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).

Ricky...

I burned out a little on writing last week bashing out a three and a half thousand word novel of a thing, and I'm not even sure I have it in me now, but I've two pieces in the brain-pipe (not counting the two I left as enigmatic context-free subject-lines in my Drafts the other evening) that I want out of my head and the other one's a blog-post so doing this first. 

I mentioned Ricky in the email which resulted in my getting all messy and weepy ("Combing the mess of tangled threads..." Sun, 12 Feb 2023 02:05), I also cc'd her on my Bitchkrieg-level smackdown of a now-ex colleague ("Someone set up us the bomb..." Fri, 12 Aug 2022, 19:54), but she's most noteworthy in ("Re: Old thread was needy and whiny; new context- and content-free thread..." Mon, 24 Oct 2022: 23:42) in a sentence which could have been the beginning of its own narrative, but wasn't, because apparently I'm a lit-tease. 

So if Ricky and a smoochy black kitten were the catalyst for tears which two years couldn't coax out of me I suppose she's worth some exposition. 

You know those stories of star-crossed people drawn to each other over time and space, destiny-entwined but out-of phase? Never both single at the same time, or opportunities missed, connections lost, important letters undelivered, so-close-but-yet-so-far on-the-wrong-side-of-the-sliding-doors, deeply-yearning-over-distance, every parting a loss, every moment apart an itch you can't scratch, unrequited-but-not-undesired? 

Well that ain't us. 

Just getting that out of the way. 

When I said "I scored her in the breakup with Emma" ("Re: Old thread was needy and whiny; new context- and content-free thread..." Mon, 24 Oct 2022: 23:42) I was being absolutely and literally honest; Ricky was in the same belly-dance group and we'd hang out smoking shisha after their performances. I don't 100% remember why I looked her up afterwards, but it turned out to be at about the same time she ditched her husband, and been fucked over by her best friend, so some replacement/transference turned out to be handy. She was also having surgery on her hip joint, and of everyone who said they'd come visit I was one of two who did (the other being her brother who literally lived next door, so he barely counts). I swore to spend the next year single, and she the next year sober, so for most of 2012 she was my designated driver through some fairly problematic drinking (I shouted *all* of her drinks when we were out. A couple of diet cokes or lime sodas is way cheaper than taxis, and taxi drivers don't give you a hug and tell you it'll be OK at the end of the night, although you're welcome to tell me otherwise on the condition that the story follows immediately after that sentence), collaborated on some hilarious schemes, mortified the son of an ex-WA Attorney General by being pulled over doing loop-de-loops of a roundabout ferrying us home after a night on the town, demonstrated that you can absolutely straddle and dry-hump someone entirely platonically (she was helping test-drive couches. It was for science), and shagged her way through a good few of my friends. 

We've exhausted a couple of long-running jokes: 

• Every variation of "no fucks to give" we can come up with. 
• So many versions and remixes of the Buffalo Bill/Jay & Silent Bob "Would you <blank> me? I'd <blank> me..." meme, and the song which plays in the background (Goodbye Horses by Q Lazarus is what I'd Rickroll her wedding with... no, I lie, I'd learn how to use mixing software just so i could mash it up with Rick Astley and we all know it, but the thought is there). 
• "Life is short, so tell your friends you love them, but it's also confusing and terrifying so scream it at them in German."

And no, we never dated, because we've never really been particularly interested in each other that way. We do go out on what I call Date-Not-A-Date's (DNAD) where we book each other ahead, wear something a little nice, go somewhere for dinner-and-an-activity (walk along the river, or sit in a park, or eat ice cream in the front seat of the car whilst the rain beats on the moon-roof)... all the semiotic cues which slipstream your brain into particular thought processes like: 
"Y'know, I really like this person. I'm having a really nice time, I hope they are too." 

But never: 

"Will they/we or won't they/we?"

Because at the end of the night we drop the other off and go home. For all that we lose that frisson of excitement, we also skip the anxiety and disappointment because at the end of the night we've already got everything out of it we could want. 

You can probably guess that the DNAD concept was one of mine; the mildly-transgressive reappropriation of a social convention as part of an inwardly-focused mind-game designed for cognitive re-de-reprogramming is covered in my fingerprints. I've been maintaining that I'll not even consider looking until the hole in my life isn't Kat-shaped, and she's been focused on looking after her elderly dad, working full-time, and getting thru her B. Commerce (Business/Management). We neither have time or patience for having "Getting To Know You Dance" after "Getting To Know You Dance", but after nearly decade of serial-monogamy I couldn't remember even what it felt like. It wasn't just a practice-session, it was a reminder of why I should care in the first place. For her it scratches an itch, helps me remain within a Standard Deviation of being a Real Boy(TM), and if anything else gets itchy she still has Bumble. 

There's an enduring love there which one might suggest is in the truest ideals of polyamory, in that it's non-exclusive, and by no means trivial. It's not that we're star-crossed, we're just stars who've fallen into a stable orbit. We didn't miss opportunities, we chose not to pull the trigger. The connection is there, and if one of us misses the train the other will be waiting at the next station. Distances are just geography, every parting is a promise, and absence is conquerable with a phone call. 

So there you have everything, and nothing about Ricky (or Tricky Ricky Nicky, or Richelle N***** A******), but that's also what we are to each other, so it's everything you need to know even if it's nothing you actually wanted to ask. 

Epilogue: 

Change is equal parts creation and destruction...

Phase Shift is capriciously random in her timing; both insidiously glacial, and diabolically blink-and-you-missed it immediate. Dux of her Graduate Diploma of "Come on, keep up, I thought you were smart" class, from the University of "Some genius you are, dickhead". 

The failure, as always, is mine. 

I was a [size undefined] Fish in a pond comprised of One (in that sample set, the size of said Fish is immaterial). The competition doesn't even warrant description; consider the competitive superiority of an obligate carnivore in the company of bottom-feeders. The tide came in, and in turn swept me out of the temperate pool into the deep blue where currents run cold, the depths unfathomed, and unknown terrors dwell. I, having vanquished and forsaken fear in my past life, bared my teeth, and surged rampant, battle-scarred lips screaming a war-song of: 

They named me Agent of Chaos. 

They named me The Perfect Storm. 

They named me Agent of Change. 

And so, having been given agency, I laid waste so I could then create. 

And in the same way the observer affects that which he observes, the change I wrought did change me as well. 

Note to self:

I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 
I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 

I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 

In the meantime it must be remembered that I am a being who is incapable of doing only one thing at a time; there is no problem worth my attention so simple that it can be solved through a single vector, so whenever such a thing presents itself I will automatically find ways to make it suitably complex.
The problem my self presents is no different. 
So of course I've been playing my self against myself, and threw another variable into the mix. 

Only I would imagine I could maintain a zero entropy state whilst introducing a Perfect Detonator into the equation. 

Repeat after me: 

I am not immune to Newton's Third Law.

I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 

I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 

I brought destruction, and so I was destroyed myself. 

I wrought change, and so my self was changed. 

I was the Perfect Storm I could not withstand. 

But that Perfect Detonator who blew my shit to pieces will remain Nameless. 
Because she is staring back from the other side of a darkened mirror. 
And if the reduction of that equation results in zero, then we are Nothing. 

Struggling

The malaise I was suffering from when last I wrote has faded a little, but still lingers. There are a number of things I suspect are contributory, but the main one remains the diabetes meds. It's certainly helping me lose weight (I found I can fit in my kilt again today for the first time since the bike accident, which is nice), but it's doing a number on my appetite, energy, ability to handle stress... 

Actually that last one is probably burnout, I'll admit it. 

To you, anyway. If I think anyone else is listening I'll deny it ("Fuck you, lightweights, I'm an island. Another 4 years straight, here I come!") but... I'm losing it, and I'm increasingly convinced my continued use of present tense is wishful thinking. The worst thing is I don't know what to do about it (which isn't a question; please don't do that). I don't know how to take a holiday. I haven't had a self-determined holiday since I finished my Divermaster Cert, which was a decade ago in January. Every time since then it's been dive trips with Matthias, Melbourne trips and Iceland with Jenna, work trips work trips work trips... 

All the things I enjoy are... locked; dependent on other people, or on better health, or... or I've been there, done that, and there's no excitement any more. I need more little baby-step breaks like in September, but in the meantime in lieu of a Holiday, there's Change. 

So I got the place on Northbourne - cash is lined up, contracts should get exchanged Wednesday, and on or before Friday 13th of January (yeah, I'm going there) I should be the proud owner of a 6th floor room with a view out over Black Mountain. 

I'm estimating "early/mid-autumn" as when I'll shift my marker. Whilst I'm ostensibly in no rush, since the decision was made (July 30th. Yes, I've been planning for, working towards this since then. Remind me some time, the story of why the date is memorable is kinda funny, and relates to this photo

and the balls are finally in motion I just want to get it done, because 2 years in a holding pattern is enough. 

And I legit don't care. 

Worst case, it'll put me where I need to be for what comes next. 

If I'm lucky, on the other hand, it'll be the first step in a fiendishly elaborate and flamboyant suicide. 

I figure I can be a lonely, miserable workaholic anywhere. 

In the middle there somewhere is a view of a different sunset and a new backdrop for the photos of my Friday Night Drinks. 

I hope you'll forgive me that the thought of your enjoying that view with me every once in a while makes the idea just a little more perfect. 

Regards, 

Peter. 

------------------

To: Becky

December 7, 2022 01:31AM

Another in-line response, I think. Sometimes it seems the only way to maintain coherence, and not fall victim to my penchant for self-indulgent rambling where I don't so much lose the plot, as much forget that gravity exists and get confused when it's not hanging in the air where I left it: 

Hi Pete

 

In case you missed it I have come straight from the last email, and I didn’t even re-read it before I sent it, so I’m not only trusting you I’m trusting myself. It feels nice, but a bit like a new pair of shoes, I’ll need to wear them in a bit and risk a few blisters. 

The "did I say what I wanted to just right so that they'll get it? Did I explain myself just right? Will they misunderstand? OMFG, I used the wrong word for pasta and now they're going to hate me!!" thing? I'm so heartily sick of that sort of appeasement, now I just... say it. If they miss the point then it's their loss. But it's easier for me; i'm not required to care. Giving up is a luxury belonging for those who can get by without popular approval. I recall something you mentioned about the horrible Bitch Boss and your having to tread on eggshells. Not everyone gets to walk in with their middle fingers waving in the air and "Do I look like I give a fuck what you think?" attitude. It's something I'll not pretend I haven't earned, but I'll be the first to admit that it's much *easier* to earn when you have male genitalia. It's easy to get conditioned into a mindset where popularity = survival. 

Oddly, I'm reminded of a moment, not long after I'd moved back, when Emma was driving us somewhere and missed a turn: 
"Oh drat, that was the turn I was supposed to take."
<shrug> "Eh. This area's a grid, next one should loop back."

"..." she said, growing visibly tense. 

"Um... you ok?"

"..." <shudder> "I'm sorry, I just realised I was getting ready for the screaming to start. If I'd done that with [whatever her ex's name was] he'd have gone off about being late or wasting petrol or... you know."

"Really?" I said, confused, "What would be the point of that? They'll wait."

 

So in a seemingly perverse sense, the symptoms of your apparent burnout, have connected to mine and it awakens something in me that mimics enthusiasm, the same-same of validation, the creeping out of a hiding place only to that which is deeply familiar and completely non-threatening. Being surrounded by billions of people and still alone then see your reflection and realise it’s someone else. That’s you I can see now.

See, on the surface that sounds almost perverse, but we're supposed to suck it up and keep going. There's a pervasive trend in our culture that we dare not admit anything that might sounds like "Shit's hard, and I'm not coping," and because everyone else seems to have the perfect job, perfect house, perfect relationship, perfect holidays, perfect body, it seems like we're obviously the ones who are deficient. There's liberation in speaking the truth of our burdens, because in doing so we finally get to put them down. There's joy in having someone else unburden themselves in front of you, because then you get to upend your sack of care and say "Yeah, me too."

I don’t know how to do much in my own best interests. It’s too heavy and I haven’t the strength to drag it around. But it only gets heavier. It seems so petulant to sit in front of the answer and believe that there is a forcefield preventing me from simply reaching out and even acknowledging it is there. I’d seemingly rather sit in the shadow and stare at the key that opens the door, and grieve for the loss of motivation to grab it. What madness. I acknowledge this feeling you are having, of knowing just what you should do and feeling powerless to actually do it. To endure the continuing pain, and for what? The fleeting glory of inhuman success? The complexity of unjustified fear. Is it the deepness of feeling that if discarded leaves a void of any meaningful (painful) biofeedback?

 

This is... a lot to unpack. When you're depressed, you don't matter. How can you justify expending precious energy servicing your own needs when they're irrelevant? If I have no inherent value then anything I might do for my own benefit is, by definition, wasted. My work-around was thus: 

If I have no value, then the people around me are therefore more important (not EVERYONE - people are shit-flavoured scumbags, but the people we LIKE are at least nice to us, so we'll call them "friends"). 

But I can CREATE value by serving and enriching them, which in a profit-sharing model infers that my actions ARE valuable. 

Furthermore, by reinvesting that value-capital in self-improvement the outcomes of my actions become scalable. 

BUT, value is subject to entropy so requires continued effort to prevent it from degrading. 

Secondly, for all that my friends are exponentially more valuable than me, they're kinda dumb, and have a penchant for walking blindly into traffic if I'm not here to stop them, ergo to maintain the cycle of value-enrichment I must therefore ensure my own survival or we're ALL going to hell. The valuable would then become valueless, which would result in a negative-ROI failure-state. 

Thus, to have any value whatsoever, no matter what hell I'm going through, I must keep going, no matter the weight of the burden, or the hideous strength of the forces arrayed against me. 

Of course, the metaphor fails when they don't need me. When the only person who benefits from a course of action is me... fuck it, what's the point? 

My friend/client (on the rare occasion I bother billing her) Amy has worked out that if she invites me out for a pint there's even odds I won't make it, but if she books me to come sort out something "broken" on a Friday afternoon... She's good people, is Amy. 

And secretly, there ARE things I want, that I will pursue, so long as I can twist the circumstances to conform with my internal logic. 

I know where my dopamine triggers are, and how to activate them. 

Because I will demolish heaven and reshape earth for interesting problems to solve, for people I like. 

I take pride in fixing things no one else can, but it's an artificial facade masking the knowledge that if anyone else could do it then what's the point of me? 

There does come a point tho, where even with the most cunning of artifice the uneviable goes past unsustainable, through unviable, into unsurvivable. 
But there's a pure, inviolable joy in being able the tear yourself open and lay bare the Faustian hellscape of your Kafkaesque existence and say: 

"This is the price I pay, each day, to survive, and it's hard, and it's broken me, and I don't know how I'm going to do it tomorrow, but I will, and I don't want you to weep for me.
But I beg you, please weep with me."

 

What you do have is hope (the pain balance), you have plans, you are looking forward to something, in this case a change, a new place to nest, even visions of sharing this with others (and thank you for bestowing me with the pride of being a part of one of those).

See, I don't know what to do with hope... at least hope in isolation. I live in a word of certainty; constantly calculating risk and probability. Hope is a prayer, and if God can shift the balance then, I figure, so can I. 

But that's not what you're referring to here, is it? 

Because you're right; I can see laid out before me the path which my actions have connected me to. I can see the light on the hill in the distance, and I can see how I might get there. It's a (heavily, extensively calculated) leap into the unknown; I might not be able to see the bottom of the rabbit hole I'm throwing myself into, but I know with absolute certainty in which direction the fun is, and it's 'Down". 

I had a funny curveball moment in our weekly catchup a few weeks ago, where Bosslady asked me: 
"I just want to check - this uplift and move over to Canberra isn't just for [this job], is it? Because there's no guarantee that [the project pipeline] will go on more than another year or so..."

I chuckled, reminding her that I have roots in Canberra, not to mention the many employment opportunities that I'll only be able to leverage if I'm local. 

"Anyway, I've moved across the country for a pretty girl too many times to go doing it again," I lied, but not in any way that was relevant to her or her concern, "even if she DOES have 40,000 users." 

 

Bec.

Peter.  

This is what you wanted, you dickhead...

 Jumping at every *ding* your mobile makes and jumping into your inbox to find another Very Important piece of spam or bill is no way to live. There are a couple of emails I'm waiting on, and it feels like life is on hold until they arrive. My brain is full of plans that are made and queued up, waiting for that whistle to sound so I can pull the trigger and send them all over the top. 

It's a far cry from where I was a year ago, when things were unexciting, but ran seemingly on rails. One foot went in front of the other, jobs got done, invoices issued, the sun rose and fell in rhythmic cadence, and time passed barely leaving a mark. 
Or a year before that, when the breeze carried the whisper of pages turning towards the final chapter of books I was thoroughly sick of reading, the night air smelled of rubble settling after the implosion of Happily Ever After, and each breath out of my lungs exhaled the smoke of burned offerings to burdens unshouldered blending with the funeral-pyres of stillborn hope. 

I managed to get through nearly two years of Not Wanting Things; someone told me once "the secret of zen is to want what you have", although I've never been able to find a citation. Regardless, I had an empty house, a job to do, things to fix, and that was enough. Then one day I followed a white rabbit into a hole full of wonderful problems to solve, impossibly broken dreams to fix, and gordian knots to untangle. Somewhere along the line I started having fun cutting through the labyrinthine webs that seemed to completely bamboozle everyone around me, as if my mind was a razer in a drawer full of butter-knives; more fun that I could remember ever having had before. 

"If you want to make God laugh," Woody Allen said, "tell him your plans." 
Pete Townsend, on the other hand, said "We've got to fool the fools, and plan the plans."
I took inspiration from Plato, and thought "Well I am a fool, but I know I am a fool and that makes makes me smarter than you, so I'll make no plans at all and stay the fuck out of God's way." 

Of course, in my smugness I forgot the that Philip J. Fry was wiser than all of us, because "time makes fools of us all." 

“There is an art," it says in the second of the Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy books, "or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss." 

So in my hubris, and my "Life, the Universe, and Everything" Year I tripped, mistook falling for flight, and somewhere in that mad tumble I started Wanting Things again. 

The problem with Wanting Things is when you start achieving them. One minute you're a machete carving through chocolate soldiers melting in the sun, the next it's gone dark, you're cold, surrounded by intimidating-looking shadows, and you realise the brown stuff you're covered in doesn't smell much like chocolate. You got everything you never dreamed you'd be allowed to want, let alone have, and instead of satisfaction you just feel like shit. 

That's what you get for Wanting Things. 

The trap I blundered into, and what annoys me most, was allowing myself to hope. I thought I'd inoculated myself against that insidious traitor of an emotion; "If I don't have a life, I don't have to live," I thought, "then I can have nothing, and want what I have. Simples." In one pithy, self-satisfied gesture I'd outsmarted Dostoyevsky, out-humbled Buddah, and walked away throwing an over-the-shoulder double-deuce to God whilst Nietzsche sat stunned in my wake muttering "Verdammt, das ist nihilistisch." 

The ground was already rushing up towards me at what I would have noticed was an alarming rate, if only I'd been paying attention, when I returned to the stage for an encore. The other day I twisted my brain into the necessary shape so I could write something hopeful. A gift, in my own peculiar way; a bit of fun for the Penpal of whom I've become quite fond. If I'd not been so busily patting myself on the back for bending Plato over I'd have been watching it for Aristotle's revenge; nature abhors a vacuum, and for all that I'd constructed an edifice of emptiness, entropy will get you in the end. 

It's impossible to feed an intelligent system new information without indelibly changing it. Like when IBM fed Watson the Urban Dictionary to help it communicate more fluently, there's no way to remove the influence on your thought patterns. Unlike IBM, I can't just revert to a previous snapshot and clear my input cache. The worst thing is realising that even if I could, the origin of my downfall occurred long-before, and all the Cooking Wine in Alkaline Trio won't wipe the slate clean. I wrote it down, I made it true, I burst my own bubble, and collapsed my own wave function. 

I have only myself to blame. 

So here I sit in my inbox staring up guiltily up at the look of despair on my face, somehow surprised that I was the void all along, whilst we both wait for our respective emails to arrive to tell us whether we're alive or dead. 

I am, it seems, Schrödinger's Dickhead... 

Penpal - And now for something completely different...

 Thinking, thinking, always thinking;
ideas, memories, smells and colours;
Sifting, parsing, sometimes recombining.

Friday evening has been bouncing around my head, as you can only presume from receiving your second email in two days (not counting corrections), two (effectively) strangers finding something akin to joy through the sharing of their respective misery. It occurs that my emails cleave closely to that sort of theme - there are jokes and laughter, but in a "teeth gritted through the pain" sort of way. I decided it was time for a reframe and tone-shift, so I set myself a challenge: I'm going to try writing something hopeful (because 'happy' is a bridge too far).

To select your soundtrack for this I delved into my music collection to find something suitable and came up with Angels & Airwaves. It's not happy (I mean, it's Tom de Longe after all, and by the time they recorded their third album he was so badly messed up on opioids he barely knew what day it was), but I've always found them light (as in full of). Three songs, because you said you read these three times, which suits me nicely because this is me and I've always found both balance and completeness in three.

Heaven
Valkyrie Missile
The Flight of Apollo

I'm declaring this at the start because I have no idea how, or what, or where this is going. I'm taking you with me on a ride. We may go round in circles, or nowhere, or crash and burn, but you're finding out in real-time, same way I am, and only when I'm done do you have my permission to cry.

Now strap in and let's do this. 

---

My email yesterday was bashed out sitting in Haig Park, killing a couple of hours before my friend Marcia was free. A stretch of dead time filling the nothingness in my schedule between when I needed to leave one place,  before I had any reason to be at another.

It was far from an unpleasant place to be - cool, quiet, and still. I usually write these sitting in my hacked-by-hand reclaimed kerbside-shopping-network chair under the tattered remnants of my solar-powered gazebo, but if I was going to do something different, a change of scenery was called for. I stuck A&A in my ears (OK, I did a little bit of prep), got my bike's battery on the charge so it'd start, slammed the bare-minimum chores out of the way before grabbing groceries so there'd be food in my fridge (not just condiments), ditched the car, pulled my helmet on and twisted the throttle, propelling myself to the place I had in mind:

I've just had to move to follow the shade, by the way.

I've been coming here for almost as long as I've had autonomy; on days like this in my teens I used to ride my bike to the river (10ish-km), then follow it along the far side from here another 10-15km before turning around and heading back. Later in high school my best friend lived a couple of streets away and we'd come down at night to feel transgressive. Later we'd steal some beers from his dad (or play on how I looked older than I was and go to the bottlo) and do the "rebellious teen drinking" thing. When I moved back in 2010 I'd strap my roller blades on a bit east of here, skate a couple of km's west into the wind and back again. Here I've had picnics, watched the Australia Day fireworks, and brought tourists to look at the city lights. When I was still with Jenna, Kat and I would hang around the picnic tables, chain-smoke and talk about everything and nothing. It's been the setting for both first and last kisses, and many of those in between. It's pretty, and peaceful, and alive. It felt like a perfect place for this purpose. 

Welcome, glad you've come,
To my favorite place in Perth.
I hope you like it.

There's a group of girls (young ladies?) playing kick-to-kick off to my left; joggers chasing after fitness dodging families taking a stroll; dogs being taken for walks and Smelling All The Things(!); whilst I sit here with my laptop and A&A in my ears, apart from them all, but in the wide-angle panoramic shot it looks like I'm a part of it.

I used to use Mt Ainslie in the same way:

Above, but amongst.
A quiet perch to watch from.
Apart, but a part.

Where I am, where I'm going, and where I want to be, are rarely the same location. That feeling of satisfaction, comfort, contentment, seems so incomprehensible. That sense of being the right person, in the right place, at the right time, eternally elusive and just out of reach. Watching this perpetual parade of peaceful people, I wonder if their perceptions are parallel, whether they ponder as they pass their places in this performance? I don't know, and somehow I suspect that if I were to ask them neither of us would understand. If we spent a lifetime trying, we'd never grok each other; the terms of reference in our language are too far out of phase. 

There's a beautiful paragraph in Stranger in a Strange Land where Heinlein explains the word "grok":

"Grok means 'to understand', of course, but Dr. Mahmoud, who might be termed the leading Terran expert on Martians, explains that it also means, 'to drink', and 'a hundred other English words, words which we think of as antithetical concepts. It means 'fear', it means 'love', it means 'hate' - proper hate, for by the Martian 'map' you cannot hate anything unless you grok it, understand it so thoroughly that you merge with it and it merges with you - then you can hate it. By hating yourself. But this implies that you love it, too, and cherish it and would not have it otherwise. Then you can hate - and (I think) Martian hate is an emotion so black that the nearest human equivalent could only be called mild distaste."

I don't need to describe to you what a curse it is to see everything, all at once, as it really is.
I won't even try expressing the indescribable gift that is to be seen, known, and accepted; not for what you were, what they want you to be, or might one day become; but for who, how, and what you are. To have someone say "I see you" and not try to guess who, or how, or what they perceive. 
Nor will I make an attempt at the sense of explosive stillness, thunderous calm, or cacophonous peace from not having to wonder. 

I do, however, find it rather pleasant.

Now, I think it's time to pack my laptop away again and slip into jinba ittai. 

Regards, 

Peter.