American Beauty III: Operator

Operator, can you help me, help me if you please.

The thing that I remember most about Sunday night in the emergency room was how gradually intense the scene got and how slow I was to understand the damage I’d done. The whole evening was surreal and overwhelming, and I’d like to first take a moment to thank  the E.R. staff at Fremantle Hospital for their care and compassion.  Those guys rock.

The triage nurse sat in front of me in the emergency room lobby, asking questions about my head, had I blacked out, when had I last eaten, what time did this happen, where are you from? She seemed to focus on my head and every time I’d answer her questions I’d follow with a comment like, “I’m much more worried about my elbow…” “What are you doing in Australia, how long have you been here?” Please, just look at the elbow! As she was wrapping my head in a bolt of gauze, I could see that my arm was still bleeding, and that drops of bright red blood had trailed in behind me from the door.

All the while my arm was getting worse and worse. It hadn’t started hurting until I was in the car – an adrenaline effect, I’m sure. Now, it would tense up and seize every few minutes; if I concentrated I could stop it, but it took a lot of effort.

Eventually the nurse asked me to sit in the waiting area; soon I would be called inside. There were a few people in the lobby, and all of them were trying politely to not stare. I overheard one of the nurses say something about me qualifying for “fast-tracking”, which I assumed meant that it wouldn’t be a long wait. Good – Freo hospital is a big, bustling hospital and I was anticipating I’d be competing for attention with drunken sailors, bogun drivers and deadly snakebites. Daniel was sitting with me, and I asked him to tell Kate and Pete about the tickets I had left for them. I gave him my wallet and house keys – I don’t know why – and within ten minutes a nurse came through the doors calling my name.

They put me in a bed and, pulling a curtain closed, told me to rest. I could hear next to me a little girl crying. Machines were beeping, and voices drifted back and forth beyond the drapes. I really hate hospitals. Aside from babies, nothing good comes out of them. I’ve never had to stay in one, but my sister was in and out of them as a kid, and the tinny sounds, the sickly odour of hospital food and iodine, the badly lit pastels of cement walls… they take me to some unpleasant places. And there I was, shrouded in mint-green sheets and white noise.

Before long the triage nurse came back, bringing another nurse with her. She explained that the new nurse was going to coordinate my care, organise x-rays and such. She related to the coordinator my details, and before disappearing through the curtain, she gave me a worried smile. “You’re very brave,” she said. Her accent was slightly British, and I almost laughed at her – how can I say this? I felt like a character out of a Winnie the Pooh story. Just from the tone of her (very kind and sincere) voice, I half expected her to return with tea and scones.

The Coordinator Nurse examined me again, asked a few questions – was I ever unconscious, when did this happen, when had I last eaten, where was I from, how long was I here for? She explained that soon I would be sent for an x-ray, possibly a CAT scan, and she would try to engage a surgery team as soon as possible. Surgery? I thought. Team?

She left, and in came a third nurse. She bustled about, checking my dressings, taking notes. Was I ever unconscious, when did this happen, when had I last eaten? I was focusing on keeping my arm from shivering out of its skin. She was busy at the station behind my head, and she stopped suddenly and turned to me. “Have you been given any medication?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you in pain? You must be in pain.”

“Umm, yeah, a little.”

“A little!” she snorted. “Would you like some drugs? I can give you drugs, sweetheart, but you have to ask for them. Do you want medication for the pain?” This feels very philosophical, very melodramatic…

“Yes, please…”

“Right! Morphine it is.” She gave me a dose, not too much, but for sure I could ignore my throbbing elbow after that. “Now,” she said. “Let’s get you undressed.” Uh, what? “You can’t go into surgery dressed like that, honey.” Oh. Sure.  Probably not a good time to be shy. Together we gingerly peeled my clothes off, stripping me down to just my bra and panties.* My mobile phone clattered out of my pocket. She stashed the clothes in the console under the bed, and pulled a sheet over me; she handed me the phone. “You’ll probably want this.” I am naked in a hospital, clutching a phone. This is new.

Soon Coordinator Nurse wheeled me to the x-ray room; a handsome fellow set about manipulating my arm under the crosshairs of the camera. He asked me the same questions: When did this happen, where was I from, what was I doing in Australia, how long was I here for, what did you say you’re studying, Implant Pathology? I’m naked, was all I could think. I overheard the technicians whistle at the film. “Yeah, that’s dust,” they said.

this is what a normal elbow looks like

*poof*

*crumple*

Next I was delivered to the CAT scan room. It took some body wrangling (naked! Naked!) to get me and the arm positioned in the tubular machine for the image. “You’re going to hear a voice tell you to hold your breath. It’s American, you’ll probably feel at home.” Yes, when I think of Mom, robot body scanner is exactly what comes to mind. They left the room and the machine began to spin. “Hold your breath!” commanded Mother. Twenty seconds later, “Breathe!” Yes ma’am.

When they returned me to my bay, Nurse Three was waiting for me. I asked if there would be time to make a phone call. Yes, she said, go ahead. It would have been about three a.m. in Georgia when I rang my parents. I considered briefly how best to start this conversation. I hoped that my dad would pick up. The phone rang four times, and I hung up before the answering machine could answer. I rang through again, and my mom picked up on the third ring, obviously half-asleep and confused. “Mom, it’s me.”

“Who?”

“Mom, I have to talk to you, I need you to wake up.”

“Uh…”

“Mom, I’m in a hospital, I’ve been in an accident. I have to have surgery.” She groaned, and I could hear the panic that she couldn’t vocalise. “Do you want me to talk to Dad?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay, give the phone to dad.” Dad took over, and I repeated myself. “I’ve been in an accident, on my bike, I think I’ve broken my arm badly, but I have to have surgery. I have to go under.” I instructed him to call Daniel at home; we were stuck on telephone numbers when another handsome man (naked! Naked!) walked into my bay. “Dad, I have to go. I’ll try to call again, I love you.”

The man was my surgeon-to-be. He took a long, slow, deep breath before explaining my condition to me. My humerus (upper arm bone) was fractured at the distal (bottom) end quite badly. The olecranon – the bony knob of the elbow, which comes off the proximal (upper) end of the ulna (one of the two lower arm bones – was pulverised. All the bony bits between the major bones were also shattered. Maybe the radius (the other bone of the lower arm) was intact, it was hard to tell from all the debris. The cut on my arm exposed all those fragments of bone to the world, and left me open to infection. “There is about a six-hour window between an incident and surgery before bone infection is likely. We will be cutting very close to the deadline to get you into surgery.”

“Okay.”

“You must understand this is a very serious injury. I’m not sure what we can accomplish. Do you understand how serious this is?”

I was starting to. “I understand.” He recited the dangers of surgery and anaesthetic, and asked me to sign a consent form.  He awkwardly squeezed my hand and left.

After he left, Nurse Three returned with a fourth nurse sporting an Irish accent. Irish Nurse would prepare me for surgery by scrubbing the nail polish from my toes and removing jewellery. She asked if I had any other jewellery on than my three earrings (which were put into a pee cup). “No”. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Yes, I… I think so.”  Three days later I would realize that I had left a little silver stud in my nose.  Hmm.  Triage Nurse returned to wish me luck, and told me again, ”You’re ever so very brave!”.  “You have a beautiful disposition,”said Irish Nurse.  Nurse Three gave me another shot of morphine and told me to rest. My next stop would be the Surgery Theatre.

I took the opportunity to call my parents again and was able to have a decent conversation. I related the surgeon’s discussion. I was suddenly nervous about taking the general anaesthetic. We said our goodbyes and I hung up.

Just before nine p.m., probably four or four-and-a-half hours after I entered the hospital’s lobby, I was wheeled towards the theatre. At every doorway it seemed a new orderly, nurse or doctor would join the train following my gurney, each asking the same questions – when did this happen, when did you last eat, what are you doing in Australia, how long have you been here, what are you studying, what’s Plant Mythology? I felt positively celeb.

After dozens of doors and the same eight questions, they pushed my gurney next to a bed and shifted me over. Everyone was cheery and chatting. The anaesthesiologist put a mask over my face and said, “You’re just going to breathe some cold oxygen for a little bit.” Some funny-smellin’ oxygen… It occurred to me I should thank them, and wish them luck. I wanted to apologise for making them work on a Sunday night. I fell asleep.

*I was wearing “good underwear.” They might have been manky with blood, but Ann Landers would have been proud.

I don’t know where she’s going, I don’t care where she’s been,
Long as she’s doin’ it right. Long as she’s doin’ it right

American Beauty II: Sugar Magnolia

Well, she can dance a Cajun rhythm, jump like a Willy’s in four wheel drive.
She’s a summer love in the spring, fall and winter. She can make happy any man alive.

(Warning: this gets kind of gruesome, reader beware.)

A few months ago I decided to buy a bike; I want to get fit, and as the spring turns to summer I need to find a faster way to get to campus.  I‘m organising a big glasshouse trial on campus, and will soon be at a point where I’ll need to check my plants daily, even on weekends.  It takes me about 25 min to walk to campus, and that just can’t happen once it’s over 90˚F/32˚C.  A bicycle would make the jaunt so much more tolerable.

I probably wouldn’t ride it much elsewhere; while the quiet neighbourhood streets are nice for cruising, I’m surrounded by fast and busy roads that are terrifyingly unsafe for cyclists.  For that matter, Australian motorists are not sympathetic towards their two-wheeled cousins.  I’m told it’s worse in WA than back east, but I’ve heard some scary stories and seen some unbelievable abuse of cyclists just outside on South Street.  Furthermore, the Transperth buses will not carry bikes, and the trains do not allow bikes on board during commute hours.  Not progressive, Perth…

I wanted a hybrid, or commuter bike, which is to say something between a mountain bike and a street racer.  It usually has narrower tires, and a lighter but relaxed frame for comfortable upright riding. I didn’t want a woman’s frame (they’re always too short) nor any pansy suspension, and was willing to shell out a few hundred dollars for something strong and durable.  I found a special online for a local store, a closeout on Kona’s 2009 Smoke: a sleek, butted chromoly frame (read: strong and shock-absorbent) with quality gears, including mudflaps and a bell, all for 600$AU, down from 750$AU.  I asked for an opinion from my good buddy Matt, who loves his bikes so much he’s sacrificed body parts to them.  He was enthusiastic, said it was just what I wanted, so I went into Fleet Cycles to test it out.

Being the end of the year, they were low on stock, and had only the 16” and 20” models left.  Both were outsized but otherwise satisfactory; I asked if there were a chance of ordering or acquiring the 18” somehow.  True to Australian-style Customer Service, the helpful clerk shrugged and said “Ehhh, maybe.  Not really.”  What about next-year’s model? “We won’t be carrying Kona’s next year.”

I shopped around town for a few more weeks, but couldn’t find anything else that satisfied me.  I changed tack and started calling around looking for Kona dealers.  There’s one left in the state, in Guildford, just east of Perth.  I called Des at Guildford Bicycles; he was also out of the model, but would happily order one for me from back east.  Des recognized my accent and asked where I was from.  “Northern California,” I said.

“Ah!  Where?”

“North of San Francisco.”

“…Where north of San Fran?”

“Sonoma County,”

“Ah!” he cried.  “I used to spend a lot of time around there in the 70’s.  Used to hitchhike up and down that Highway One, until the pot farmers got dangerous.  My sister lives in L.A.  Or the Lunatic Asylum, as I like to call it.”

This was my man.  I placed an order for the 18” Smoke, untested.  It felt right.

Two weeks later on Saturday 31^st October, I borrowed a car from work and picked up the bike.  I took a ride around the parking lot, gave him my credit card, and the bike was mine.  Des gave me an owner’s manual, a vial of patch-up paint, and reminded me to bring the bike back in thirty days for a complimentary tune-up.   “Take the train,” he said.  “You don’t need a car.”  I hadn’t known the train stopped in Guildford.  “Will do,” said I.  I loaded the bike in the car and headed back to Kardinya.  Because of some social activities I didn’t have time to ride the bike that afternoon.

The next day I went out for our ritual weekend pancake breakfast with Daniel; after that I needed to go to campus, then was set to meet my friends Kate and Peter in Freo for dinner before a concert – Gomez at the Fly By Night.  I was really excited for the show, I love this band and have missed many an opportunity in the past to see them in San Francisco.  I drove the car and the bike to campus, did my chores, and headed home.  It’s a pretty, short ride, perhaps 1.5mi/2.5km, that goes from my building, around the vet school, past the horses in the paddocks and up Discovery Way.  This is the backside of campus, flanked by scrubby bush that’s often used for regional studies and practical field trips.  At the corner of campus I take the driveway that divides a partially developed retirement village and the Murdoch Sports Oval (even though we’ve got no teams; it’s used by a local high school and community teams, as well as a Frisbee gang.  Then I head up over the hill that divides Murdoch and Kardinya communities; just over the crest is my house.  It’s a really lovely walk in the spring, and heat and sun aside, it will be a nice ride as the year gets on.

It was a jubilantly warm day, and I was only wearing jeans, a tank top I normally sleep in, my tevas and sunglasses; in one pocket was my mobile phone and in the other was a hat I had taken for protection in the glasshouse.  The sun is really bright here and even though I’d put sunscreen on earlier, I could feel that solar tingle on my shoulder.  I was feeling really good, enjoying the bike – it rides really well.  As I was turning the last street corner, heading down the last slope towards my driveway, the hat stuffed in my pocket started to work its way out of my pocket; I reached down to shove it back into place.

What happened next I’ve only pieced together over the last few days.  I remember the bike picked up speed, and started to wobble.  I grabbed the right brake lever, but being a new bike it caught quickly and stopped the wheel.  I remember the sudden, horrific realization that I had pulled the front, not the rear brake.  The next thing I can remember was that my face was skidding on the pavement.

The explanation is this – I pulled, as any cyclist is taught to do, on what I thought was the rear brake – engaging the front brake at speed will flip a bicyclist (and motorcyclists) off the bike.  However, brake levers are oriented according to which side of the road motorists drive on.  It’s so that a cyclist can signal with the appropriate hand and rear-break safely with the other.  In the U.S., the cyclist would signal cars on their left, so the rear brake is situated on the right handlebar.  In Australia, it’s the other way around.

This would have been a good thing to know.  I didn’t officially know this as a policy, but I had noticed before that the brakes seemed backward.  In this moment of panic I didn’t think, I braked instinctively, and my beautiful new bike kicked me off.

I don’t think I passed out.  I rolled over and noticed my right arm felt funny; my eyes were stinging and my face wet.  I tried to stand up and couldn’t – I looked down at my arm and it… it wasn’t there.  I had this sudden, dissociated sensation:  I knew I was looking at my arm, or where it should be, but it wasn’t there.   Somehow, I stood up.  Ah, there it is, hanging off my shoulder, but this dizzy, displaced sensation told me something wasn’t right.

Blood poured down my face.  Quickly, my shirt was soaked, and my jeans and underwear were pulled down past my right hip, which was bloodied and grotty.  I looked around, wondering if anyone had seen me; no one came out of doors.  The street was quiet.  Should I call for help? Go home, I told myself.  Awkwardly, I hitched my pants up – decency is a strong instinct – picked up my phone and hat, which had scattered out of my pockets, grabbed my sunglasses which also must have fallen off, picked up the bike and walked myself the rest of the couple hundred feet/100m to my front door, my arm dangling strangely.  I live in a small apartment complex, and while I don’t know my neighbours well, I know their routines well enough.  The couple across the way with the six-month-old baby was home, their front door open.  I must look awful, I thought.  I considered knocking on their door but didn’t.  I was, I don’t know, embarrassed. I knew Daniel should be home any minute, so I set the bike down, and set about to washing my face and arm at the spigot next to the front door.  Huge, gelatinous clots of blood washed off.  This is bad, I thought.  I checked my arm again; it was bleeding badly from the backside.  I could sort of flex the muscles on my own, but when I bent the arm to fold it up against my stomach it made a series of crunchy, grinding noises.  This is really bad…

I called Daniel on my mobile and asked where he was; he was just leaving work in South Perth, and was straight on his way home.  I told him I thought I needed to get to the emergency room, I’d fallen off my bike and something was wrong.  I hung up and stood still.  By now my pants were red, my shirt drenched, and although my head didn’t seem to be bleeding so badly, I could still feel the warmth on my face.

I need a towel, I thought.  I knew it would take Daniel about half an hour to get home, probably about as long as an ambulance would, and I couldn’t stand in the driveway bleeding like a horror film.  I took off my shoes, rinsed my feet in the tap, and kicked off what excess fluid I could.  I opened the door, dashed inside as gracefully as I could over Daniel’s white Berber carpet to the bathroom.  In the mirror I could see a deep long gash over my right eye, a huge scrape down my right cheek, and my right shoulder was burned raw, with bits of gravel embedded.  This is so bad… I wrapped my arm in one of my towels and set about wiping off my face, hip and shoulder with a washcloth.  The smell of blood was overpowering.

I remembered that I was due to meet Kate and Pete for the concert; I had the tickets.  I probably wouldn’t make it (this is where the nonsensical thinking really begins) but I didn’t want them to miss it on my behalf.

After a few minutes, once I was convinced I was sufficiently dry to move again, I dashed into my room, grabbed the tickets from my desk and headed out the door. I put the tickets under a flower pot.  I desperately wanted to sit down but there was nowhere to sit, and I knew I’d have a hard time getting back up from the ground.  I paced the carport for another ten minutes before Daniel pulled in.  I suggested he get some blankets, I was still badly bleeding and the towel around my arm was nearly soaked.  He grabbed some from inside the house, helped me get in his car, and we set off for the Fremantle Hospital.  There is another hospital nearby, St. John of God, which is closer – just on the far side of campus – but it’s private, and I’m not sure how my student’s overseas health care feels about private vs. public services.

Daniel made the 6mi/10km drive to the hospital quickly; for the first time in probably 45 minutes I was able to catch my breath; before my arm hadn’t hurt much, it just felt so odd and far away; now it was seizing and aching, grinding with every pothole and bump in the road.  It was probably five o’clock when Daniel walked me into the emergency room lobby; a nurse with a shocked, serious expression came from behind the admitting window.  Dan handed me off to her and ran out to park his car.  She sat me down and set about asking me questions, moving her gaze back and forth from my eyes to my injuries.  She was taking notes on a small steno pad.   She started talking about admitting me to the emergency room.  Oh, no, I realized; I’m going into hospital. This day started off so beautifully and is ending so… not.

Light out singin’, I’ll walk you in the morning sunshine
Sunshine, daydream.

American Beauty I: Box of Rain

Something very epic and disarming (haha) has happened.  I’ve shattered my elbow in a bicycle accident, experienced the Australian public health system, had to confront – yet again – the meaning of life and stuff, and now am single-handedly (haha) getting back into the swing of things.  Rather than writing one very long post, I’ve decided to break it up into sections – which, knowing me, will still be long.  Plus lately it’s taking me a lot longer than usual to type, so at least I can publish this in chunks.

Some of you might have noticed that I like to title my posts with song lyrics.  Keeping with tradition I’ve spent some time wondering how best to lyrically present the saga of what I’ve been up to for the last week.  I’ve decided on one of my all-time favourite albums; it may not seem like the most obvious choice as a metaphor for this moment in my life, but then again perhaps it is.  The lyrics are meaningful to me, the music beautiful, and… I’m not a very good Northern Californian girl if I don’t at least once bring up The Grateful Dead.

Published in 1970, American Beauty is the Dead’s fifth and probably most approachable album. I wouldn’t call myself a deadhead, but I’m deeply attached to these songs. They’re always on my ipod, and back when I had a car, the CD was required listening material for roadtrips.  Some of these songs instantly take me back to Nevada, Utah, SoCal…

The title artwork on the album cover is ambigramic – you can read it as “American Beauty”, “American Reality”, or if you turn the album upside down and view in a mirror, the title reads “Devils Kingdom”.  Trippy…

The first track of the album, Box of Rain, was written by one of the band members to comfort and console his father, dying of cancer.  Not a good way to start, I know, but the general meaning of the song, I suppose, is “life may be ugly, but it’s also beautiful”. The box of rain is meant to refer to the Earth.

Below is a home-made video using the studio version of the song; couldn’t find a satisfying live version (surprise…), so if you aren’t familiar with the music you can tune in there and listen along; I’ll do this with upcoming posts as well, if i can.  thumbs up to the guy who made the video, he’s obviously concerned about water catchment/mining issues in Central America.

So, pour yourself a nice cup of chamomile tea, turn on the hi-fi, and load side one.  We’re going on tour!  Let’s hit the road (haha…ha).

It’s just a box of rain
I don’t know who put it there
Believe it if you need it
or leave it if you dare
But it’s just a box of rain
or a ribbon for your hair
Such a long long time to be gone
and a short time to be there

springtime can kill you

The weather has been absolutely gorgeous the last few weeks; they say spring doesn’t last long in WA, so there’s not much time left.  It takes me about twenty-five minutes to walk from my house, behind the retirement village, and along the backside of campus to where I work at the far end of the university.   Suddenly everything has exploded with blossoms and babies.

along a footpath that cuts between neighborhood cul-de-sacs

kangaroo paws, ready to pop

fields of gladiolas (not native) at the back of campus

the bob-tailed blue-tongues (Tiliqua rugosa) are out rustling in the gardens

I’ll add some more pictures over the next few days: the grevillea bushes are full of bottle-brush flowers and birds; suddenly there are lots of bunnies on campus, and there is at least one pregnant (if that’s what you call marsupials when they’re all-pouched-out) bandicoot in the lunch garden, and maybe i can get Fraggle the magpie and Retard the crow to pose for a photo… stay tuned!

Update:

bees swarming on a paperbark (Melaleuca sp.)

a banksia (B. grandis) tree in flower

the great gig in the sky

A few weeks ago I flew to Brisbane; I knew I had a window seat and this time I made sure to have my camera with me.  The landscape of inner Australia is breathtaking, utterly alien, and I wanted to share the view.  I love how nature’s processes – erosion, deposition, evaporation, are so brazenly displayed out there.  It’s like a tickle to the eye.  It’s even more confronting when juxtaposed with the more… habitable fringes of the continent.

And what better soundtrack to this psychedelia than Pink Floyd?  It’s like my own little ‘Dark Side of Oz’.  So, relax, pour yourself a nice cup of herbal tea, dim the lights, put on your headphones and enjoy the ride.  Enjoy (but watch out for tornadoes).

so i turned myself to face me

The night after I wrote that last post, I went out to dinner with a few friends, one of whom I haven’t seen in nearly a year.  She’s stunningly direct, and was grilling me about my project and problems.  For every question she asked me about why I haven’t done this or that, I felt like I could only give the same answer: “Well, it’s just… it’s just really hard.”  Her next question inevitably would be “why?” and I’d pretty much have nothing to say.  Nothing plausible, at least.

After an hour or so of this confrontation, I turned the tables on her and asked how things were at home (hah!).  She and her partner had been discussing for probably a few years now whether or not to have kids, and I suspect the conversation had become contentious between them – but he finally gave in.  Even though their kid is now eight or nine months old, he’s still struggling with the changes in his life, and often complains about the responsibility.  She related the ‘love it or leave it’ talk she had with him to me:

“Do you love us?”  (her and the baby)

“Of course.”

“Do you regret us?”

“Never.”

“Then change your attitude.  Get over it, accept it, and get on with it.  Stop wasting our time with your bad moods.”

So, I took that to heart and have tried very hard the last few weeks to shift my attitude toward the positive.   No more sulking, no more whining (well…), no more self-indulgent negativity.  So far it’s working… stay tuned!

auld lang syne

A year ago today I arrived in Australia.  It’s a stunning thought.  Where did it go?  What has it come to?

I am so ambivalent about it, about being here, I don’t know what to think or where to put those thoughts.  Sometimes I’m happy.  Sometimes I find the challenge exhilarating.  Sometimes I hate it.  Sometimes I can find the strength to fight back, but it never lasts very long.

Things are not going like I thought they might – not that I had specific expectations, but I thought that extracting myself out of my former life, removing myself from friends and family, leaving all my favourite things behind would be… rarefying.  I thought that I would shed bad behaviours and habits like old skin.  I thought I would be clarified, that some simpler, tempered version of me would be left behind.  I thought that all these other hidden aspects of me would emerge, that… well, insert your favourite butterfly or phoenix metaphor here, that’s what I thought would happen.

But…  I’m the same as I ever was.  I still over-sleep, I still over-drink and over-think.  I haven’t lost any weight, I am still the world’s worst student, I haven’t met any men… but then again I haven’t really tried.  I still have a thousand excuses for everything.  Maybe this is who I really am; how depressing.  Or, maybe I’m just still in the middle of it.  Maybe this goes on.  Two years ago I was really comfortable.  A year ago, I was invigorated.  Now I’m just completely at sea.  I’m so out of my depth, in so many ways, that I’m constantly checking myself, gauging my place in this world.  It’s become a sort of paranoia; it seems like everything that happens has a secret meaning, or a hidden agenda, and they are indecipherable when I’m not even sure about myself.

Some of my frustrations stem from my project.  It’s just not going well.  I knew it was never going to be easy, but there’s a certain absence of support that has made it near-impossible to get started, and a stubborn adherence to ‘the plan’ that makes it difficult to approach it from other directions.  But the project is my purpose here, and it’s always been hard to dissociate myself, my private purpose, from work.  I do think about leaving, going home, abandoning the project, and it’s so tempting at times.  I could leave today.  But retreat would mean starting over.  I don’t want to start over, not again.  So I’m staying, I’m struggling, and I’m trying.  I find weird comfort in knowing that if I fail – if the project fails, if my scholarship is revoked, or if the thesis is rejected – it’s because someone else has made that decision, not me.

I made the decision last week that I won’t go home for Christmas.  I had been working up to it lately, but actually sending the message home floored me for days – it still does.  I had the grandest plans and had been fantasizing for months about all the people I wanted to see, all the places I wanted to go.  A meal cooked by mom, the smell of my dad’s shop.  Time with my brother and his wife.  A walk in Point Reyes, a beer at Jupiter, movie night on a friend’s sofa, coffee in Berkeley.   A drive up the coast, a picnic with friends in SoCo.  But I can’t afford the time, and I don’t think I can handle the post-holiday depression, to have to come back here and start over again.

It hasn’t been fruitless, this little adventure.  I’ve made some very wonderful friends who take good care of me.   I’ve had a lot of time to think about the past, on formative events, my family, and I think having this distance between us has given me wider perspective on my relationships, and much more respect and love for people now than I wanted to show in the past.  It’s hard to communicate that, though, because it seems hollow over email.  I would happily phone over, but I know people wouldn’t appreciate the mobile phone charges, the time difference is cumbersome, and we all have too-busy lives to schedule rambling chats.  Skype is, frankly, a pain in the ass.  As superficial as it is, Facebook has been a huge blessing for me – it’s the only way I feel like I’ve kept in touch with anyone.  I’ve learned that I really need this connection – any connection – with my people.  I miss you all very much, very keenly.  If I’ve learned anything here, it’s that no one can or should go it alone.  We all need each other, need our friends, need our family.  Love and friendship fixes everything.

So having said that, if you’ll bear with me for a moment longer, while I’m still feeling sentimental, would you please raise a glass with me and sing a song to last year.  All the best for the next.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

incoming!

No doubt (and no surprise), my favourite local bird is the Australian Magpie, Gymnorhina tibicen, more specifically the western magpie. They have a beautiful warble and funny personalities. Now that it’s spring, it’s mating season.  And lurv is in the air…

I’ve noticed in the last week that around three or four in the morning, magpies roosting in the trees near my house have been waking up and singing.  Apparently the recent full moon and good weather have brought out their more amorous instincts.  They’re placed in the ‘carollers’ group of birds, which means they sing in pairs and groups.  They have lovely calls – some consider them to be the finest songbird of Australasia – but it’s a bit spooky to hear them en masse. A popular children’s poem by Dennis Glover from New Zealand transcribes their call as ‘quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle’ (which is really fun to say five times fast, once you master the phrase – go ahead and try it).  I would say they sound a bit like R2D2. Click here and here to hear some soundclips of the birds. Or go the source pages here or here to choose links to the magpies’ and other Australian bird calls.

Even though they’re not very related, the Gymnorhina have similar behavioural traits as other northern-hemisphere magpies and their Corvidae relatives.  They are inquisitive, play games, and can be domesticated, but in the natural environment live in colonies that enforce strict territorial rules.  We have a pet magpie at work; Fraggles was likely kicked out of her colony as a hatchling, probably due to her deformity and/or size – she’s a little small for her kind.  Some of the long-timers here remember her being harassed and nearly pecked to death by the local mob.  The department ‘adopted’ her, feeding her minced beef, and she’s now a regular at lunch-time.  She’s shy and shaggy, has one eye and knocked knees.  She has a few friends – a solitary and feisty butcherbird who hangs around for leftovers, and lately, a runty raven, nicknamed ‘Retard’ because he tries to eat everything, even plastic, string, or dead leaves.  He prefers walking to flying, and makes unusual calls, although I’m starting to think he’s mimicking our voices – he seems to cackle a lot.  I suspect Retard isn’t as dumb as we think; he just has poor dietary habits.

Later, as eggs are tended in the nest, male magpies will start protecting their territory by swooping – dive-bombing passersby who come a little too close.  You can tell the males from females – males have a solid white back, while females often have stippled or mottled white and grey patterns.  It hasn’t happened to me yet, but there’s a park by my house where the birds like to hang out; it’s only a matter of time before they get me.  Here’s a video of some kids taunting one.  Good thing he’s wearing a helmet!

There are plenty more fun videos on youtube celebrating the maggles, this is a good one on some ‘cheeky’ boys getting hand-fed.

one crowded weekend

Despite being given the thumbs-up to smear my carcass up and down the highways and by-ways of WA, I’m still without a vehicle, and thus subject to the whims of Perth’s public transportation system and the generosity of friends.  I put those to the test (along with my eardrums and liver) this weekend past.  This was my social curriculum:

• Friday:  RTR Radiothon at the Leederville Hotel (in Leederville).
• Saturday: Augie March concert in Fremantle at the Fly By Night; Farewell-party for fellow-student Tan at Peter’s house in White Gum Valley
• Sunday:  Dual-Birthday party for Monique and Randall at the Belgian Beer Bar in Perth.

Not too complicated, you say?  It’s more like this:

my mad powerpoint skillz

Friday:

1.  I waited at the departmental Happy Hour for Kate to finish her work.  2 beers (James Squire Amber – not recommended, but the fridge is in need of a re-stock.  It was that or Cascade, and Cascade is baaaad).

2.  Drove (in Kate’s car) to University of WA in Crawley to see if we could make it into the Save The Children Fund’s annual book sale (which first opened at 6pm).  Books are expensive here – I expect to pay 10-20$ for a second-hand paperback, or 30$ minimum for a new paperback.  Don’t get me started on textbooks.  UWA was selling books of all kind for 1-10$.  Apparently, this event is to WA bibliophiles as Christmas morning is  to Ralphie.  We arrived just after six, and the line was out the door, across the quad and around the fence.  We didn’t even try to get in line.

3.  Drove on to Kate’s house in Innaloo (ha ha, where does Kate live?  In a loo!) for tea and a glass of Bailey’s.  She changed clothes and we drove a few neighbourhoods south to Leederville.

4.  Had a nice light supper at one of Oxford Street’s many cool cafés.  Leederville is a cool ‘hood, although maybe a bit over-the-top in its hipness.  It reminds me of Hayes Valley in SF or 4^th street in Berkeley, but given the lack of café-culture in the South-Of-River zone where I live, I’m happy for the scene in Leederville.

5.  We then headed to the Leederville Hotel for the RTR Radiothon.  The Hotel has been gutted into large rooms, and acts as a club and pub venue on various nights of the week.  I think I counted four indoor bar stations and one outdoor bar (for the smokers).  RTR is the local equivalent to college radio, although I don’t think it’s attached to any particular entity.  It focuses generally on electronic and indie music, and is mostly subscriber-supported.  When I listen to radio, it’s usually to RTR.  Radiothon is their annual benefit party (20$ ticket), part of their subscription week, and they turned three of the Leederville Hotel bar rooms into stages with several local acts throughout the night.

Downstairs hosted a couple of rock-influenced bands, one of which was a sonic-jello-psycho-surf-rockabilly trio (acoustic stand-up bass, very nice).  Out back in the biergarten (read: smoker’s lounge) several DJ’s were spinning electronic/dance/ and hip-hop (which, I should point out, doesn’t mean hip-hop in the American sense. Here, hip-hop means more sample, less rap.  More basement, less street).  I didn’t spend any time there, although I would have liked to have heard the DJ’s offerings. Upstairs was the Funk Club (which is a regular establishment in Leederville) with two sets by the House Band sandwiching a very funky, very salacious set by Diggy Bones and the Tokens of Love.  Honestly, check out their website.  Imagine Diggy Bones as the love child of Huggy Bear and John Leguizamo; his bass-player is the Reverend John Brown (sporting black pants and shirt, plus dog collar).  His keyboardist and lady vocalist is a Coco Sugar Lips, a who wears a big frilly white dress akin to the quinceañera frocks.  Guitarist Captain Fingers looked either like a very squat Captain Stubing or a very tall Tattoo dressed as Captain Stubing (to mix my televisory metaphors).  Top that off with “Bustin Downtown” drumming on the skins.  Awesome. For one song of the set, Diggy brought up a random woman from the audience for Captain Fingers to serenade, poor girl… Diggy stopped mid-song to recite a very (very, very) racy sonnet.  They also played a cover of “Ghostbusters!”.  Pretty fly.  Three beers, Heineken (slim pickings upstairs), Fat Yak Pale Ale 2x (better choices downstairs); perhaps 30$.

6.  Back to Kate’s for another tea and a crash.

Saturday

1.  Up and (slowly) out the door to head back to UWA to try the booksale again.  We sailed right through the door into total chaos.  Volunteers restocking the supply stood shoulder-to-shoulder with buyers around collapsing tables stacked with books of all kinds.  Buyers packed their choices in suitcases, cardboard boxes and grocery sacks. After a few tours of the room, I exited with a hard-bound copy of Jack London’s California (3$) which might make a nice departure gift someday, The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie (6$), a 70’s Penguin-Classics edition of Anna Karenin by Tolstoy, 1$, a novel by D.H. Lawrence called Kangaroo (4$) set in Australia – apparently he’s spent some time Down Under (narf narf), and the world’s teeeeniest copy of Moby Dick (4$), hardback, printed and sized just like a pocket bible.  Lastly, a text on Applied Statistical Methods (4$).  Yeehaw!

2.    Hungry, we headed toward Subiaco but ended up on the western edge of downtown Perth.  We walked down Hay Street to find ourselves at Tiger Tiger, a lovely brunch&coffee café with garden seating.  Brunch in WA revolves around eggs and bacon (or vegetables) on toast, and Tiger Tiger followed suit.  I had sautéed portabello wedges on a sourdough slab (which is NOTHING like San Fran sourdough, just so’s you know), an almond croissant and cappuccino.  Kate had poached egg and avocado on toast, and a cappuccino.  Recommended.

3.  Walked the one block further to the Perth Undergound train station, and caught the train home (and the subsequent bus) with very little wait time.  Rare.

4.  Nap.

5.  Up at 5pm for a simple dinner – udon noodles with sesame oil, soy sauce, sri racha hot sauce, chopped green onions and sesame seeds.  Showered and changed.

6.  Caught the bus 98 to Fremantle, followed by a short walk to the Fly By Night Musician’s Club.  So far this is my favourite venue in the area – it’s not very large, I’d say half the size of the Great American Music Hall in SF, and not nearly as ornate, but they do have lots of large artisticky things hanging from the ceiling.  The audience can belly right up to the stage.   Which is what I did.

The opening band were (more or less) an acoustic duo who announced themselves as “Gaz and Dan”.  They reminded me of what would happen if Drs. House and Wilson would choose to form a band.  Gaz played himself off  (or maybe was) as an angry drunk who hasn’t left the bar since his wife died/nuclear winter set in/universe collapsed upon itself; Dan played the straight man.  Turns out, Gaz and Dan are members of the band The Drones (originally from Perth), and I’m really curious to find out more about them.  I think as a full band they are more rock-driven, but several reputable online references cite them as being influenced by Neil Young, Tom Waits, the Velvet Underground and Van Morrison.  So, yeah, I’m in love.   They’re coming to California right now – SF on 18th September at the Café DuNord!  Go Go Go!

In between acts, I found myself in a situation that is becoming increasingly more common and more infuriating – listening to Australians expound on American problems.  They have every right to voice their opinion (and let’s be honest, I do the same) but so often they are WRONG (or, well, misinformed, or over-simplistic, or…)!  This guy – he turned out to be the ‘superfan’ – there’s always one at every show, that guy who dances way too wildly, woohoos far too often, and talks back to the band at any opportunity – this guy was talking to his friends about America’s “tight-assed” border policy.  Something about his (Mexican) friend Miguel who has an easier time getting to Australia than to the U.S.  I would never presume to be capable of having an intelligent, thorough conversation about U.S. border policy, and thus couldn’t bring myself to get into it with him, but I think it’s bit narrow-minded to reduce the issue to those two words.  Especially when his sole contact with the situation is a Mexican who apparently can choose to vacation regularly in Australia.  In another circumstance, I overheard one guy say to another “Wait ’til the oil runs dry in Afghanistan.  Then we’ll see how quickly the Yanks pull out”.  Dude… drives me crazy.

The main act of the night was Augie March.  I bought this ticket knowing almost nothing about them, other than having heard one song of theirs on a Triple J’s Hottest Hits compilation I ripped off of a friend.  Triple J is a the pop-music subsidiary of ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation).  Despite being mainstream, they’re pretty good, waaay more respectable than American pop media, and they’ve been a good introduction to Australian music.  Augie March has had one major hit (which was on the compilation) “One Crowded Hour”, which I really liked… and apparently so has the rest of the Australian universe, to the dismay of ‘true fans’ and the band.  The band has been around for over ten years, starting in an art school in Melbourne (if I’ve got that right).  They have a small, difficult, but loyal fanbase; their lyrics are dense and lush and very intellectual, and their musical style is all over the place and at times over-produced.  I would say they are something like Wilco performing Decemberists songs on Radiohead equipment.   I couldn’t get anyone to go to this show with me, and I can kind of see why – in general (in my opinion), Australians don’t like to be forced to think.  They are not an academic sort.  It’s their loss.  I really like Augie March.  The concert ticket cost 39.07$.  Three beers (Fat Yak, Cooper’s Sparkling and pint of Kilkenny); 30$.

7.  I meant to go after the show to a party at Pete’s, held for his roommate Tan who was leaving the Monday after for a long trip home to Vietnam.  Who can resist home-made Vietnamese food and Hanoi Vodka?  I gave Pete a ring to see if the party was still on, but he never answered, nor did anyone else who I thought would be there, so I figured the festivities had blown themselves out (by midnight?  C’mon people!).  I joined the queue for taxis on South Terrace (Fremantle’s main drag) and waited my turn.  Certain city hubs in the Perth area – Fremantle included – are notorious for getting violent at night.  In fact, both bands mentioned that after the previous night’s shows they chose to get drunk in their hotel rooms rather than go out because they’d heard some guys were knifing people outside the bars.  While waiting in the taxi rank, one guy (drunk, not in line) shoved another guy (not apparently drunk, in line two groups ahead of me) for saying something rude in front of “the ladies” (the two women in line in front of me).  The guy in line shoved back and… words were exchanged.  The two guys behind me (both drunk) got verbally involved, telling the first guy to cool out, mind the ladies.  The ladies yelled at all four men, telling them all to shut up.  The whole altercation dissipated pretty quickly, and the first dude stumbled on.  The two boys behind me though, were still riled up; one of them suggested they leave the line to find the offender and, uh, deal with him; the other said no, we’re in line, chill out.  For the rest of the wait I had to listen to these two bicker about whether they should go beat this random guy up, or stay in line, or try to jump one of the cabs, or wait politely, or talk to the women ahead to try to move up in line.   One of them did try to jump into one of the cabs, but the driver refused to unlock the door, and the rank monitor (sort of the bouncer of the taxi queue) very politely thumped him back in line.  Babies.  Finally, my turn came up, and I climbed into the cab.  As we pulled away from the queue I saw the first drunk guy, wandering around the block again, yelling at passers-by, still looking for a fight.  It was just about 1:30am when I walked into the house (20$ cab fare).  I fell asleep to that comforting hum of post-rock-show tinnitus.

Sunday:

1.  Woke up (late).  Ears still ringing.  Made coffee, started laundry – it’s been raining so often I hadn’t had a chance to wash my sheets in weeks, and today might be the one clear day.

2.  Phone call home.

3.  Hung laundry; took it down (raining); hung it up again (stopped raining)

4.  Showered and dressed.  Ate a handful of macadamia nuts

5.  Walked to shopping plaza to get money from the ATM

6.  Caught bus 99 to the Murdoch Train Station, trained to Perth Underground Station

7.  Walked one block west down Hay Street to the Belgian Beer Cafe.  I’d never been here before, although Kate had pointed it out to me on Saturday morning.  It’s a very nice place, well worth a visit.  I expected it to be busy, as Sunday afternoons are commonly spent at “the local”, but instead I found the bar more or less empty.  The group was out in the biergarten (thankfully covered, as it was raining again – hopefully my housemate was kind and took down my laundry for me!).  Monique and her boyfriend Randall were sharing their birthdays with family and friends – they had lumped several tables together to form a Z-shape.  I sat down for introductions but made my way back to the bar.  Prices ranged from 7$ (330ml Stella Artois) to 110$ for 750ml of …something special, Belgian and from 2006. The BBC is dedicated to serving Belgian Beers (surprise) in the Belgian tradition, which means that each beer offered, whether on tap or bottled, is presented with its own accompanying glass.  At some point, I asked for a pint of Leffe Blonde, but was refused because all of their 500ml Leffe Blonde glasses had been either stolen or broken, and they therefore could not serve it.  They suggested 330ml of the Blonde.  Before pouring, the glass is rinsed in cold water, and after pouring, the head is scraped off and the glass is dipped again, to rinse off the pour-over, I suppose.  What this means is the bar is completely wet, as is the floor, and all the coasters, and tables.

After several more hours, a few more beers, and further additions to the party, the table array grew a few more arms, and the glasses started piling up. Four biers:  a Dupont Moinette Blonde 330ml, and two Leffe Blonde 330ml, and a pint of the appropriately named “Delirium Tremens”.  All very very nice.  Maybe 50$ total.

8.  I left sometime around 8:30, made my way to the train station just in time to jump aboard – the next train south wouldn’t leave for another thirty minutes.  Thankfully, there was only a few minutes’ wait at the Murdoch station for a 98 bus to take me home.

9.  After a satisfying trip to the loo (where Kate lives, hahaha), I reassembled my bed (sheets were dry, thanks to my housemate’s considerate fast-action), took another shower and crawled into bed.  Lovely, smooth, clean sheets.  Ears still humming.  ZZZZZZZ!

she’s got a ticket to ride

After that little run-in with The Law, I had 28 days to pay those speeding fines – on or by August 26th.  During the first week I was too busy at work to go, the second week I couldn’t muster the energy, so by the end of the third week I figured I ought to get it together.  Plus, I needed to borrow a departmental car in order to get to a meet-your-friendly-scholarship-committee cocktail party in South Perth on the 20th of August, and I didn’t want to push the university’s limits of tolerance any further.  If I got caught one more time pseudo-illegally driving I’d never hear the end of it.  I worried about whether they would even issue the license, given that my California Driver’s License is a) expired and b)lacks a current address.  If they wanted to confirm any of my details with a DMV in the states, I imagine this whole process could get really painful.  Brazilian, even.  But I couldn’t put it off any longer, it had to be done.

I resolved to make my way to the local Licensing Centre (LC) in Willagee on Thursday morning (actually I had resolved on Tuesday, and Wednesday but found excuses to not go).  Since the weather was forecast for rain, I ruled out walking – it would have taken about an hour anyway, and would have involved following high-speed thorough-fares that don’t always have sidewalks. By public transportation, the most efficient route would have been to take one of the eastbound buses (I prefer the 98 or 513) from home or campus that go to Murdoch Station, transfer to the northbound Perth train, exit at Bull Creek station, and then transfer there to the 502 bus which travels west-bound down Leach Highway.  This route covers 6.8mi/11km and would likely take at least 45 minutes (according to the system timetable) if I timed it right.  If I missed a bus or the buses were out of sync (which the 98 and 513 often are) it would take much longer.  GoogleMaps predicts this route would take 21 minutes to drive by car.

However, if I were to drive myself, I’d go a completely different route – heading west on South St., turning north on Stock Road until I reached the LC at Leach Highway – 2.7mi/ 4.4km for a drive-time of 13 minutes (mostly spent waiting at stoplights).  It took longer to suss out the public transport route on the clunky, over-java’ed Transperth website than it would to just drive there.  So which way do you think I’d go?

I booked the car for all of Thursday, and since it was available Wednesday night, I took it home and left for the LC in the morning.  Fully expecting this visit to be long and bureaucratically complex, I started the timer on my mobile phone as I entered the LC.  The LC looked like your average DMV, only on a smaller scale.  There was an information desk, a tall bench with chained pens, maybe 50 standard-issue chairs in the waiting area, and 12 windows.  The room was surprisingly not-full – there were probably twenty customers in the office and less than ten visible clerks.

I waited in line behind one other customer to speak to the information clerk; I explained that I had two tickets to pay and needed to transfer my overseas license.  She told me that they don’t process traffic tickets, but that I could do that from either a police station or a post office.  To transfer the license, she asked to see my California license, my passport, and a bill or document showing my local address.  I presented the items, and watched while she photocopied them to see if she noticed the past-expiration date on my license.  She didn’t.  She handed everything back to me along with an application form and told me that once I was through filling out the form, to log into the window-ticket system and wait for my number to be called.

The form was simple, just asking for a residential address in the states (which no longer correlates to my California driver’s license address), my West-Australian address, and the usual hair-color, eye-color details.  It asked for my height in centimetres, for which I panicked momentarily – I have no idea, until now it never came up…  But fortunately I had my handy-dandy calculator, the good ol’ TI-36X (Solar), which converts most basic measurements.  The form also had a box for ‘build’, which didn’t ask for kilograms (another measurement I don’t know), but seemed to leave space for a phrase – slight?  heavy?  aluminium?  I left it blank, meaning to ask up at the window.

The last component of the form asked if there were any traffic violations or other criminal activities to report – I wrote down the two tickets for speeding and expired license.  Surely this will raise flags…

I finished the form and pulled a window-ticket, and took a seat.  By the time I had taken some light reading (a paper on infested potting mix) out of my backpack, I heard my number called out on the overhead monitor, directing me to Window #7.   Clerk7 took my form, hashed a few keys on his keyboard, printed out a document or two.  While waiting for his printer to warm up, he chatted with the clerk at the window next to him.  He didn’t even look at the “criminal record” box on the form.  I commented to him that this was much more efficient than I expected; was it always this quiet?  He seemed surprised.  I told him that if this were a Californian DMV, this would probably take several hours.  “I’ve heard of those DMVs” he said.  He then passed me a card-reader and told me that I had to pay the one-time application fee (36.20$), and had a choice to pay either a license fee good for one year (36$) or I could bulk up and pay five years in advance (116$).  I suspect I’ll be here for at least two and a half more years, which is the same as three annual subscriptions, which would cost nearly the same as the five-year subscription fee.  I made a quick decision to buy the whole lot.  He charged my debit card 152.20$, handed me a receipt (which acts as a temporary license) and asked me to meet him at the photo booth.  He put me up against a wall, then told me to take one step forward (no yellow lines here) and clicked the camera before I could ask if I was alright.

“You should get your card in the mail in the next week,” he said.  “You’re done.”  I thanked him and, walking out the door, checked the timer on my mobile:  28min, 44 sec.

Next, I went to the post office and paid the two tickets – 250$ total.  The clerks there only asked to see the tickets, my California driver’s license, and my debit card.  The license arrived in the mail on Wednesday, the 26th.

So, I’m legit.  It just took me 402.20$, forty-eight weeks, five days and a half hour.