going to a friend's place the day before I fly) on Thursday morning, lock the door for the second-last time (because you just know I'll need to dart back in for one final spot-check or to grab something I'm sure I forgot) and knock on Dave's door I'll be leaving unsatisfied, lamenting how lacklustre a job I did. I'll console myself knowing that I did the best I could, and there's nothing I leave here I can't replace, rebuild, or repatriate. 

I watched my bike get swallowed by a container truck today. 
The car goes tomorrow. 
I'll run Beckett out to JetPet's boarding facility on Wednesday, and after Ricky leaves I'll likely sit here surrounded by dust and luggage, and reach once more for the Compose button. 
It's like the end of Return of The King as all the characters depart, just without the pedophillic undertones of the grown-arse men grinning whilst the child-like hobbits romp and embrace on an over-large bed). I'll always remember the final MacHall comic strip tho: 

Credit: Matt Boyd - http://www.machall.com/

My sense of "Semper Inexpletus" (you may recall as the title I gave to my last mix-tape) notwithstanding, I'm pleased with how I Project Managed all of this.
For all that everything has come down to the wire on timing, it's only been possible because I allowed slack and contingency.
For all that I've struggled, I persevered and I achieved.
For all that I'm physically and emotionally demolished, I got it done. 
There is still an I.
And he can still stand. 
That seems worthy of note. 

A long time ago in a city far, far away (although not so far from where you are right now), I came up with an aspirational "family motto" (which I never really used because it's tres' wanktastic) "Through adversity, ascendence". Rebirth (or Resurrection) is never gentle, let alone kind. You have to die before you can be reborn after all, and for all that we're born in pain and blood, in death that pain and blood are our own. For all the badassery of rolling the stone back from his tomb, putting his hands over his eyes and looking at the crowd saying "Do I LOOK like I'm bullshitting?", Christ died in agony, drenched in blood, broken, betrayed, forsaken, and alone. 

Whatever doesn't kill me just leaves me angrier, and with a vindictive sense of humour. 
Everything worthwhile comes at a cost. 
Buy the ticket, take the ride. 

But there are already flowers beginning to bloom on the slopes of Golgotha; soon enough they'll climb the frames left on the hill and turn their faces to the sun, because the process of rebuilding is now underway. 
After a 10min phone call to my ISP the internet connection will be spun up and ready at Northbourne by the time I land, ready for me to plug my router in (I haven't decided on a name for my wifi yet - if you have a suggestion I'll consider it). 
Just before launching this email, I ordered a mattress which I may be able to sleep on (Sandra checked what's in there and deemed it back-wreckingly soft), timed to arrive just after I do. 
My Art Project is still on-track to arrive just beforehand. 
And there are a couple of bottles of moderately-ancient wine I've had cellaring sitting in my suitcase which I've every intention of opening on Friday (I may even wait for your arrival if you're that way inclined) and pouring out, sealing my new covenant in blood-analog. 

OK, so I failed at avoiding the 'death' metaphors, but I blame you for invoking Easter; I can never resist a good biblical reference, but I'll ameliorate it with a Cyanide & Happiness joke: 

Credit: Rob DenBleyker - https://explosm.net/comics/rob-myblood

That'll do, I think. Time to go see how Thomas Covenant is going to be a whiny little bitch next ("Waah, I'm a leper, outcast, unclean! This is all a dream, and you're making me walk for days and days but oooh hey, a stone knife I can shave with! I feel better now."). 

I'm not hating it; I wouldn't take the piss otherwise, but I still want to punch him in the face with a brick. 

Regards, 

Peter. 

Choose your own catharsis...

I'll admit to a degree of disquiet I've had since receiving, reviewing, and re-reading your "Resurrection" email. I find myself wondering what your self-deprecation and indicated surprise at consideration, regular underestimations of personal value, expressions of surprise at external validation, have been for. 

Are they genuine? I believe so.
Are they fishing for compliments? Possibly.
Are they an expression of a request to continue? I've taken them as such. 

I wonder whether I've somehow misrepresented the value I place in our communication such that you've underestimated how important these letters have become. You've been unambiguous about their worth to you, the value you ascribe, and their conversity to the worth you feel you've been afforded in your 'Real World' life. Have I been any less so? Has my own yearning to be seen. heard, understood, been in any way unclear? The need to hear the audience say: 

"More, I prithee, more!"
"It will make you melancholy, Madame Becky."
"I thank it.
More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs.
More, I prithee, more."

(I owe a debt of gratitude to ChatGPT, who helped me find the verse I was looking for there)

I expect no written response; you can tell me when you see me. 

"And," I say in a way which would sound far more ominous were it not for the obvious literary reference, "you will see me." 

You're receiving this because I'm sitting on my cobbled-together knicked-from-kerbside-collections chair out the front of my gutted no-longer-feels-like-Home house dining on ashes and a rum+cold brew+coke. I'd be quiescing my mind with the umpteenth re-watch of Lower Decks right now were both my TV and Media Server not residing in boxes in a container on a truck (or train). I could be reading Lord Foul's Bane (which I'm now 15% of the way through having almost reached the point where I stopped 2/3 of a lifetime ago), but that will come soon enough. Instead, I'm writing because I feel, not so much inspired, but compelled to do so. 

19.5 years ago I left Perth. I organised a Farewell to say goodbye to anyone-and-everyone who wanted one. It seemed a momentous occasion - a turning point, mourned and celebrated with much pomp and pageantry. I remember my Going Away Party vividly - many pints of Newcastle Brown Ale at The Moon & Sixpence (which no longer exists) in the city, surrounded by loved ones. I was transported to the airport in a small parade, led to the gate in a procession led by a statuesque Chinese-Singaporean girl in Top Hat-and-Tails carrying an umbrella as her sceptre (we're having dinner tomorrow night). I recall blogging about it later, saying "As I looked out the window of the plane the rain fell like tears; I do not think it wept for me." 

This time is far more "not with a bang, but a whimper." 

I've been far too self-absorbed for that this time. It's far less like an end, or a beginning, just... a transition. In a chat with the Herald from that parade: 

Because I've had no desire for attention; "All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again." No less importance, just far less impact. Not that there's not been any: 

(Do you think she got The Cure reference?)

I caught up with my "Winderkind-Uber-Genius Cray Supercomputer/HPC/Distributed Storage" friend last night; a fabulously broken ubermensch who's IQ dwarfs ours who I'm ashamed to say looks up to me as the closest he's found in his very-long 28 years of life to a mentor-and-peer. 

He owed me a pint. 

We wound up sitting here listening to my Mashups Playlist, talking about hyper-tech and The Singularity and my Penpal (he thinks you're fascinating and would rather like to meet you, just so you know), and as we were really getting into our stride my neighbour Dave wandered through the gate. 

Dave and I have never really been 'close', but we've always got along. He's rescued swarms of bees from my driveway - he keeps bees in the shade of the enormous gumtrees in his back yard, and always has honey for me which I give away because... you know, diabetic. He waves as he walks his dog past my fence. I grew the shrubs on my side of the wall between our houses so he could see the green fronds waving in the breeze from his kitchen. He keeps an eye on the place when I'm away. I once tried to convince him to shag my mum (don't get like that - she could use it, and he seems awfully single. They compromised, and she now provides him with clean jars for his honey, and he always saves a goodly amount for her. It's still sticky and sweet, and serves both their needs). He hung around for the rest of the evening, to the point where I added a gluten-free vego pizza when I put in a delivery order. 

It occurred to me as the three of us moved from tipsy, to sozzled, to decently drunk, that this was how I'd want my Last Day On Earth to be. No mourning, no Momentous Occasion, just Normal Connection. Another Day, because tomorrow will just be Another Day, but today we Eat, Drink, and Be Merry. 

He asked me when I was flying out, said that he was working from home on Thursday, offered to run me out to the airport. I was just going to call in an Uber; how could I decline? 

It occurred to me that I've been creating a circumstance which I call "Choose Your Own Catharsis". Rather than creating an Event or Occasion, I've been mostly letting people create the experience they want; their own personal closure however is meaningful to them, albeit with a little guidance. 

I spent my Last Friday with Ricky - one of our DNAD nights out for dinner, then laying out on a picnic blanket on the river at the same spot I wrote from previously ("And now for something completely different..." Sun, 20 Nov 2022, 17:38). I'm spending my First Friday with you; I joked about this week being "bookended by Raven-haired beauties" (I apologise for nothing). 

I've alluded previously to burning this motherfucker to the ground and walking away with my way lit by the fires of burning bridges, but it seems better somehow, more poignant, to go gently into that good night. Let the quiet thud of my footsteps behind me echo and create their own thunder, let the vacuum in my wake create a wind. It's not the first time I've departed, ("All of this has happened before,") and it will not be the last ("and all of this will happen again."). 

And on that fading note: 

Regards, 

Peter. 

Re: Resurrection

 (The subject immediately triggered one of my favourite Fear Factory songs... arguably one of my favourite songs in general. I will paste it here since it's 9 minutes long and will probably serve as a reasonable background. I wonder if you have a different one tho...)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_OHJxN9C1Y 

Usually seeing an email from you in my notifications is a welcome occasion, one of the small pleasures which brings with it a mixture of glee and relief (because I'm constantly convinced that one day you'll tire of the constant stream of high-volume self-indulgent wank and just flick my address in your 'Ignore' list, and a reply means that day has still not arrived), and like a Limited Edition All-Caramel Mars Bar I can't wait to rip the wrapper off, bite into the gooey centre, and start thinking about how to construct a reply; a rare email with a new subject and no "Re:" in front of it even more so as these are precious indeed. 

Today, however, my first thought was "Oh no... not today..."

Because today has been the last frantic day of packing before the removalists arrive, so instead of ensconcing myself in my front yard with a drink and a cigarette or three I've been in a three-way race between time, my pain threshold, and the supply of boxes, desperately trying to: 

After the months of decluttering. hours of preparation, and a week or two of run-up carving off bite-size chunks, I've got to a point where the boxes keep piling up, but there seems to be no less shit to get through. Like Achilles chasing the tortoise I can never seem to get all the way to the end and just feel like a heel. 

But I needed to stop because everything hurts and have reached the point where I'll either be fine, or fucked, but aren't thinking straight enough to know the difference so have poured myself a concoction I invented recently out of leftover beverages (1 part Rum, 1 part Cold Brew Coffee, 4 parts Coke, served in a pint glass and topped off with ice) and fired up my laptop. 

The last few weeks have been... challenging. People coming out of the woodwork to catch up/reconnect now that word is getting out of my departure, obligations I'm Sure I'll Have Time To Squeeze In, then to cap it off an guy I knew from my undergrad days, a year younger than me no less, passed away on the weekend (long battle with one of those rare, untreatable, genetically-predisposed cancers). Beyond the "forced to confront your own mortality" thing, I personally give no fucks; he was a dick to me every rare time we were in the same room for the last 12 years. It was probably deserved - I'm sure I was a dick in his general direction back in my undergrad days, but still equates to a net-zero no-love-lost. People I *like* were fond of him tho, and to those folk I have a duty of care. 

Combine that with multiple overlapping logistical complexities (EVERYTHING is happening at the last minute regardless of how well I planned it in advance. Like when a fabrication error crept into the final stage of my Art Project and I had to wait an extra 3 days for it to be redone. I managed to get it boxed up and to the courier in time to secure a delivery on Thursday 23rd so that it's there on time, but having a Delivery Risk imposed on the Presentation I'm more than a little invested in was not stress I needed), a rising pain load, and having to tear down everything that's been my life-support for too many years... has been hard. 

This is what you get for wanting things. 

But I guess this is all the labour-pain of my own rebirth (stealing a metaphor to which I have no right, and can only beg indulgence from you who has actually experienced it). All of the best things in my life have been borne of pain, so I accept this as verisimilitude. 

Re: Pink Floyd Reference-a-thon, I came subsequently to regret... or at least reconsider the wisdom of that little escapade. It was fun at the time - I recall having a loosening-of-shoulders, cracking-of-knuckles, challenge-accepted, "Fuck yeah, let's do this!" moment before launching in to see just how far I could take the concept. It was FUN; I often feel that you're actively encouraging me to... not so much push towards greater heights of Peak-Pete so much as cut myself loose from the constraints which stop me being All-Pete-All-The-Time (The Pete-ularity?). Every time I think "Oh no, I've gone too far," the replies I receive remind me of Jen clapping gleefully whilst Beckett phasers her friends:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BROBQeUk7sg 

But... in my subsequent reflection I found myself thinking "Wait... did I ruin the game? Did I smash it so hard I stole all the points and left nothing on the board to play? Did I go Too Intense again??" 

The topic of 'intensity' came up in a conversation I had with The Big Bossman (Bosslady's Boss) back in September. He told me during a phone call that I was "possibly the most intense person [he'd] ever met... and [he'd] negotiated with terrorists." 

OK, yes, I was madly fucking flattered by that, I'll freely admit it. It was nonetheless problematic because I HADN'T BEEN TRYING, NO SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK?? I probed him on that in an email, and the reply he sent was: 

"As for intense. Let’s try a different phrase focused ultra-high pressure jet stream. There is a concentration of knowledge and experience that you bring to bear, and you are very keen to share it because sharing is acceptance, sharing grants self-value, a sense of purpose. There was a time I was very much like that. But do you know what others see….a pressure wave designed to overwhelm, undermine and subdue.  Nothing stands before the tornado. Not at all what you wanted right?"

The first thought I had when I read what was: 

(Which dovetails interestingly with the name my Chinese friend gave me long ago: 雷风.)

With that itching in the back of my mind I couldn't help but wonder whether in my kitten-like enthusiasm, the perceived encouragement to eschew restraint, and the novelty of playing with an equal, I'd gone and done that here. Whether or not that is the case, I apologise regardless; even if you've derived enjoyment from the performer/spectator paradigm, I'd prefer not to preclude the possibility of your participation. I very much look forward to being nattered at, and having the silence filled by something other than the sound of my own voice. We are, I propose, on the precipice of a new potential, precipitated by pending proximity, preceded by our prodigious pasts, and progressing towards a portentous present; I perceive the opportunity presented as a gift. 

I am, I have been told, a Collector. I accumulate in my orbit people of significance; those who are insubstantial are simply ejected. You have such gravity that over considerable distance it's caused a shift in my own vector, consequently the only conclusion I can conceive is that you must therefore matter. 

On Thu, 16 Mar 2023 at 11:16, Becky wrote:

I’m getting in the spirit of Easter early after being hastily placed in a tomb of resource deprivation, and your role as my apostle Peter (you were by namesake born for this very moment), is to bear witness to my resurrection.

 

 

I imagine writing an email using Floyd references is a difficult bar to respond to in kind, but a Floyd-inspired Wi-Fi network, is impossible (mine is accessed denied, but on a further down street is the delightful ‘we can hear you having sex’, always worth a snicker when it pops up as I drive by.

 

When you wrote to me about Ricky, I was perched on the lounge and captivated by your sense of gratitude and loss, and in an entirely funked out mood, I stared off into the distance unaware of what was about to transpire at work and ctrl-alt-del-end-all-active-tasks any intention I had of engaging in my own life (including replying to the only friend whoever wrote me like I mattered).

 

So, 1 week out from the day of the landing, and whack another sleep on there and I can natter away to fill the place of self-doubt that has grown in place of a decent reply to you. Which in actual fact was somewhat counter-balanced by the curiosity that in my silence I somehow still attracted from you a time to catch up and an invitation to an actual grown-up event. On reflection, this was probably the potential start of the aforementioned resurrection (and for which I am truly gratified).