Wilderness Not Wreckage: Cultural and Suburban Landscapes

What are they doing? These people, who I trust, have changed everything. They have moved furniture, dessimated the garden (and I spend more time there than anyone) and created an olfactory nightmare. I inhale the sickly stench of acrid bodies and fettid clothing.

I am essentially conservative, although I have been complimented previously on how well I deal with moving home and the associated stress.

We are where we live. Are we where we live? Are you Australian, Melbournian, Brunswickian, or one who lives in your house by your values? You can more easily share with people with shared experiences, from the same culture, but who is to say national culture is more entire of itself than popular culture or alternative culture? I wonder about the European Project- some countries are more Euro-federalist than others- a group of individuals identified as a nation whose character means that they want to be consumed into a larger entity. I suppose some critic has articulated this clearly. But what will make me feel better as I stalk around the wilting stubble and spent debris?

The Bald and the Beautiful

That Man was here again today, watching me as I sat in the garden. He is circumspect with me, and possibly too polite. What power does he think I have? Perhaps he thinks that if he opens doors for me and calls me by my full name I will suddenly adore him. Haven't these people noticed that sometimes I avoid their touch, and lower my back as I pass to avoid their pawing?

He doesn't anthropomorphise me, thankfully. But he infantilises me. Last night I sat on him, and as he removed me in order to leave, he referred to me as 'youngster'. Is it the fate of my race to be considered eternally youthful? Is this akin to black men being called 'boy'?

I saw an advertisement today that asked: "are you sick of cute furry pets?". It suggested Yabbies as pets. Rather than alternatives to the cute and furries, perhaps they should be pets for the cute and furries? She is my giant Yabbie, although I have never told her. But I think she knows.

Am I jealous? If I was I couldn't admit to it. All those times we stared at each other in bed before sleeping curled up together. She still invites me into her bed, but I know her mind is elsewhere, and although she still says she loves me, I suspect that is is an absent and thoughtless love. She leaves the house for long periods of time, and I know she is with him, and she arrives home, happy and loud, and holds me, guiltily, before going to bed, exhausted.

Nick Cave once poignantly asked "do you love me, like I love you?"

Does she love me, and do I love her? Does he love her, does he love me? Can he accept and acknowledge me in the way I deserve?