They’ve never been mine.

Posted on September 3, 2023 by Judd

I got an email from my mother asking me if I’m still at the address I’ve been at for the past NINE years.

She was thoughtful enough to include pictures of the wedding of the “half-brother” that I was never allowed to claim. Pictured on the left (of the three) is the widow of the brother I wasn’t allowed to mourn and wasn’t ever encouraged to reconnect with. Not even when he called my name on his fucking deathbed.

2023 has sucked fucking balls for me having brothers.

I did try, I’ve always tried. But I now realise what folly it ever was to hope that someone who ran out on her youngest (at the time) son multiple times would ever have any insight into how to help build the relationships between he and the sons that she clearly favoured.

The oldest got as much of her as he could, and it was a lot. Far more than I ever got. She never noticed, and is oblivious to the pain I feel when she’d recount stories of him popping in to have her do his laundry or make his favourite meals on off-weekends. Things that I got to do twice.

The youngest got more of her than either of us other two. She was actually there in his life as he grew up from birth. He’s actually the only son she’s ever really had. I’ve never heard from him on his own, and haven’t had contact with him since he was an obnoxious dingdong 7-yo. She’s also oblivious to the pain I might feel about my own childhood as she’d send me emails over the years of his school accomplishments and the events she’d attend there. Averaging an email every fortnight, she rarely missed an opportunity to tell me all about whatever was going on in his life, completely with pictures, even though I have never, ever asked.

One might suggest that I’m having my nose rubbed in it, yet I still, to this day, have no idea what grievous sin i perpetrated other than falling in love with someone on another continent. If there’s something else, or something that I actually did or said, I’d fucking LOVE to know. I really would.

Because otherwise, that’s pretty cold, and fuck that shit.

Struggling

Posted on August 2, 2023 by Judd

It should come as no surprise that my mental health isn’t doing great. I have no idea if it’s a combination of the Main Purpose of the drugs I’m on or if it’s simply a long-lasting side effect of simply being in pain All The Time, but I’ve never been this type of anxious for this long in my life before.

Well, maybe during football season. I was anxious all the time then too. I hated football. It was hard, everyone else was so effortlessly good at it, and I struggled. Everything I was doing somehow revolved around football practice.

Spanish class was boring and the room too hot, but I couldn’t get sleepy because I had to be wide awake for football practice.

It was meatloaf and cornbread day at the cafeteria, with apple crumble for dessert, but I couldn’t get seconds because then I’d be too full for football practice.

I couldn’t run around having Adventures on a Sunday because then I’d be tired or sore the next day at football practice.

The only time I felt free, when I was truly unencumbered by the thoughts, was immediately after a game on Friday night. The energy, the lights, the crowd, all I could hope for would be to not embarrass myself. To be a good teammate, a good cheer squad from the sidelines, be a good player when I was allowed on the field. We’d win, of course, and we’d all be… happy. Friends. It was the only time I felt good.

Saturday would be fine, but I’d stress the entire time about having The Most Fun I could during the only time I was free. If I didn’t pack everything I could in during that time, then I’d wasted the weekend, and I had an even more horrible week waiting for me. That I’d have to suffer through it after not living My Best Life and that would be even harder.

The only respite, the only rest, the only time it ever let up, was when the season was over and my responsibilities waned. Then I was just bored. Not as anxious. Until I thought about next season anyway.

When I look back at it now, I can see that’s no way to live. I can see that I had many issues beyond just my feelings toward football practice. It was just the only time I was visibly pushed to failure, worked so hard that I dropped, and I was terrified I’d never Be Enough in this life.

That, more than anything, is likely the prevailing fear that I have always possessed. Deep in my chest, hiding somewhere between my heart and my lungs, making my pulse louder and breathing harder. It’s always been there.
**
And it’s here now. It’s here pretty much all the time. Unless I’m completely losing myself in something like a wonderful game on the Playstation (or even my phone) then I’m feeling anxious. The garbage stacks up, the floor gets dirtier, the rabbit’s cage needs changed, I need to shower, the dishes stack up, the kids need taken places and then brought back and everyone needs fed almost all the damn time.

It’s making it hard to fall asleep in the mornings, when I feel like I need it most. I lay there and feel the tightness in my chest. Wondering what will go wrong, what will wake Jo up, what will break that day, what will bring The Authorities to our door for some new violation, some fresh way to punish us and keep us flattened on the pavement with their knee on our neck.

I don’t know what to do about all this, but I know that I need to do something. Instead, I eat. And escape into things. And sit around getting fatter and be in pain.

Oof. I really need to work on fantasising about when this is over, I know that. But now that there’s been some mix-up with the referral, I still don’t have a date yet. Fucking shitfuck, I’m not even on the waitlist.

I suppose if I put my Psychology Hat on, I’d see that I’ve started to decline mentally since I found out that they fucked my referral and I’m not even waitlisted at either hospital. Fuck.

4th of July, 2005

Posted on July 2, 2023 by Judd

It feels like the real truth will never be known. But I know what I believe. I believe you were trying to abandon me for a final time.

I’ll never know what it was that you took. Because you’ll never tell me. Maybe because you don’t remember. Maybe you’ve killed the part of your brain that was capable of retaining that knowledge. Murdered the last witness to your crime. Maybe it died of natural causes. A victim of time and the spongy atrophy of an aging mind.

What I do know is that you took something. They confirmed it at the hospital. They then tasked me with searching around your house to find out. The house empty, your partner and her son up north, I felt like both criminal and cop while I dug through your garbage, rifled through your drawers and picked through your medicine cabinet. I found nothing.

Not nothing though. I found some crumpled-up pieces of paper. Your signature yellow lined notepad sheet filled with your even-more-signature calligraphy handwriting. A journal piece, a letter from yourself to yourself, yet discarded. Filled with your own navel-gazing on how I’ve found someone that is to be the centre of my universe, and how much that’s affecting you.

Was it a suicide note? I never found any other journals or your personal writings but then again, I wasn’t looking for them, was I? I was looking for empty pill bottles or popped-out blister packs. Something, anything, that could account for the massive amount of propylene glycol you had in your system. They couldn’t find a meal and the amount of alcohol you had didn’t account for it either. They weren’t toxicologists, but they’d seen enough to know that you’d have to drink about 600 bottles of white wine to get that much PG in your system.

Radiator fluid, or some other household chemical, was the best guess. Though I never found evidence of anything like that. And I looked. If that’s what happened, then you drank it straight from the bottle and politely put it back, then lay down on the back patio and waited to be found.

And I did find you.

You were asleep, or so I thought. The sun was setting on a hot but beautiful Rocky Mountain day. It was shaping up to be a lovely night to view the fireworks from just about anywhere. At first I felt tender, like you’d just tuckered yourself out doing yardwork or something. That would have been quite like you. Though napping wasn’t really your thing.

Then the sun set, and it cooled quite quickly, so I went out to put a blanket on you, ostensibly to look after you but my ulterior motive was to be just noisy enough, just jostly enough, that you’d wake up and we’d have a good laugh at how much you’d sacked out. But you didn’t wake up. I put the blanket on you and went back inside.

But worry became too much. I moved quickly past the point where I worried about the awkwardness of the situation, all anxiety about social pretense fell away and I stomped back out there and tried to wake you. I called your name, louder and louder, and then took you by the shoulders and gently shook you. I got more and more scared with every passing second, my heart starting to beat painfully in my chest.

Then, you woke up. You blinked your eyes in that confused squirrel kind of way that you’ve always had and looked right at me.

“I just wanted to feel better,” you said. Calmly, clearly, simple as.

“Okay,” I’d said, “That’s fine. But it’s getting cold out and–”

“I just wanted to feel better,” you said again. Same tone, same pitch, as if you hadn’t just said it a second before.

“Yeah ma, no probs.” I knew enough to know that when you were woken up you were a bit dumb at first. I figured I just had to ride this out.

“I just wanted to feel better.” You kept saying it. Sometimes you’d blink at me as if I’d just arrived, and you’d say it again. Sometimes you’d appear to be pondering something, then I’d call out “Mom!” and you’d turn and look at me with varying expressions, and you’d say it again.

And again.

I pulled you to your feet and walked you into the house. You walked on your own strength, though I had to guide you, and when I brought you into the living room you were happy enough for me to bring you to the couch. You didn’t need to be told to lay down, but you didn’t stop repeating the phrase.

“I just wanted to feel better.”

I got the pillows situated and I tried to make you comfortable, but you kept flinching and looking at me intensely, repeating the line over and over again. Sometimes your inflection was urgent, sometimes it was regretful, sometimes surprised. Always the same line, verbatim.

I told you that you were freaking me out, and that I was going to call 911. I gave you one last chance to say something different. I think I even said that if you said something different, then I wouldn’t call them. Then I think I said that if you wanted me to call them then you’d say the line again. I’m not sure what I was saying to you at that point, to be honest. I was freaking the fuck out.

The emergency operator wasn’t great, but she wasn’t bad. When they transferred me to the locals, I described what was happening and they said that they’d better get over there quick. I didn’t argue, and I said that I’d unlock the door and wait. I sat on the stairs and looked out the front door, almost afraid to keep being in the same room with you because you kept looking at me with recognition and my heart would leap in the hopes that you were finally in there, only to have my hopes dashed when you’d repeat that same fucking line.

Then my phone rang, and I wondered if it was the 911 people calling me back. But no, my new wife, calling from her morning in Australia. Ringing several hours before our scheduled time because she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

I don’t remember what I said to her other than that the emergency people were there and I had to go. She was great, very understanding, and asked that I contact her when I could.

The firefighters came in with a stretcher and didn’t bother talking to you for long before laying it out and getting you onto it. You didn’t seem to recognise them, and were maybe even a little frightened, so you didn’t open your mouth as much as you had when I was there. But when you did, you repeated that same goddam line. When they’d taken you out to the ambulance and were opening the doors, you looked up at one of them pleadingly, then repeated it again.

“I just wanted to feel better!”

Almost as if you thought that somehow you were talking sense, that you were explaining you didn’t need to be hauled away to the Emergency Room. That they shouldn’t pump your stomach and hook your veins to an IV.

I watched them go and followed in my truck, ignoring various traffic laws as I caught up to them. By the time I saw them wheeling you into the ER I couldn’t tell if you were still maddeningly repetitive, and I had to circle around for a place to park.

Time blurs in my memory at this point. Perhaps I went in and waited for some interminable amount of time to be told what was going on. Perhaps I went outside and rang my wife and spoke to her to calm myself down. Perhaps I just paced around. I don’t know.

What I do know is that they took me up to the ICU as soon as you were there, and stuck you in a room that was kind of like a huge aquarium. They must have sedated you because you were asleep when I got there and I met Joe. Quite possibly the greatest nurse in the history of nursing, he was everything I could have ever wanted. He had a rather imposing voice and boomed his name at you when you shifted and looked around with anxiety.

Blessedly, you’d stopped repeating the line, but you weren’t speaking at all now. At some point, you’d nodded at something he’d said and we both got excited that you might be nearing lucidity, but you still never uttered a word. Better than before, but still terrifying.

Joe talked you through how they were going to hook you up to all the tubes and wires and you were compliant, to a point. When he talked you through the process of inserting the catheter, you jerked roughly, trying to sit up. He held you with a firm hand, smoothly commenting that he figured you wouldn’t like that, but you still didn’t speak.

He talked to me with that same smoothness, working with me and bouncing ideas off in our search for what it was that you had done. Neither of us came up with anything but he was an enormous help in what might have happened and what I should be looking for.

When the doctor came in, a person I don’t even remember at all, Joe was noticeably deferential but when I kept speaking up and pointing out things that Joe had thought of, I remember the doctor being kind of a dick about it at first, like Ken Jeong in Knocked Up, but then settling down and agreeing with every single one of Joe’s ideas and points.

When they left, it was like they hadn’t even been, but I let Joe know anyway that he had solid ideas and was fifty times more helpful than the white-coated egotist. He gave me a look and then told me he’d stay with you while I went out for a smoke. I worked my way out to the parking lot and found a pay phone, ringing my wife back and talking with her through it all. She was, of course, amazing.

But for however great Joe was, nothing could have prepared me for that night. Joe was on a long shift and had promised me that he wasn’t going to leave me for long. And I needed him. Every 5 to 15 minutes you’d wake up and thrash, trying to either escape your bed or tear your tubes out of your arms. Joe was there for enough of them that he started just sticking by, hovering either in the hallway or in the room itself.

Then an even bigger emergency pulled him away. Some car accident had helicoptered in and it was an all-hands situation. I was left alone with you and your thrashing, fighting self. Boy, you’re strong too. I had no idea how strong you really were until I was fighting you to keep you from ripping your IV out. You were seriously dehydrated, dangerously so, and those fluids were vital. And boy, you fought.

The cadence was always the same though, almost like your repeated phrase from earlier. Wake up startled, grab for either the covers to get up or the tubes to pull them out. I’d then grab your wrists and hold your flailing arms from doing any damage. You’d fight, pushing and pulling your arms this way and that, sometimes just straight pushing and straining as hard as you could, to the point that I’d use my weight and hold you back.

Then, as quickly as the fit came on, it would go. Your strength would leave your arms and you’d lay back down. Mostly to fall immediately back to sleep, sometimes to simply go limp, staring blankly out the window. Either one of them might precede yet another thrashing fit. Sometimes minutes, sometimes a half hour, but never farther apart than that.

This went on all night. The entire night.

At first, I didn’t want to sleep, knowing I had to stay on top of things, but then I’d just get my hands in ready positions and wait. It was hours until a nurse came back and all they had to say was to tell me about what was going on with the emergency, and that Joe had sent his apologies. When I said to them that you were waking randomly and trying to rip your catheter and IV out and that I was the only thing stopping you from doing it, the nurse looked relieved and even commented the thanks that I was there.

She didn’t offer to help though. They were still so short-staffed that I was on my own. All night.

The only time I started to notice larger and larger gaps between your fits was when the sky started to brighten a bit. By the time I realised you’d gone over an hour without fitting, it was 5am and I fell asleep in the uncomfortable chair by your bed.

At about 8am, the nurse came in and was bustling about, gently waking me so I could clear out of the way of them taking your vitals and emptying your urine bag. They seemed satisfied that the fluids they’d been pumping you full of were flushing through your system. Whatever it was, whatever you’d done to yourself, you were through the worst of it.

I was cautioned that I might never know the full extent of whatever you’d done to your brain. You might have some brain damage, you might have nothing wrong with you at all. Only time, and someone that knew you, would tell.

TBC…

Who’s telling all the stories?

Posted on June 4, 2023 by Judd

I don’t have a degree in Creative Writing. I haven’t even taken any classes. My degree is in Fine Arts because all they had for web-related stuff back in the day was called “Computer Science” and that didn’t quite fit for design.

I haven’t been traditionally published, I haven’t won any awards. I have only completed two manuscripts, run both through a smattering of Beta Readers, a pseudo-edit and then put ’em up on Amazon.

But… I have three kids. One adult who lives close by, one teenager who lives on the couch next to me and one pre-teen who lives in a little tent in the living room. All are neurodivergent, with the smallest being ASD-Severe. They take a lot of energy.

I have the best co-pilot in life with me, but it’s a lot of energy for both of us. She works very, very hard. Though she, like myself, is disabled.

We hurt, pretty much all the time. Something hurts, and sometimes it hurts badly enough that we’re unable to do things. Sometimes those things are big, like can’t always get up on the roof and clean the gutters out so Winter and its rains is Super Anxiety Times as to whether or not the house will flood. Sometimes those things are relatively small, like standing and walking. As one can imagine, that brings its own levels of anxiety.

And no, there is no help. We don’t have the money for things like hiring someone to do the gutters and the “Supports and Services” for people with disability are vague, ambiguous, difficult to track down and even harder to get them to give it to you clearly. If I wanted, I could get someone to come by and clip our toenails, do the dishes, take our little guy to the movies and drive us to the beach. But no one will come by for 15 minutes and cut the grass.

It’s a rather fuckety system. I haven’t given up trying though.

But the thing is, kids go to school, eat, play, talk, sing, dance and like treats and cartoons and stuff. I also like my wife so much that we spend every night together, streaming something cool and hanging out and flirting then creaking our way into bed way too late at night.

Where in there, if anywhere, is time to pump out the series of books, stories, novels and movie scripts that rattle around in my head?

Why is it that any time I see somebody that’s doing the job that I want, living the life of a published author that I dream of, they’ve got like, no kids, some sort of Writery Degree and have a backlist of about fifty books?

Oh sure, some of them have kids, and I’m sure their lives are all about them. But what is their co-pilot doing? Yep, making six-figures. I can tell you from Lived Experience, that making all that money makes some things a fuck of a lot easier. Only one of you spending 90% of their awake time ‘earning’ all that money means the other gets a lot more freedom.

When both of you spend 100% of your awake time looking after offspring or each other, getting just about anything else done is really, really hard.

But I can’t complain. I mean, I shouldn’t anyway. The ‘problem’ is me. Me and my skewed priorities.

See, I quit Corporate America for love and a new start far from my birthplace. Then I quit Corporate Australia for family. Then I quit Small Business Life to look after my people better. Now, instead of writing all these novels, I’m making cheese toasties and listening to what happened in dreams last night and watching Kangaroo Beach and playing with slime and giving endless pets to a Spoiled Rabbit on my lap. I’ll make a tea for my lovely co-pilot and then struggle in the toilet for 20 minutes.

I could ignore all these things and pump out novel after novel but, much like the six-figure job and careers and shit, it’s just not worth not doing all the other things.

My brother David was a cat.

Posted on May 30, 2023 by Judd

Cats, unlike dogs, don’t pursue your affection. They won’t sacrifice their own dignity for your attention, and they will refuse to engage in anything that endangers their ego, pride or public-facing image. And it will always, always, do whatever the fuck it wants.

A cat won’t sully itself for your love. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t want it. A cat will sit by the window sill, on a perch, somewhere removed, yet still present. Does it hide away under a bed? Does it escape and run as far away as possible?

No, it stays nearby, but just out of reach. Aside from food, engagement with you is on its terms, and only on its terms. And if food is involved, if the cat’s very survival is in your hands, well then yes, they’ll engage with you. A cat will harass you, make noise, follow you and be in your face, even giving you loving attention, because they want food. Once they get it, they are ungracious and ungrateful, going back to doing whatever the fuck they want. You haven’t earned their love simply because you control their survival, you’ve only earned engagement.

But you can earn their love. It just takes years, and you’ll only ever know because they haven’t run away. It won’t be something that you feel every day. A cat’s love is something you’ll only know by its proximity to you. If it stays near you and allows you to love it, then you’ve earned your place with them.

A cat cannot change its nature, nor would it ever want to. It is what it is and it doesn’t even have pride in what it is because that would suggest it has built itself into something or gone through some sort of transformative process. No, a cat is the most supreme arrogance. A cat doesn’t change or grow into anything that you’ll be able to quantify. They’ll never be or do anything purely for someone else’s benefit.

A cat is self-serving, self-absorbed, arrogant and removed. But you can love a cat. You can love it with your whole heart, regardless of anything it is, or does or doesn’t do. You can give all your love to a cat and at the end of their too-short lives never really know the depths of their love for you, or if they even did at all.

Loving a cat is more about you than it is about the cat. It says more about the person you are, the heart that you have that you choose to open up and give to this animal that is incapable of giving back equally in return.

Often, there are even multiple households that will love one cat. If that cat shows up at just the right time in any given window sill, sliding glass door, or even front stoop, they’ll receive a greeting and be welcome in some random home. They’ll come when called, no faster or slower than anywhere else, regardless if they’re being called “Bootsie”, “Bonbon”, “Banjo” or “Buttons”. They’ll show no more love or loyalty to their original “owner” than the retired gent two doors down that puts out the expensive tinned food and then goes inside and leaves it the hell alone.

A cat doesn’t want to be around you if you’re too affectionate, smothering it in your love. A cat will seem to want to be around someone who doesn’t want it around at all, finding the random in the crowd that’s allergic, or claims to not be a Cat Person. They sense the challenge, and pursue it. The same as having to earn your place with them, they’ll endeavour to earn favour from someone removed from them. Someone that’s not a push-over. Someone that’s not going to make it easy on them. Someone that doesn’t need them.

Because that’s the easiest for a cat. To not need and to not be needed. Then everything that happens in the relationship is more dignified. The transactional nature of their interactions will be to feed their ego, if not their bellies. They’ll respect you more the more you respect them.

For these people, the cat will appear to have more affection, loyalty, love. But at the end of the day, no matter who you are, or how you are, none of you will ever truly control a cat. It will always do whatever the fuck it wants, serving its own interests first and foremost. And if it appears to be doing something for you, be that a gift of a dead mouse or gentle licks on the back of your hand, it’s ultimately for the benefit of the cat. The gift is so you’ll keep feeding and housing them. They lick your hand because they want you to pet them. They follow you around the house until you feed them. They are always, always, looking out for themselves.

But that doesn’t mean they don’t love you, and it doesn’t mean you’re a fool for loving them. Because while you can’t know what their love truly looks like, you know what your own does. How it feels to love that cat. Even how it feels to share that cat, to know that others are loving it and it might be loving someone else despite the depth and breadth of the love you give.

Loving a cat says more about you than it does the cat. But if something can be said about the cat that all of you loved, it’s that this particular cat seemed to find pretty good people who gave their love. Even if every memory shared is in some way an example of the aloof, removed, self-absorbed nature that is inherent to a cat, the fact that whomever sharing it had such an open heart and so much love to give says a lot.

And it says more about you than it does the cat.

I was with Stan Grant, until the bit about “God”.

Posted on May 28, 2023 by Judd

I’ve always respected news media types that stick their neck out there. That talk shit and back it up. Stan Grant’s always been a favourite of mine for these very things.

When it came time to crown a new king, I was surprised at how excited everyone was for it, while completely ignoring the fact that the coronation represents hundreds and hundreds of years of colonisation and subjugation of the indigenous peoples of many lands.

I mean… that’s not a small thing. The indigenous peoples of Australia are still feeling it, all day-every day. There are many that are scarred, traumatised, broken for life, by having been ripped from their loving parents arms under the White Australia Policy. Same as the Apsalooka tribes of my homeland in Montana, being taken to Government Schools, cut their hair and wash their mouths out with soap when they spoke their own language. It was common, it was The Way You Did Things.

And the monarchy is where all that started. It came from the top and trickled down. To me personally, the Royals have been little more than tabloid fodder for the entirety of my life, doing nothing notable in any practical way. Then all of a sudden there’s this New King and everyone’s paying attention like the royal family is still relevant.

Which is fine, if they are, I have nothing to say about that. Except for what they represent to the people that are still hurting from their lasting effects. Every continent in the world has been affected. So it IS relevant and Stan Grant was RIGHT.

He was right. And he got shit on for it. And his detractors were WRONG.

Then they were worse than wrong, they were racist and wrong. Then they were wrong BECAUSE they were racist. F*ck’s sake, that’s as obvious as the problems with colonialisation.

And Stan had a gutful of it. Not just that, but the very organisation that employs him and gives him this Huge Voice, didn’t support him. He wrote articles on it, they had heaps of coverage on it, but his voice was alone coming from the ABC. They have many First Nations presenters, yet they didn’t stand up for ANY of them, let alone Stan.

So he quit. He walked away. Or is “taking a break” or whatever term we use so as to not make things TOO final.

And he wrote a good and powerful and scathing One Last Thing.

And I liked it and I supported it and I was Standing With Stan all the way until…

*record scratch*

God?

I am not perfect. But I try to live a good life. I try to be kind. I love my family. I love my people. I love the idea of what our country could be. I am a person of God and I know God is on the side of justice.

Sadly, it seems there is no place in the media for love, kindness, goodness or God. There is no place in the media for respect.

The first reference to “god” didn’t set me spinning. I have no interest in someone’s beliefs provided they don’t infringe upon others. It’s the second reference that shits me off.

“No place in the media for God”?!?

I’m sorry, Stan, but are you out of your f*cking mind?

You’ve got a huge brain, a huge personality and a huge voice. You are a man of power, a man of conviction and someone with influence. An integral and vital representative to your native Wiradjuri and First Nations people EVERYWHERE.

Yet you, yourself, can’t even see what you’re doing. Let’s assume you’re not just talking about the Abrahamic Religions, let’s say you’re talking about Christianity. Do you REALLY think that Western Culture is lacking in representation of Christianity?

I grew up being inundated with Christian teachings. I’ve read the Bible and completed Confirmation in a Protestant Church. Love, kindness and goodness are not separate from the concept of “God” in the context of the media.

I’ll put it simply: “God” has no place in media. Because we’re not all Christians, Stan. Most of us aren’t. “God” gets plenty of f*cking airtime, Stan. In EVERYTHING. “God” isn’t missing a place in the media, Stan. That’s not how this works.

Now’s when things get uncomfortable.

Also, Stan, I have a problem with your Christian god. I have no interest in changing your beliefs though. I simply want to point out a few things you might be missing.

You’re against colonialisation. You’re not happy with the monarchy’s role in that. You’re against White Australia and I’m going to ASSUME that you’re against the systemic and systematic attempted genocide of your people’s culture.

Do you realise that the Christian god came along with that?

Literally, you can’t have one without the other. Colonialisation, subjugation, systematic genecidal racism… and Christianity.

They ALL go together. ALWAYS. EVERYWHERE.

I am a white dude and I have ZERO AUTHORITY to speak on the matters of First Nations peoples and their belief systems. But I will say, on a personal level, it makes my skin crawl to hear a First Nations person mention their belief in the Christian god.

65,000 years of your culture were overwritten by 200 years of subjugation, and you’re against that. But they brought along this New God, so that part’s okay?

That part, for me, simply doesn’t compute.

TLDR; I stand with Stan Grant, until he brings “God” into it. Then I point out that his god came along with all the shit he purports to have a problem with and is arguably as bad as the rest of it.

I used to be aspiring, but I’d limited myself.

Posted on May 25, 2023 by Judd

It was posts like this one: Aspiring Writers Need to Quit NOW that used to make me feel super-emboldened and legit, but I could never seem to follow it up in execution. I ended up writing neither more nor less as a result.

It was only when I was doing the usual, trying to carve out writing time during an otherwise busy life, and Wifeage called me out. I can’t remember if I was complaining about not having enough time to finish a novel or not (though I probably was) but she sat me down and said only this:

You’re a writer. And writers, write.

I have never looked back since. I’ve finished two sci-fi-esque novels as part of a series and have outlined and plotted out at least 4 more in that universe. I’ve just passed the 50% mark in the Coming-of-Age/YA novel that’s sort of a reimagined memoir about a young man moving from Montana to Perth, and I’ve got about a third of the way through a crime novel set in the same universe too.

Not to mention at least a half-dozen other novel ideas based on awesome dreams I’ve had, and at least a dozen short stories that I’ve either submitted or plan to for various contests. Only two have won/shortlisted in anything, but still, that’s alright.

Anyway. thanks to people like Kristen that Rah-Rah all us writers. And thanks to Wifeage who remains my muse, my motivation, my biggest supporter.

Israel Folau Was Wrong

Posted on May 17, 2023 by Judd

And he can get fucked.

It’s a tale as old as time: He’s good at sport, therefore we should just let him do as he pleases.

The ABC is clearly a fan of his with the first in a two-part documentary getting masturbated all over their website and social media. An article about a documentary that is undoubtedly full of the same. Worship of his athletic accomplishments.

He’s good at running with a ball on a field. Awesome.

He also tweeted hateful shit. The article, and all his supporters, are all about Free Speech and Freedom of Religion. Those things are great, but nowhere did they mention the gun to his head that forced him to write that all homosexuals will burn in hell.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about your religious beliefs, but Hate Speech is an easy one. If what you’re saying is actively HURTING OTHER PEOPLE in a marginalised group, then it’s Hate Speech.

And he got fired for it.

Good.

How can you call yourselves good people when what you spout from your mouths at others actively hurts them, causes them pain, and even kills some of them?

Read, and believe, anything you want from a really old book. Just don’t post it. Simples.

Not doing great.

Posted on May 1, 2023 by Judd

How Am I Doing – 30/04/2023

[EDIT: 3.35pm 01/05/2023 – Originally a text file on my desktop, I have put it here.]
Not doing great, if I’m being honest. Still get sad, but now am feeling more and more removed and cynical and untrusting of others. Email from Cathie didn’t help. She makes me FEEL like I want to care, like I want to get closer to her. But then I remember all the times she’s made me feel like I did something wrong, like I am/was somehow wrong.

She just never missed a chance to remind me of that. The whole time Jo was there in her house, it would be Jo saying “Wasn’t he just wonderful!” or “Oh, what a cute little guy!” and Cathie would always, ALWAYS follow with “Oh, he was no angel!” in her firm voice.

Man, fuck that. I was a good fucking kid. And what the fuck did she know about it anyway? Did she ever pick me up from school for being naughty? Did my dad? Did either of them sit in a Parent-Teacher Conference and have to hear about anything awful I’d done?

What did I ever do to HER? I was stuck at her place for hours, days sometimes, with no other kids to play with and nothing to fucking do. I was stoked when I got to play on the computer, but the “Emergency Teleport” button was the space bar, and it was quite far away from the arrow pad that moved the little space ship. So when an asteroid was about to smash me, I had to quickly reach across and try and hit that space bar to teleport. It sounded hard, because space bars make slightly more noise than any other key.

Did she come in and politely ask me not to bang on the keyboard because computers are expensive? Did she come in and ask me why I’d banged on the keyboard? Nope, just a medium roar from the next room, “DON’T BANG ON THE KEYBOARD.”

I got one warning. One. If it happened again, in any manner, I was kicked off the computer for the rest of that visit and the entirety of the next one. For hitting the space key too hard. Because I was trying to emergency teleport.

But she never knew that, because she never cared. She never showed any interest in anything I did, ever. She never came to a concert, nor a football game (not even the ones in her town). I was shoved in the corner of her house and expected to play quietly. The toys there never got better as the years went by and I was absolutely, categorically NOT allowed in Jamel’s room in the converted attic. I was one told I could play with her brand-new Rubik’s cube and I got so close to solving one side but I just couldn’t figure it out. When I saw that the stickers were basically layers of plastic laying on the squares, I got my fingernail under one and it came off clean. Then the other one did too, so I swapped ’em. I felt guilty and stupid, but then forgot about it.

Jamel, being brilliant, came home and took one look at it.
“Did you swap the stickers?”
I wanted to lie. “Yes.” I hung my head.
“K, don’t… do that again.” She was pissed and went all quiet.

I wasn’t allowed to play with her stuff ever again. Not even shit she’d outgrown that sat in bags or boxes in the spare room. That stuff was for other people, promised to other kids. Not me.

Fuck I hated going to Cathie’s. And she never came to ours. Stepped foot in our house once in 1988 when we bought Denny’s truck and gave him a Going Away Party before he left for Perth. Other than that, I think she was there briefly when I graduated, but I don’t really remember that either.

So yeah, I’m a bit… sensitive these days. And I’m feeling quite bitter at anyone in my family. I still can’t believe Becky’s post. That was such shit and made me feel like complete shit. They’re all such shit, my family. Why are so many people such shit? *I* don’t think *we* are shit. I fucking love my little family. They’re wonderful people and I think they’re the best around.

Anyway. I’m not doing great. Pretty sensitive to things. Pretty sad sometimes, melancholic, then overly-sensitive. Trying so hard not to be too bitter, to be to reactive or sad or grumpy or shitty.

Kind of feel like shit today. Hate Mondays like Garfield, but hate bad sleep and bad wakings worse.

And all I’m doing is fucking whinging about it now. Just too… nostalgic isn’t the right word. Thinking about the past, I guess. Fuck that shit, and fuck all of them.