Black Cat

In my dream

There was a cat. It was black cat. It lay sleeping on an armchair. And for some reason I thought it was a good idea to cut off the back legs and the back half of the cat's body. I can’t remember why but it seemed urgent. So I raised the axe and chopped that cat in two. And then watched in horror as both halves of its body kept living. Its long black tail was raised up like a Cobra ready to strike. And its front paws were dragging a tangle of bloody intestines in circles. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. It had happened so quick.  And I knew I had to finish it because that cat was in torture.

So I cornered the head of the cat in this little enclosed area. But it had a lot of desks and chairs in the way.  And even on two legs and with half a body that cat could move. I was about to dump a brick on its head when it looked straight up into my eyes and screamed into my face.

It was then that I realised THAT CAT WAS ME.

Don't look back

In the animal kingdom the rule is, eat or be eaten.

In the human kingdom, define or be defined.

Thomas Szasz 1920

So I’m sitting in the Housing Commission Office and I’m  remembering  when I came back to Sydney how horrified I was when my parents handed me the forms for public housing. And gently suggested I might want to sign up. ‘Who me?’  I had survived New York hadn’t I? Ok my wings may have been burnt to a crisp  but still flapping! Returning to Australia was like coming down from a very long acid trip.  My Manhattan Dreaming melted the minute they turned off the seatbelt sign and sprayed us all with disinfectant. Welcome to…

B234

Is that me?  Where’s my ticket? And now I can’t even find my ticket. Shit. I’ve lost my place again?  You do not exit stage left to New York and then return home to Sydney without a million dollars, a husband or at least a baby. Without one of those you’d better have a return fare. Or a few good friends in Ecuador. Because once you’ve tried to escape the fatal shore and failed, you’re on your own. Your treachery will never be forgiven. Not unless you close your mouth and pull your head in. Not unless you forget everything you learned while you were gone…

N2006

Never mind. I wasn’t planning on staying. I just had a little book to write and then once I’d sold the film rights I’d buy myself a small townhouse and all my nearest and dearest a swimming pool and floaties! And then I was going to sign up for one of those ‘Extraordinary Ability Visas.’ (the American equivalent of the Disability Pension) so I could pop back on a plane to New York and get the hell outta here.

. BC100

What is it with these numbers? They don’t seem to go forwards or backwards. You can’t even anticipate when your turn will come? It required constant vigilance. The room was speckled with Asians and Muslim women with prams. I eyed the competition and tried to imagine us in business class on Virgin with plenty of leg room. And not standing at the same trough, grounded, hungry and elbowing each other for shelter. I never thought I’d be in competition with a boat person. How the fuck did that happen? Life imitated Art and I became the Cultural Refugee that I depicted in the show I first took to America. The critics said I was the ‘It Girl for the New Century’ and perhaps I still fit the bill.  If the new century is unemployed and homeless and peri-menopausal.  That’s the sort of sucker that I am. My vanity is my weakness. Give me a compliment and I’ll give you a kidney. Thank God I never went to Saudi Arabia. I’d have ended up on some White Slave run. I’m a sucker for the promise of a happy ending.   I should have hitched back a ride in a boat full of Asylum Seekers.  They don’t get a happy ending either but at least there’s a dollar in that story. Or a documentary on SBS or ABC.  Because there’s no market for the tales of washed up Showgirls with attractions to malignant narcisissts. No Show Bags for single sluts in a full throttle Mid Life Crisis…

The Asians kept bypassing the ticket machine and going straight for the reception. I wanted to shout ‘CUE JUMPER’ which shocked me. What had I become? Mea Mea Culpa! This wasn’t how my parents raised me. They raised me to be welcoming and generous. They raised me to care about the Under Dog not to BECOME the Under dog for fucks sake! I should have been back on my feet by now.  What had happened to me? 

2009

 I finished writing the book. Just in time to watch Bernie Madoff get busted. I thought it was a sign my timing was finally right but I was wrong. I’m always mis-reading those signs. Never mind. My whole life had been a Global Financial Crisis. So I published it myself and sold 100 copies. And then I ran out of puff.

The Psychologist said it was Depression. That all my brain pathways were broken. She explained how she could put them back together with the new drugs on the market.   That once my pathways were healed I would start to see my future. She made it sound like Humpty Dumpty with a happy ending so I accepted the script and I tried them. But they fucked with my muse.  She didn’t like being usurped by the pill box.  She was the Alchemist who could take my poison and turn it into Elixer. She was the Mercurial Diva who could put wings on a show and fly me out of here. She’d done it before and she’d do it again. She didn’t need chemicals added to her spin.  That was Muse Abuse. And she is the reason I get out of bed. Without her I’m nothing.

A911

So to shake my blues and save what was left of my muse I took myself off on a journey across the country. From FNQ down the white trash express and across to Perth and Adelaide through Melbourne and back here to Sydney. From coast to coast I rattled the bars of my cage and blogged all my tales. And I’d come home to kill the dragon and write my happy…

B674

That’s me! Once a name. Now a number!  I scuttled over to Booth 4 to be processed by Grail. At least I think she said Grail? Her name tag was a little twisted and I’d left my glasses in a suitcase stored at Eddies. My life was scattered in three places. And I needed a nap. I had been sent to this office by The Angel in Boots, with the tip I would be processed on the spot. The Angel in boots knew everything about the way the system worked. She was my Angel and my advocate. Without her I’d be lost. But she also warned me that the last  people she sent to this office were suing the Department for racial discrimination because they were offered a pad in miles away from a Synagogue. In Maroubra. With thirty five steps which apparently caused a Sabbath Issue?

It sounded like bullshit to me. I was jealous. I have never really been the jealous type but that’s before I became Hhhhh.. I can’t even say that word. That word is humiliating. Now I’m jealous of everyone. Even people with a decent Cardboard box. How did they get that? Did they raid Officeworks? How could anybody in their right mind knock that back a flat in Maroubra for a reasonable rent!! I would kill to climb up those 35 steps and to lock the door behind me. Where was my ‘Sabbath Issue’. I had a good mind to convert. I had not enough Jew in me and far too much Irish! There were absolutely no perks to being part of the Church of Wayward Women. No Pink buck! No poor plate, no shalom and no day of rest. I needed to work on my sense of entitlement. Damn it!

‘Why should you get priority housing?’

Grail looked doubtful.

‘Ummm. Because I’m HOMELESS.’ I spat it like a kidney stone but I had no fire in my belly so it dribbled down my chin. Grail looked me up and down…

‘You’re not staying on the street by the look of it ?’

‘No I have friends. I’m staying with them’.

She didn’t look impressed. In fact she looked a little like Gina Rinehart’s shorter elder sister. I felt like Fairfax.

‘Well your friends can help you get you housing then’

‘Are you kidding me? This is Australia isn’t it? Friends don’t have any obligation to help me get housing? We are the land of come to my BBQ and bring your own sausages. We are not the land of my house is your house. He’s not heavy he’s my brother. We only come to the rescue in natural disasters. ‘Besides I’ve already been through my friends and their couches. You can only stay somewhere once. Maybe twice if they’re old friends. And then only for three days if you don’t want to wear out your welcome. You know I will need a few friends at the end of all this…’

Gayle tuned out and went back to going through my paperwork. I kept talking.

So I’m left with facebook friends. Who are very sweet. But a mystery bag. I don’t know them from Eve. They don’t know me from Adam. They just read my blog. And they like my stories. So they ask me home. It’s all lovely. But then almost as soon as I’ve unpacked they get scared that I’ll write about them. It’s as if I spark up their dreams and then trigger their nightmares. I’m just like Julian Assange with no asylum.’

That was a stupid thing to say but I couldn’t shut up.

‘Besides women don’t really have friends. Not like men. They have Mateship. Girls have best friends in Primary School, up until puberty hits and they just have competition! It’s all a fight for the gene pool. So I can’t land on married girl friends or married male friends or even married pooftas. Married people are heavily insulated. They turn inwards, grow gardens, build bunkers. And you cannot gate crash a bunker. Not unless you’re a marine. And I’m just a Disaster Diva. I threaten to de-stabilise, upstage or trigger. I’m aware of this.

Grail screwed her mouth up like a little cats bum as I spoke. I knew I should zip mine RIGHT NOW. But..

I can’t even look sideways at someone’s flabby fella without them thinking that I’ll do a Wendi Deng on them. Have they had a good look at their men? They are delusional…'  Besides I’m celibate. You cannot be sexually active and homeless. That’s just asking for trouble.’

 I thought Grail would like that. The idea of me being all stitched up. But she didn’t hear me anyway. She had already stopped listening. Her head was buried deep in my paper work. Taking notes and ticking boxes. I was nothing to her. Not a name, just a number.  I folded up my ticket like a fan and slowly looked around the room. The homeless had all gone home. The room was empty. And then Grail stamped my forms and passed them over the table. I said Thankyou. In retrospect that was a little pre-mature. I took the papers in my hands and looked down at the big red stamp. It said

PRIORITY HOUSING –REJECTED.

THE BOOK LAUNCH EXPERIENCE.

So I ordered a few copies of my book 21st Century Showgirl. And I'm reading it for the first time.

I must confess I haven't read it since I launched it in Cyber space. Here's a link to the launch. Slide show closed down their website so the VJ has gone home but the party is still going on. Check it out.

http://www.myspace.com/wednesdayfkennedy/blog/475144277

It was like the first man landing on the moon but with a smaller viewing audience.

Nevertheless the reviews came in from all over the world.

http://www.wednesdaykennedyink.com/?p=162   I sold 100 copies.

After that I was so exhausted that I couldn't stand the sight of her.   She was a bastard child with no Daddy Warbucks behind her. And all of the people that did LOVE the 21st Century Showgirl
had no money to keep her in shoes or to send her to school.

I had worn myself for another delusion of Greatness.   My drive was my illness.  Which is why I took myself on the road around Australia. If you're going to behave like a train wreck then the least you can do is send postcards.  Bring on....

A book full of postcards that talk back.  I only sold four copies of this.  I'd become like the snake. Drop the eggs and run....take no prisoners....

As the journey went on I became more vagabond and more feral. I bashed my head against too many doors.   It took four more years to find my way home and finally secure the room of my own.



Which is why I'm finally ready to launch 21st Century Showgirl in the real world.

It is going to be more than just a book launch. It is going to be the Ultimate Book Launch Experience.
I'm planning it now.  I've already locked in a date.

6th March @ The Bordello Theatre in Kings Cross. Up top of the Kings Cross Hotel.

Bed bugs and boarding house bitches

I’d never seen Bed Bugs Before. I thought they were invisible. But they’re actually fat with round bloated bodies filled with blood, I know because I slaughtered one and rubbed my bloody finger on the window sill. As evidence. Then I folded up the worn limp sheets with the tips of my fingers and carried the crawling parcel to the lounge room where I dumped it on the floor. Finally I shifted the lumpy mattresses to the corridor and lay down on a towel on my floor. With no pillow. All soft things belonged to the vermin. Only hard surfaces could be trusted. I lay on my back and thought about the fight I was having on Facebook about Self Help books and why I hated them. . A Pro Positivity activist kept popping back in to bait me. I had wasted my rage in that thread. She was an idiot. I turned on my belly and felt my elbow crunch into the floor. ‘People in boarding houses shouldn’t throw stones’ was my very last thought.

I was woken by my landlady who was not looking very happy. Her growling Dalmatian was unleashed at her side just in case I decided to run for it. ‘I put the bed in the corridor because it was crawling with bed bugs.’ I told her. ‘Can you tie him up? I’m scared of big dogs’.

‘We don’t have bed bugs in this place. You must have imagined them. ‘I’ll make you up a new room she smiled. Can you just sign here on the dotted line. Serena Russo is paying your bond.

‘I signed the form not because I was staying but because I had nowhere to put my luggage and the dog was making me nervous. I wasn’t really up for a fight. He followed her down the corridor and stood in front of the bathroom barking at me every time I tried to make a run for the shower.

So I gave up, washed my face in the sink and got back on my bicycle to go back to Serena Russo. When Denise saw my face she gave me a hug, and her Personal Assistant went to make me coffee. They were really very nice. ‘Don’t worry darling’, said Denise as Chris handed me a box of tissues and a steaming mug of instant coffee. Go back to Spring Hill and pack up your stuff. We’ll find you somewhere right this time! I know a place where the woman who runs it is an absolute Nazi but it’s clean as a whistle I promise!.


So Donna, my new friend from Crisis drove me to Spring Hill and I stored all my bags in her car until I’d found my new home. Then I cycled down to New Farm and arrived at a gorgeous clean Queenslander on a lovely tree lined street. I was an hour early so I sat in the front lawn falling in love with the place. But when the Landlady finally arrived a half an hour late, l knew my reputation had preceded me. Unfortunately my darling Denise had mentioned the bed bugs. She was going for the sympathy vote which I would have advised against because you can’t sell a charity case to a slumlord. They want to exploit your bad fortune, not share it. I put out my hand and she glared at it.

‘I don’t want you bringing your bed bugs into my boarding house.

‘Oh dear!’ .

But I didn’t even unpack my luggage’ I told her. And I’ve laundered and aired it all out anyway!’ The last point was a lie and Boarding House Bitches have a good ear for bullshit so I knew that she didn’t believe me. ‘I’ve also sprayed everything with Glen 20’.

‘Glen 20 doesn’t kill them! Bed bugs never die! They just move from room to room. You never get rid of them!’

‘Oh lawd she was probably right. I wouldn’t want me either! I might as well be carrying funnel web spiders! It was hopeless! I had my heart set on this place and I knew it would never be mine! I was tired and emotional so I did what I always do when I’m tired and emotional. I started to cry. She stared at me utterly repulsed. ‘Now you’re really worrying me.’ She backed away from me as if my tears were infectious. ‘I don’t want to know about this’. ‘Why is Serena Russo offering to pay your bond anyway?. I do not like the sound of that! I only have people here that are working!’.

‘I’ll be working by next week’ I pleaded. Now smiling and drying my eyes. ‘I just arrived in Brisbane as soon as I find a place to settle I’ll have an income. I have a business. Here’s my card!.’ But the tone of my voice was thin and pathetic. And nothing I could say would change the fact that this woman really didn’t like me.

And I didn’t like her either.

So I cycled back up the hill in the heatwave feeling stinky and tired. I was limp when I got back to my base camp, so I put my head down on Denise’s desk and closed my eyes.. It was late afternoon on a Friday. We were out of ideas. So they organised a budget hotel for me to stay in on the weekend. ‘You must be special’ said Chris. Serena Russo’s brother is paying for it on his credit card.’
‘Really? Who is he? This man who uses his Credit card without expecting favours. There must be a God!   (You know at the time I didn't even suspect that it might be a Freemason...carry on...)

‘Go and rest’ said the darling Denise. You’ve got cable and air conditioning and crisp white sheets. You can have a nice long shower and a long long sleep. We’ll sort everything out on Monday’…


3/3/2010

Slow

It's getting hotter up here now. And slower. Hotter and slower and stickier. The wet season rolls in, the nutters come out, the crocs are awake, the mozzies are back. The swamps and the oceans, the air and the grass are all teeming with life that can kill you. But it's so beautiful...

'Follow me' he says, taking my hand.

I slip his grip and turn back. 'No way. There are crocs. I can feel them'.

'There are no crocodiles, Trust me.'

'Why should I trust you? What do you know? You're just a white bloke from Noosa!'

He didn't like that. He was trying to make like a man and leading me into the great unknown was his primitive romance. There was a time I would have followed him. But those days are gone. This is why men like younger women.

'I wish I knew you before you were hurt' he says. As if he can read my heart's history. 'I bet you do', I think. 'I probably would have given you a pity fuck. But pity you, those days are over.'

I don't say this. I say 'I like me better now.'

This seems to turn him on.

He says 'Lets do a business together. You got a hundred and sixty grand? I'll put in a hundred and sixty and we'll get something moving!'

I liked him better the way I knew him. In the yoga class, where he didn't speak.

'What makes you think I've got that sort of money?'

'You've got money. I can smell it on you. I can smell it in a down wind.'



12/24/09

You're the Canary.

The Psychopath is smilling like he swallowed me.

Instantly I get a picture of Kylie.

'What do you mean I'm the Canary? Is that like a Budgie?' I'm certainly not Kylie! I couldn't smile my way through a tumor and a rat of a boyfriend. At least Britney spacked out when she was cornered. Gnash those pearly whites and dig your fangs into the bone and spit like a viper. Snakes are survivors. I'm no bird. What's the value of a bird with clipped wings and no feathers? Being a budgie didn't help Kylie. Everybody loved her but she still ended up with a Love Rat! He devalued and discarded her in public. What a french bastard! Be careful of whom you kiss lest they damp the spark in your pussy (power) He was vermin! If my head was bald I'd be bloody well using it to haunt him. Budgie Revenge!'

The Psychopath is staring at me intently. He's got a half grin on his face like he cornered a live one. His fist is holding up his chin. His elbows are on the table. The Hipsters eyes are full of anticipation.

'I felt awful watching her flying career turned into a mortality play. We had a lot in common at that time. Of course she's a very rich kitchy stadium sized feathers and sequins, lazors and short legs type of Showgirl and I'm more a small room in a room full of drunken poets with two channel lighting board. Have to bomb the place to get money out of them sorta broad with pins to die for. But I can't sing either. I mostly talk.'

'I'd never have noticed'

The Psychopath is now leaning is holding his head on two fists and has settled in for the story. 

' But nevertheless I came up with the name of my book 21st Century Showgirl before Kylie announced her Showgirl tour which I suspected was some sort of sign from the Showgirl Heavens! Like we were both tuning in to the Great Showgirl Unconscious and had found ourselves at other ends of the spotlight but in exactly the same position. Do you know what I mean?'

They don't have a clue what I'm talking about but I don't care.  I never know what I"m talking about but I babble on regardless. The Psychopath is still listening and I"m on a roll. The Hipster stopped listening ages ago. His soul is still catching up from Sydney so  I let it go and I focus on the Psychopath who doesn't have a soul so he's right here in the moment. Listening. It's like having an audience with the Devil. Auditioning for the Chorus line in Hades. I continue...

'And there I was having my own mortality nightmare in New York when we found out that Kylie had cancer. And all of a sudden Kylie and I had something in common. Tragedy! I mean not the small stuff....boys gone...boo hoo! kettle's on! What next? The BIG ONE!. The Oh No! Fuck me! I'm Dead! Finished! DOOMED! That's wrong!!!

noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

'And once you've died on that level well you never come back again. Well you come back but you never come back as you were. That kitty is dead. She's been ahniliated and she's not a cartoon character. You can't just pick up the pencil and re-create her.. And the only difference between Kylie and me is that when she went through her Mortality Moment she handled her suffering with dignity and grace and I screamed and yelled and waved my arms around like a drowning woman and wrote a book about it. But mortality is a funny one because after you've wrestled with it you can't just pick up where you left off and pretend you're Aphrodite. I know forty is the new thirty but Kylie's last tour was ridiculous. Her through line makes no sense. She's not in control of her destiny. Someone else is pulling her strings.  What do you mean Canary? '

'Canary in the Coal Mine. You'll sing through everything. You won't shut up. The day you stop singing is the day that you're dead. Then we know we should get the fuck out. Mine's are dangerous. And Canary's are oblivious. You're an oblivious type. I can tell.'

'Am I ?'

I withdraw. I have nothing to say anymore. I just sit there quietly thinking. He's not very charming for a Psychopath. He mustn't want anything from me. But he still wants to watch me grab for the bait. He's the cat. I'm the bird. That's the only game he knows how to play. And he's got me in a gilded chinese fucking restaurant as a canary. The prick. Singing away until I drop off my perch. Is that how he sees me? Psychopaths are tricky because they've got a very perceptive eye for who you really are. They know when you're kidding yourself. They know before you do. They're clever like that. They get into your psyche through your vanity and weakness. They gently prod for peccadillo, the poke around your pockets of corruption. So you'd better know how deep those pockets are, because soon enough they'll empty them onto your lap. With a gag in your mouth and your hands tied behind I know their caper. That's why I give everything away so there's nothing to ransack. No corner to hide in. No silent and festering scabs to stick fingers in. I have offered my life on a plate. And then watched him come in for the kill. He even offered to knock off my enemies over prawn toast. He was checking my need for revenge but murder is so not my style and his offer repulsed me. But Magical Thinking sure has been a problem. Not to mention Malignant Optimism. And I have to admit to times when I've been just a tad Oblivious. So he might have got me there. But I don't think it's who I am. I'm less a song bird and more a screamer. I wonder what time it is and what time the trains run to? The plates have been cleared and the glasses are empty.

'Thankyou. I have to go now. '

'Come back with us? says the Hipster. 'We have a spare room at our apartment'. And some more Mount Gay rum in the bar there. ' We can all kick on. Come On. It'll be fun. We'll drive you back home in the morning.'

'Yeah sure'. That's a great idea!'

I'll go back to the apartment so they can both take turns raping me and then go to the Police I don't trust in the morning. That is if they Psychopath hasn't killed me already. I mean I know I'm a little dizzy but what do they think I am? Oblivious or something?

This is my 9th life.

The Cat The Chair and The Guido.

THUD

I thought he was Adonis. But that was before he turned me into a Chair. now I see him more as a Mama's boy with a flat screen tv that he never turns off. Since I've lived in his house I've turned wooden, lost my stink and and my heartbeat. I'm not even human. I'm a Chair! And now I am a chair I can see he's no Adonis! The truth is he's more of a Guido. Smooth and sorta stupid. All his girl friends sound like Effie from Wogs outta Work. One of them laughed at my name, not knowing the walls are made of paper and I could hear her. I can hear everything.

SWEETHEART.

He stands outside my bedroom door and calls to the cat every morning.

SWEETHEART.

He yells like he's living in a double brick mansion. As if anyone has to yell to be heard in this box? We can hear each other fart and sigh with a hallway and bathroom between us

SWEET HEART.

He calls me Sweetheart too so it wakes me! Then the sound of breakfast television filters into my ears. What's the point of surround sound if you don't use it? What's the point of a flat screen tv if it's not on night and day?

I measure his moods through the remote control. So does the cat. When he turns up the tv she jumps from his lap and starts pacing. I grit my teeth, close the paper doors and creep off back to my cat perch. The cat perch is comfy. I feel like I'm safe here. I was restless for a week trying to find a corner to settle into. In lieu of a room to call your own there's nothing like a perch. The cat wants it back but bad luck. She's not getting it. This perch is all I've got. It does me nicely. My needs are simple. A desk, a chair. A power point. I lived without those needs for almost a week until I found this spot. And now the cat hates me.

THUD.

But not as much as she hates him. At least she doesn't piss on my bed. Good on her! I would piss on his bed too if all I got for dinner was dry food and water. Just because she's damaged doesn't mean that she doesn't have fine tastes. Sweetheart and I have a lot in common. He rescued her from a shelter. And he spared me from having to live in one while I find accommodation. I'm on the run from Perth. She's on the run from Adelaide..

THUMP.

No doubt he loved her too in the beginning. I'm sure there was wet food and treats to begin with. The first night I moved in he cooked me mashed potato with sausages. Mashed potato is my ultimate comfort food. We drank wine and flirted. I was high on his cooking, his smell, his good looks and all the Adonis attention. I had left a beer soaked mine in Perth to come to to civilised Adelaide. What a city! What a dream land. What a hunk of a man. He made me dizzy.

And then when I put down my fork he said 'You know when Leo told me that you were a Reporter for Simon Townsend's WonderWorld and all the things you do I thought I'd be sexually attracted to you. But I realised when I met you tonight that I don't find you attractive at all'. And he started clearing the plates. That was it. Conversation over.

What a weirdo?

And from that moment on and every day I've since spent here, I slowly turned from a hot blooded woman into a chair. Yes a chair. An odd type of objectification. At least when you're sexually objectified you're still human. But a chair is just a piece of wood. It has no sex. It has no feelings. You don't ask a chair if you are going to move it. You just move it. You don't have to turn the tv down for a chair because a chair has no ears. You can ignore a chair. You can shift it to one side without apologising. You don't ask a chair how they're feeling? A chair is there for your arse to have somewhere to sit. Nothing more. Nothing less. If I sat down on his couch and a re-run of 'friends' came on the tele he would sit on my head until he heard my muffled screams and then he'd say...

'Oh sorry Sweetheart. Didn't see you!'

It's not a very dignified position to be in. So I hung out in the courtyard like an odd piece of furniture and paired up with the Cat Perch. It's the only spot that Adonis won't wipe down and sanitise my stink. There's no point wiping down chip board. It reflects nothing and leaves splinters in your cloth. So I am safe here. Around Adonis I feel feral and swampy. Like I leave a snail trail. In his house I am always re-tracing my steps with cloth and a bottle of Windex. You'd think I had the arms of Medusa I leave so many finger prints. That's why I like the Cat Perch. You can't scratch it or stain it. Well you can but the cat doesn't care. She just wants me off it because the smooth surfaces are driving her crazy too. There's barely room for one cat in this house. Let alone two. She has no space at all now. But I'm not taking responsibility for all her issues. That cat needs a shrink.

Since Adonis is training to be one so you'd think they'd be the perfect couple. But Adonis doesn't have a zit of empathy. He doesn't have a zit either. Or a wrinkle. He's Adonis. He's beautiful. Just don't scratch the surface or leave any crumbs on the bench in the kitchen. He likes his surfaces. empty, smooth and glassy so he can see himself in them. Cats, on the other hand, subscribe to the Quentin Crisp version of Happiness which 'consists of living in the continuous present all over your body for as long as possible.' Cats understand this instinctively. Cats need to rub up against things that rub them back and to climb and to play hide and seek and feel shrubs rub up against their faces.

But in this box there's nothing to play with. The small courtyard we share is closed in by a clear corrugated awning and hot tin walls. A table sits in the middle. The table is clean and bare and smooth like everything else. When the sun hits the table in the morning you can look down and see the shadow of your face in it. Through the awning the heat burns a hole the back of your head.

The cat has only polished floorboards, hot stone and concrete to rub herself up against. So she rolls around in the litter box and gets gravel and shit in her fur. I try to comb it out with my fingers. She's stopped caring for herself. I can relate to this. Since living with Adonis I've stopped looking in the mirror. I'm a chair. Who cares what I look like? Adonis absorbs everything around him. Including me.

The Cat meowls at the top of the hot tin fence. She wants to climb that fence but it's smooth and shiny and she's been de-clawed. She's double thwarted. Every time she makes a leap for the fence she lands with a THUMP on the concrete. Then she picks herself up and tries it again. Wild vines peep over the top of the fence from the neighbors. It looks cool and luscious. The vines reach like fingers to beckon her. She looks up in despair trying to gage the jump. The white cat next door can manage to do it. But that cat has confidence, strong legs and sharp claws. That cat leaps over the hot tin fence at least three times a day. Her mobility mocks us.

I have nowhere to go yet. And Sweetheart has no claws. Just two soft pads like a cartoon cat. They slide down the shiny surface of the fence. She falls to the ground with a thump. Picks herself up, flings herself at the fence again and again. Thump Thump. THUMP. It's unbearable. I want to fling her over the fence just to have it over with. I can't stand it. But it's not like I have any say. I'm just a chair. It's not like I'm PETA. And Adonis is watching...

'Sweetheart what are you doing? '

Does he really expect her to answer him. It's obvious what she's doing. What's he doing? He doesn't pick her up. He doesn't stop her. He doesn't lift a finger to try to help her or comfort her. Because it's all about him. Her need to escape is bringing up all his 'abandonment' issues. He sits there docile as a soft toy.

'She hates me.'

'Maybe she's just depressed?' I offer.

'Sweetheart?'. his voice goes up like a question mark.

She ignores him and throws herself at the fence again.

'She hates me. She really hates me'

The cat falls to the floor like a sack of potatoes and wipes herself across the concrete getting ready for another suicidal leap.

'Look. She wants to get away from me She hates me'

'No she doesn't. She doesn't hate you!'

THUD.

But what do I know? I'm just a Chair.

Feral cat in a cage j hammer oil on canvas sold 150 x 120cm by Jonny Hammer.

32 Flavours and then some....

Feminism was a myth invented by Capitalists to send Women out to work for a minimum wage.
Norman Mailer said as much before the Feminists all shot him in the head. He may have been a misogynist asshole but at least he was an asshole that spoke truth. It resonates a lot more than Anne Summers and her holy grail quest to touch the glass ceiling.  She gave us one good book 'Damned Whores and God's Police' but then she started breaking bread with politicians.   You'd think she joined the Mile High Club when she talks about flying in a plane with Paul Keating. 'Let them eat Bilson.  You do not get a place at the table unless you're a mind controlled doll and I know this from the inside out because I've been that doll myself. I can spot a doll from 10 000 miles away now.

I've been watching Nigella Lawson tortured in the gladiator pit that made her a Domestic Goddess and I find it unbearable. I can't stand to see a woman torn to pieces in this way. But that's because I relate. I'm an Empath.  Even though Nigella Lawson has nothing in common with me I feel her pain.

The Apaths would say (and they do) that Nigella was a Co Conspirator in her own murder. She is after all born to the ruling class.  A card carrying member of the royal Jewry. She feeds off it's table and makes its lies look luscious.  Her Daddy worked for Thatcher and her Mummy was jealous of her and around and round it goes until it ends up with Saatchi. The bride wore black. On some level she knew what was coming.

We always do.

But perhaps she was just trying to reach her destiny.  As I watch her being called 'A habitual Criminal, Hi-gella. a drug addict, a bad mother' I think of the quote that I recently read from Carolyn Myss.  'Unless we are prepared to be humiliated we will never reach our destiny. Only our fate'.

Thanks Carolyn. But here's the truth. It's not the women who are pulling me out of that burning ring of humiliation. It's not the women who are outraged that a conquering yank should invite himself into my world and rape me on my own territory. It's not the girls who are backing me up with my excruciating and ugly truth and handing me the brass brassiere to fight back.... It's the men.

Not the weak men. Not the bystanders.  They're bitching in the kitchen with the goat boys and the girls . But the good men, the strong men, the men like my father are telling me to think like a Liberian Warlord. To reach in to the valley of the heart buck naked and bring it to the table so they can stick it on the BBQ between the sausages. 'Take no Prisoners' they advise which is very encouraging.  But the girls are mostly keeping their distance. They're all eyeing off my pain like it's their prize. Their gaze holds both fear and envy. Fear that standing too close to me might blow their opportunity for success and envy that I was chosen to be taken for the ride.

They think I'm riding the stallion. He appears like a stallion. He has pedigree, success on the track, he is able to market himself effectively which is important in a stud. He's been linked to other high level mares.  But the truth is he's a donkey that just wants somewhere to pin his tail.

What is it about me?

Why do I always get to ride the donkey?

What is it about me that makes that donkey head in my direction with his carrot between his teeth like it's a rose? Is it because he wants to watch me reach for that carrot as he swallows it? Does he like the sound of my gasp as he snaps it in half.  How could a donkey be a sadist?  Donkeys are harmless? Donkeys feature in fairy tales. They watched Jesus come into the world.  They take donkeys to church fairs to give all the children a  ride. Donkeys have a good reputation. It couldn't be the Donkey. It must be me. Everybody knows that.  Especially the girls.

My latest Donkey ride has been very clarifying.  It didn't teach me much about the donkey but it taught me an awful lot about my gender. It taught me I can count my girlfriends on less than one hand and that the rest are just waiting for me to turn up with the donkey.  They don't mind sloppy seconds. They just want to feel their clit on the saddle as he clip clops them across the gravel. I should work out how to charge for this as I suspect it's my only real talent. And if you can't charge for your talent well it's not a talent is it? It's a Disability.

This week I was told by two separate girlfriends to 'Close down my facebook page and just pop in for a quick Merry Christmas. Put away my Crowd Funding as it makes me look crazy and desperate. Learn to play nice when playing with the big boys and perhaps it's time to go on medication.  But failing that perhaps I might change my name or learn to breathe underwater.'

 I don't need to take advise from people who are not as smart as I am. Who reduce my truth to an episode. Who tell me to forget everything I know. I don't need any sort of friends who view me as a pile of bad brain cells or dodgy DNA because they have no God and their grey matter has been colonized WITHOUT resistance. I know my disability and I admit to my weakness and life may have given  me a bad case of truth tourettes and a bad habit of freezing when I'm surrounded by predators but but at least I'm not jealous.  At least I don't have to put anyone down to make myself feel better. At least my disability didn't rob me of my compassion. At least I can cope with difference. I don't mind if you don't agree with what I'm saying but what are you doing working in the Arts if you're trying to take away my right to say it?  Why don't you leave the arts and get a job with ASIO. I hear they're hiring.  They're looking for Gangstalkers,  Script Writers, Lomos and Nipple Kissers. The only qualification you need is obedience to the status quo.  Making people want to commit suicide is a Futures Market. It's the New Nazi. No need for concentration camps just give them a nice short rope and enough reasons to hang themselves and they'll do the job for you. If I really am soooo crazy then what does it matter what comes out of my mouth? Why is everybody working over time to shut me up? What's the story? Where are you going? What did I saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay....