Firstly, I don't know who I'm telling this to, but I feel really bad that I haven't been posting essays for a little while. I would love to say that it's because life is so busy, I’m running around doing this and that. But that would be a lie. Sure, I did take mum to the library today so they could teach her to use WhatsApp, but that’s pretty much it. It's not that I haven't been writing. But I just think, who wants to read this depressing shit? It's not even useful. I’m not clever like Shalom Auslander or Eleanor Anstruther, who can turn life’s miserable moments into universal truths. Maybe I should just stick to sharing memes and going rabid on Twitter - where I've been banned. Twice. And the reason I haven't been back there is that I can't be bothered getting another Gmail account for hiding my identity on places like Twitter. And Twitter’s garbage.
I still call myself a writer. Sure, sure, I’ve published a couple of novels, a memoir (not mine), short stories and such. I currently have one novel outlined, and two more very good story ideas for the next novels. No, make that four. And it's bullshit that I'm not working on them. Plus, I'm neglecting my Substack, even though I have a stack of essays that just need an edit and maybe a middle and an end. I think about writing A LOT, so I’ll keep the title, thanks.
I’m failing to start. When I got here, on Substack, I had a plan. An essay on Sundays, a family recipe on Wednesdays, link roundup on Fridays. It sounds reasonable. Does it?
Anyway, that was my intro, and here's what I meant to say. Although it's not very Sicilian. So if you're here for Sicilianisms, sorry.
Let's begin.
Oh, I was thinking, maybe I don't think big enough. I’ve never had big dreams, other than being a famous author, but then I cottoned onto what that actually meant, so I became satisfied with self-publishing. I'm satisfied by small things. Like changing a flickering lightbulb, watching Friends on the iPad in the background as I work at my day job. Brushing my cats. Making pizza. Maybe I should think bigger. Dream bolder. Write a bestseller. Maybe. Nah.
And… because I don't think bigger, life feels pretty good most of the time. Thirty years with a really good man who is genuine, funny, creative, loving, gives me space to check in with my own creativity, listens to me when I rave about some Plato bullshit or other, and picks me up when I need it. Boy, does he ever pick me up. Poor guy. Anyway, we're self-employed, no kids, big mortgage and loads of business debt, but we manage.
Neither of us grew up with what today is called privilege, although Jeff had a computer when he was 12 (that was in 1981, while I was in computer class at Christ the King Catholic College for Girls saying shit like, why do I need to learn this here fuckery?). Come to think of it, his folks had a mobile home (!) and they went to Reno and Hawaii on holiday (Jeff’s from Oregon). I grew up with an outdoor loo, no running hot water, and my parents once took me to the beach, which was an hour away) for a week of fun with another Sicilian family and their three (not my type) sons, whom I mostly ignored. Obviously, despite growing up in "the" Springfield, Jeff was clearly rich.
It's a gentle night in Melbourne, and I'm in short sleeves on the back porch, smelling of Mortein, (mosquito repellent), Nag Champa incense is blowing in my face, a dog is at my feet, a small thermos of chamomile is close at hand, and I'm watching "History of Ancient Philosophy" lectures from the University of South Carolina on YouTube (is South Carolina the good Carolina or the bad?) I like the quiet, the chirp of the sleek wattle birds and baby finches, my cat stalking a leaf or perhaps a gecko, windchimes.
I remind myself that Jeff and I made some decisions at the right time, just before the pandemic, to build a life where we can work from anywhere in the world, as long as there's an internet connection. I don't have everything I want, but I have more than I need. I want a new kitchen, to sand the hardwood floors, to travel more, to move abroad, talk to friends about books and movies over coffee at our local. But I do have an air fryer, a robot vacuum I call Niles Jnr (we gave Niles Snr to my mum), I live in a house with a backyard and hardwood floors, I can afford the expensive flip-flops but I don't have my own plane, and my backyard furniture makes my back hurt.
Of course, I do get to sleep in. There's nobody saying, mum you forgot to make our lunch (I say "our" because in my head, my family of choice would look like the Bravermans on Parenthood. There's nobody to take to sports event on the weekend and taxi to slumber parties (or whatever it is the kids do these days).
I complain about my life to abstraction. My father was an active communist from the time he was 13 until he moved to Australia in 1971 (where the Communist Party was officially banned) so my family’s outlook has always been on the bleak side. And when I pick at the minutia of my life, it feels dissatisfying for all the reasons I find it satisfying. Suddenly all those things I love about the life I’ve created just feel really ordinary. What do I find joy in? Embroidery? Reading Plato? Watching TV series about beautifully big families? This is loser behaviour. Right? And then there’s the sameness and solitude, of not having to take anyone to school or sports, or make lunches, or talk to about my record collection, the bands I’ve seen.
When I was trying to get knocked up many years ago, I was at the Big Day Out music festival and said to Jeff, as soon as our kid’s old enough, we’re bringing them here, I don’t care if it blows their eardrums. The Big Day Out shuttered in 2013, and so did my uterus. I suppose it's a pretty good life, unless you like to think big and want to conquer the black hole or something like that, in which case my life is total horseshit.
See you (possibly) on Sunday.
There is balance in simplicity. And, fuck twitter!