Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

I’ve just been catching up on my well-neglected Google Reader items and sifting through a design blog, I saw a beautiful, fashionable bedroom.

Under a small table, was a pair of shoes.

This rather ruined the image of the room for me. Just for me – not for others, I’m sure. Why? Because I have some unusual habits when it comes to the bedroom.

If you read this blog, or know me in real life, you most likely know that I have a lot of trouble sleeping. This has led me to develop a few silly habits, though, I feel they actually help me.

1. I try really hard not to walk into my bedroom with my shoes.

Shoes = outdoor activity for me. While my bedroom is not tidy, I try to dissociate it from the outside world, and outside activity. So, I try not to wear my shoes in my bedroom. I do break this rule sometimes – like when I have to dash in for keys, a book etc. before I’m out the door, but it’s one I largely keep.

2. No computer usage in or on bed.

Pretty simple. I don’t use my laptop in bed (unless unwell). I do a lot of reading and sometimes some writing, which are diurnal activities. Not activities for when the mind is winding down.

3. No bags on bed.

Again, outdoor/active items. This is a really anal one, and one my partner seems to struggle with! But I am adamant about it. The only outdoor ‘item’ allowed on my bed is my kitty *grin*.

4. No sleeping under bedclothes with non-night clothes.

Okay, so now I’m sounding nutty. And I am…but again, I try to wear only night clothes in my bed. If I want to take a nap, I’ll sleep on top of my bed and perhaps use an around-the-house blanket, but not my quilt or whatever.

It’s much easier to do this now that I’m back at my folks’ place as there is a lot more communal space whereas in sharehouses, the only place you can really put your crap in…is your bedroom. Perhaps this is one of the reasons I had really bad insomnia at my previous sharehouse? These are just thoughts, of course (I really did love the previous place I lived at).

I think there is merit in sleep hygiene – it seems to be working for me. I like to think of my bedroom as a place I can retire and as soon as I enter it for bed, I’m ready to relax and be vulnerable.

2.5 and I’ve stopped counting.

This is only really going to make sense to Rob, if even he remembers.

I didn’t ever think I’d have cause to stop counting, but somewhere along the line after a couple of trips to hospital, moving back to folks’ place and being caught bawling thanks to a lot of brandy and a little Stilnox, I don’t have to count anymore.

And it’s really, really nice. I thought it’d take longer.

It’s nice to be proven wrong. Just don’t fuck it up this time, self.

I went back to work this week. Holy fuck, the panic attacks are insane. I carry diazepam around with me now, sob.

Fri 24/4

Went to a Melbourne Comedy Festival gig at the Melbourne Museum with @01000101 and @sweet_libertine. Three different comedians take you on a tour of selected areas of the museum. I’d never been before (the old one used to be where the State Library is now), and it’s pretty impressive. Quite funny that this really modern building is next to a World Heritage listed one – the Royal Exhibition Building which is just grand. But the show! It was funny, though I felt that one of the comedians wasn’t quite as funny as the other two. There’s also something really cool to be said about creeping round massive public buildings after-hours.

Us three Twitterettes then went to Trotters in Carlton for a spot of dinner (I had lamb and rosemary sausages with spinach and mash). T left us to catch up with friends she bumped into, and F & I went into Borders to lose some money. She bumped into someone, we left Borders poorer, then skipped across the road to lose even more money at Readings.

Borders & Readings spoils!

It was really nice to go bookshopping with someone who gets as excited and lusty over books as you do. Also, I fail at centre-aligning this photo.

Sat 25/4
Melbourne Comedy Fest gig again – this time, ‘Luke’s Got Cancer’ at the Melb Town Hall. I went with TJ and her partner Paul who were both very, very unwell. I really enjoyed Luke’s show but probably because I’ve met him a couple of times and find him fairly funny. I have to say that while I belly-laughed heaps of times during the show when others were quiet (you better appreciate that, Luke), it did make me very sad: it made me think incessantly of what Z must have gone through (which of course invariably depressed me), and then just thinking of him altogether makes me think < insert your favourite emo thought here >. But hey, there are some days when it’s funny that you’ve been dumped by a cancer survivor because they couldn’t deal with your illness. Some days…

It also reminded me of my lesser but nevertheless chronic struggles to find meds that don’t fuck up your system. I mean yes, it was rather funny when I still lived in North Melb and was on *that* medication that made me throw up for five months nearly everyday. Doctor sez: “Oh Gem, your system will adjust to it in two or so months and you’ll feel fine” (I did eventually come off that med for something a little less vomit-inducing). Also, try explaining to work that no, you’re not late or having to go home early because you’ve got morning sickness, it’s just my meds. Sometimes, one just wants the comfort of having an illness that that more physical manifestations. I’m not saying I’d prefer to have cancer, hell no, I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone (no, not even the few people I hate). I guess it’d just be nice if society had a bit more understanding that mental/psychological illnesses have a lot more physical symptoms than one would normally assume.

Having said that, the folks at Epping Centrelink were exceedingly nice to me when I broke out into a Septimus-style panic attack when two bogans got into a fight in the queue.

Oh dear, I went on a mental illness rant, didn’t I?

Anyway, the delicious Justin was also at the show and I got to meet his crew @swingdag and Si. We headed off to Manchuria Bar (nice choice!) after the show and I got home at the ungodly hour of 3.30am.

* * *
Today, I’ve been reading a wonderful local (Melb, Aus) publication by Falcon vs. Monkey, Monkey Wins, the entire issue is devoted to Richard Brautigan, an American Beat-gen writer. I only encountered him recently last year and he’s just fantastic. The thing I enjoy most about what I’ve read of his is that he adds irreverence and humour to stereotypes and cliche. Best such example I can think of is profound saying 3. It’s 25 AUD for a copy, and comes with wonderful illustrations, contributions from Brautigan’s daughter, and even a piece by Stanley Donwood (the fellow who does the art for Radiohead’s albums and such).

My cat still thinks he’s ghetto at his distinguished age and was shot up with hardcore antibiotics after some wounds of his got infected. I bought Cooking Mama on the Wii and suck at it because I use “too much mind!” (you have to imagine that in a cutesy Japanese girl voice).

I’m also waiting on a Nanoloop cartridge – the synth that was used to make the sounds for the Nintendo GameBoy. It’s nice to be able to enjoy chiptunes without getting all teary. I am currently addicted to a song by PDF Format which is really a chiptunes cover of “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys (can be obtained for free on the web if you Google).

Anyway, back to reading so I can write more. So far this year has yielded two serious poems. I’ve written a whole bunch of other things but those I wouldn’t even give to illiterati.

A friend on Twitter said something to me that I felt was a bit out of place after I complained (yes, I complained) about possibly going on a paid-fare trip to HK to see my mother’s side of the family.

I decided to explain why I have such misgivings, given my guilt.

Dear maternal relatives,

I’m sorry that you think it’s weird that I need to sit alone for a while to write things down and record my experiences.
I’m sorry that the old clothes I sent you didn’t fit you anymore because your girth was more pronounced than my own.
I’m sorry that I went to university, couldn’t find a permanent-long-time partner and have children early while I was still a teen. I’m really, really sorry that I value tertiary education and worked whilst studying to pay for as much of my fees and books as I possibly could.
I’m sorry you don’t really understand what it’s like to have a mood disorder that is essentially chronic and means I have to take medication.
I’m sorry that I am wary of my grandmother because the first thing she said to me last time I saw her was “ooh she got fat” which is sort of the wrong thing to say to a former borderline anorexic, and that I attribute a lot of the psychological abuse suffered at the hands of my mother to her.
I’m sorry I’m a dirty slut for having sexual relations before marriage, and sorrier that I can’t go out alone in the village because you think I’ll be raped.
I’m sorry you are embarrassed that I went out into public without brushing my hair, I didn’t realise that not being impeccably groomed was such a concern to you.
I’m sorry that you think my living in the West means I am luckier than you without exception.
I’m sorry that I get internally frustrated when I am sitting next to my mother and you continually interrupt me and am shouting at her and she still can’t hear me.
I’m sorry that I don’t bring you all more things when I see you.
I’m sorry that I am so like my grandfather; I miss him too. It’s hard being told you resemble this one person so much, and got to spend so little time with that person.

I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry. A Jewish (I mention this only because it is part of their heritage, supposedly) ex-boyfriend of mine once told me that you say it three times to convey just how much you mean it, so there you are.

Do you get it yet? This Western life is so differently difficult, and perpetually lonely. Truly, I am glad you do not know just how lonely it is. The last time I was there, remember how four generations of us sat in Lola’s house, and huddled over kerosene lamps, telling stories and teaching each other games like thumb wrestling? No water, no electricity, buckets on the floor to catch the torrential downpour.

I don’t ever remember feeling such kinship since moving to Australia.