Apologies for Any Confusion

I'm getting rid of my Dreamwidth journal (the successor to LiveJournal) because (a) I hardly used it anyway, (b) very few people read it [perhaps some cause and effect here!] and (c) I didn't find it all that user-friendly. A bit sad to leave behind the few people whose journals I still read there, and/or at LiveJournal, from which some had not crossed over. (Many others, though, have opted out of LJ or DW altogether, no longer available to be read.)

I originally went to LJ, back in 2008, to read a friend's journal. Then I found others I liked, and also realised I could use it as a convenient place to write the stuff that I didn't want to share widely but did want to express and have heard. LJ and DW allow users to be pseudonymous, excellent for that purpose.

Now that I've decided to leave, I'm gradually transferring years of entries to either my strictly private personal journal on Blogger or to this one: SnakyPoet. (And a few to my witchy blog, Cronewyze.)

SnakyPoet was my handle on LJ/DW too, and also on twitter, and at one time in a lot of places all over the net. (I no longer have twitter or various others either, and have changed to my actual name for purposes such as leaving book reviews on Amazon).

Now I wonder if I really need my Snaky Poet blog. It doesn't seem to be read or commented on even as often as the one I'm deleting.

However, I know I do have followers. I am thinking it must be disconcerting if you are getting notifications of new posts. Many of them are not new at all, just crossing over from Dreamwidth, and will post at their original dates, but that might not be immediately obvious.

So anyway, just thought I'd explain what's happening.

And if you care to weigh in with why I shouldn't delete this SnakyPoet blog too, please do!

[Edit, 14/10/29: I am now snakypoet on Instagram, too.]

Reassurance from Beyond

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It's not unusual for me to get my messages from Spirit in the form of song lyrics – though it sometimes takes a  while to realise it's a message when a few lines repeat over and over in my brain. It could just be an ear-worm.

Yesterday, even though I knew very well what the date was, and it was much on my mind, it didn't occur to me to attach any significance to this chorus I kept 'hearing' all day, over and over and over:

So fare thee well, my own true love.
We'll meet another day, another time.
It's not the leaving that's grieving me,
but my true love who's bound to stay behind.

Then this morning it finally hit me. Of course!

Yesterday was the sixth anniversary of my husband Andrew's death.

(And yes, I have received plenty of indication that he's happy and busy, working with the angels; as well as plenty of indication that he still keeps a close eye on me.)

Vicarious Adolescence

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I just rented 'Love, Simon' from BigPond Movies. The time limit for watching was 48 hours. I watched it three times, I loved it so much.

Why? It's not great art or anything. As everyone probably knows by now, it's a sweet love story about gay teenage boys coming out. It's beautifully handled and well acted, but still. Three times in 48 hours seems a bit excessive even to me. I'm a 78-year-old straight woman; what was so interesting? (To be fair, if I'd bought it and wasn't going to lose access to it any minute, I might not have watched it again quite so soon.)

It's true that I've been good friends with a number of gay men, two of whom were schoolboys when the friendships began. But so I have with gay women (though that's not relevant to this movie). And with straight men and straight women. I just happen to have friendships with all kinds of people, of all different ages.

Then it dawns on me. It's the 'young adult' thing. I read young adult books all the time; it's one of my favourite genres. I loved the movie 'The Breakfast Club', made when I was well and truly adult myself – loved it so much that I bought it years ago and re-watch it from time to time.

I never really questioned it before. We don't question what we enjoy; why should we? But now that I am questioning, I realise I didn't really have much of a teenage. Australian High School students of my era didn't, compared with American ones in the age of cell phones and laptops, but in my case there was also the parents' divorce, the uprooting to a different part of the country during school term, the stepmother from Hell, going back to my old home in school holidays when old friends were often away.... 

Then I went to University, on a Commonwealth Scholarship, with a living allowance which was pretty much a pittance. I became too busy studying, and too poor compared with kids who were working, to be going out and having fun. Because I had finished my schooling in a different State from the one I grew up in, I went to a University where I knew no-one instead of the one where all my old school friends went, so I didn't even have that cameraderie. And I was a shy girl to start with, let alone traumatised by two years of the Mad Stepmother's rule. I did make new friends eventually; I did eventually manage some sort of a social life– but I felt that I missed out on a normal adolescence.

My Firstborn, who also went straight from school to University, but didn't have all that other stuff that happened to me, felt that just by being a student he missed out on his teenager-hood. So he decided to have it in his late twenties, and did mad things like dyeing his hair and some wild partying. In my own time I didn't even do that. In my late twenties I was busy having him and his brother, in what was already my second marriage. I did have a bit of fun in my early twenties I must admit, but the young and single phase didn't last very long.

So it seems I'm living a vicarious adolescence. But as it's relatively harmless and quite enjoyable, I guess I won't worry.

A Private Snark

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Which of these topics should I write about?' asks a novelist on Facebook. 'Remember, I'm not doing this for fun. I'm trying to make money.'

I don't know her well enough to say, 'In that case, try advertising copy or technical reports.  When it comes to creative writing, if you're not having fun your readers won't either. And that means they won't keep reading.'

(Though actually, I imagine the advertising copy could be fun.)

Going, going, gone

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I just finished writing a poem, this morning, about a dear friend who has gradually been dying over the last few months, and probably has little time left now – a poem I won't be making public just yet, but they come of their own volition, when they insist on being written.

Perhaps it was good timing, as I might well be feeling too stunned and devastated now, and for some time to come, to write such a poem. This afternoon I got the very unexpected news that another, even dearer friend passed away peacefully this morning in her bedroom. Her son, who lived with her, posted the news on her facebook page.

One thing that rocks me is that she was two years younger than me.

Another is that I last saw her only five days ago. I was leaving the fish'n'chip shop in her town (where I had a couple of appointments) just as she sat down in the café next door. So instead of getting in my car straight away, I went over and had a chat. We had been in touch by email and Messenger anyway, but this was the first time we'd seen each other in person for a couple of months. She said she had not been very well, but it wasn't particularly obvious. I'd never have expected this!

We tentatively arranged to organise another of our occasional lunches with other members of the old WordsFlow writers' group (where we met ten years ago) as soon as the extreme weather settles down a bit.

She was a wonderful writer, with the gift of being funny and serious at the same time. And she was a great person: warm and kind, sensible and sensitive, and never afraid – in writing or in person – to "tell it like it is".

The Strange Case of the Much-Loved Poet, or, The Friendship That Never Happened

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A poet I knew slightly, online, has just died of cancer. Our mutual friends are distressed, and posting on social media about what a lovely, kind-hearted woman she was and how much she will be missed. Which I am sure they would not say unless it was so.

'Thank you for letting us know,' I said to the mutual friend who broke the sad news. Which I trust was sufficient, because it's all I can offer. A few years ago this poet and I got off to a very bad start from which we never really recovered.

We were in an online poetry group together – except I never noticed her name, much less read any of her stuff. It was a large group; she either didn't post often, or not at times when I was looking. So when I got a message from her asking about a magazine which she thought I was publishing, I didn't recognise her as anyone I knew in that or any other context.

I explained politely that she was mistaken; I was not publishing a magazine. She said she thought she had seen somewhere that I was requesting poems and stories for it; I reiterated that this was not the case, and we signed off politely.

She must have put in a friend request soon after that, which apparently I barely noticed and didn't act on. Then I got a message (out of the blue, it seemed to me) taking me to task as follows:

'I see that you don't want to be a friend of mine. I am very surprised. And I guess there is something that I must learn because the Australians that I have met on the Camino and later on in the Scandinavian Book Club in Brisbane - always had and always have a keyword "yes." I see that you don't.'

I had been under the impression that, according to social media etiquette, non-acceptance of a friend request was within one's rights, and it was not the done thing to take offence at it. However, I replied:

'I apologise for hurting your feelings. I misunderstood; I thought you were primarily interested in my supposed magazine. I have a ridiculous number of friends already and I don't have time to be a very good friend to them all, so I am reluctant to add more if I am only going to neglect them. I prefer to concentrate on those I actually know. Also, at present I have sad things happening in my personal life — my husband is dying. That is my whole focus at present, and I'm sorry but I had quite forgotten your friend request. I see we are in one of the same groups, and look forward to interacting with you there. Perhaps we may become good enough friends there to warrant taking it further. That has happened with others. I wish you all the best anyway.'

She responded warmly, saying how sorry she was about my husband, and immediately launched into a lengthy chat about other matters, which I got out of as quickly and politely as I could, being wary of giving further offence – particularly as she reiterated at some length how she'd always thought Australians and people from her country had a special bond and was so surprised when I obviously didn't. In the end I said that after this conversation she didn't feel like a stranger and so I would accept her friend request, which I then did.

We didn't have any interaction immediately, largely because five days later my husband died. I posted a status update to that effect and expected my friends would see it, which most did.

A week after that she initiated a chat. I told her:

'Forgive me but I am not in a chatty mood, I am arranging memorial service etc. with my stepson via fb messages.'

She expressed condolences for my loss and then asked me if I would like to go to a big Scandinavian festival next day in Brisbane (two hours drive from where I live) to cheer myself up.

I was taken aback, and puzzled. 'Are you in Brisbane?' I asked. I'd thought she lived in Europe. It turned out I was right. She replied that she was not in Brisbane but had Scadinavian friends there and would love to support them. Also, she suggested, it would be good for me – which she knew because she had lost her husband nine years previously, and so she understood.

I didn't think she understood in the slightest! My husband so recently deceased, and she thought I would want to drive two hours to a different city, meet people I didn't know, and have a party!!! And if I had been prepared to do that, or even capable, she expected that would be all it would take to cheer me up? I am still flabbergasted recalling it now, nearly five years later. Even if she didn't see my status update about his death, I tell her he's dying and then a week later say I am arranging a memorial service – it can't have been hard to work out that he'd only just died, a few days previously.

I excused myself from further conversation, and after that turned off chat except for my closest real-life friends. That was not only to avoid talking to this woman; I realised I could be contacted by strangers who didn't know my situation, or even other online friends trying to be kind. I had quite enough to cope with, I decided, both emotionally and in terms of having a lot to organise in a short time.

I became fairly inactive thereafter in the poetry group we belonged to, only because it was a big group and I like smaller ones better. I had no further encounter with her until a few months ago, when she commented online how much she enjoyed my status updates. I was faintly surprised, but thanked her, and that was that – until the sudden news the other day, of her untimely death.

Our mutual friends are devastated. They are saying what a good soul she was, and how they will miss her warmth and caring. I say nothing. I don't doubt what I am reading, and I expect there was the possibility of a lovely friendship there for us too, if we hadn't got off on the wrong foot – but after all she and I both had plenty of other lovely friends. I am vaguely sad at the thought of anyone succumbing to a nasty illness while not yet very old, but I'm not deeply upset or anything.

It's just that our interaction seemed so bizarre. I guess I just want to exclaim about it to someone, and say, 'Hey, how about that! Can you believe it?' But she is dead, and people are grieving. Of course I'm not going to do that ... except here.

A Shameful Lapse in Taste

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When my mum was in her late seventies to early eighties, widowed and living alone, I was a little shocked by the kind of novels she borrowed from her local library – mostly romances, indifferently written by authors not known for their literary prowess. She would get several at a time, and apparently enjoyed them. My mum, who had always had such good taste in her reading matter!

I was also a little disappointed in her that she no longer engaged with ideas and/or the state of the world in the form of current affairs programs on TV. She had always had such a keen intelligence! In fact, the evidence was that she still did, and yet (from my point of view) she was dumbing herself down in these ways. 

I tried to rationalise it. 'She's an old lady,' I told myself. 'At her age, if she wants to waste her time like this, I guess she's earned the right.' She was housebound, and many of her friends had passed on; I thought I should be thankful that she could find pleasure in her reading and viewing, however deplorable the content seemed to me. But it was hard to fathom how she could sink so low.

Now here I am, in my late seventies, widowed and living alone. I am far from housebound, I'm very glad to say, and have somehow acquired such a busy social life that some weeks I am glad if I have a whole day at home. But in other ways I am following in Mum's footsteps. It's rather startling.

I promise you I have always had excellent literary tastes, and still have. Yet (thanks to the lure of cheap or free books on Amazon Kindle, which often turn out to be Book 1 of a – still cheap – series) I quite often find myself reading and enjoying indifferently written romances by decidedly non-literary authors. The ones available these days frequently have some erotic content that probably wasn't in the ones my mother got, but I don't know that for sure – I so despised her choices back then that I never actually read them.

I do use the  'look inside' feature before buying. There are some which are so pathetic I couldn't bear to subject myself to them, and don't, but most can keep me entertained despite the atrocious editing (or lack thereof).

Furthermore, nowadays I seldom watch any of the excellent current affairs programs available on Australian TV. (Except Q&A, in which public figures, often politicians, are quizzed by a thoughtful audience. I still find this entertaining – and it reinforces my prejudices, which makes me feel good.)
I'm not sure why this change has happened.

I can explain to myself the disengagement from the current affairs programs. I've experienced more than enough grief, horror etc by now, either in my own life or as an observer of world affairs; I'm not going to rub my nose in any more. I still keep abreast of the news and read some commentary online. e.g. in The Guardian; that'll do me. But what about these lowbrow books?

I don't have any romantic partners now, let alone sexual ones; but then, I don't want to go to the bother anyhow. Relationships take work, and I've never been much interested in one night stands. In any case I don't really find elderly men attractive. (It was different with Andrew; I loved him.) And although I have in the past had some relationships with much younger men, I can't say any are showing up on my doorstep these days. Even if they did, would I want to exert myself? I'm enjoying my own company and that of my platonic friends (mostly women). So I suppose the books might be some kind of substitute. My choices often contain things like dragons, vampires, feisty heroines and handsome but somewhat 'damaged' heroes, all of which I'm a sucker for (in fiction if not in life, where I have learned to prefer emotionally mature men). But the happy acceptance of barely adequate writing, even alongside my continued love of beautiful writing, that's a mystery!

'What you resist, you become'? There were many ways in which I strove not to be like her, but it seems that, in some respects at least, I am my mother's daughter.

Revelations, or, The Things You Learn When Writing a Memoir

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1. Sensational or Underwhelming? 

I am actually posting excerpts of the memoir (first draft!) on a (different) blog – out in the blogosphere with my own name on it and all. And I post links to the episodes on facebook and Google+. It seems I am a bit of a storyteller after all – just not in fiction. At any rate, people say they enjoy reading it and urge me to keep going.

The last episode got very, very personal about my sex life. My sex life in my twenties, that is; there's not a lot to disclose now. But back then there was dysfunction closely followed by adultery. I hadn't thought to disclose so much detail as I did. I found that I needed to in order to tell the real story.  I was proud of myself when I'd got it all down, for the way I dealt with it and the fact that I told so much of the unpalatable truth.

What surprises me is that there has been so little comment on facebook. I finally struck them dumb, eh?
 
2. Self Image

 I have spent all my life thinking I was ugly; only attractive to those men who could see past the physical. In the course of writing the memoir, remembering back, I realise that lots of men thought I was attractive enough that they wanted to go out with me – more than I am including in the memoir, because I am only including the men who were important in my life. And actually, there were a fair few of them too. And they were all good-looking fellows themselves. It finally dawns on me that I simply couldn't have been as ugly as I thought.

Why did I think so? I believe I know.

When I was very young – maybe five – I went to stay with my aunty and uncle and cousins in another town, for a holiday. My aunty found my long hair difficult to manage. Dad, who was a travelling salesman, called in when he was down that way. My aunty asked him if she could cut my hair, and he gave consent. It was blonde, and had been nearly down to my waist. She cut it straight across, neck length. When it was time to go back home, Dad came and fetched me. We arrived back at our own place, and my Mum came rushing out to meet us. She saw me, stopped in her tracks, and wailed at him, 'Oh Rob, her hair – it was her One Beauty!' (I swear I heard those capital letters.) 
I think, now, it said a lot more about her than me. But I was five.

Perhaps it says even more about a society where there was one standard of beauty, and if you were female it mattered very much. But it was more than 70 years ago.

And I'm still buying it, one way or another! All the same, it's good to finally realise I can't have been all that ugly after all.
 

Relief!

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Crisis over, I think. You must have all prayed hard!

At the new blog, Project 365+1, I decided not to be all serious and formal but to say hello to the others there and talk about the quadrille form I used for my first post. There were warm responses from nice folks I'd never heard of, either as Old Mates or Intimidating Reputations. I liked their poems too, and said so. Suddenly it feels like a friendly place after all.

Playing with the Big Kids

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I've been invited to be a guest poet for the month of June at a blog of Aussie poets and artists, posting daily drafts. There's a core of regulars, and sundry guests. The idea, I'm told, is to keep up the habit of writing, and for potential discussion. They don't have to be first drafts, just not published elsewhere. But personal blogs and private groups are OK.

I accepted of course, flattered. The regulars are pretty serious names in Ozpoetry. Some of them are old mates, so that's OK. Others are distant, intimidating figures. Well, I expect they'd be surprised to be considered intimidating, but I feel intimidated. Trying to write my first poem tonight (having decided it's most practical to write them the night before they're due) I went into writer's block!

Usually I am prolific. Usually I am playful about writing poetry. I respond to prompts from various groups, and have little trouble writing a poem a day, though it's usually only three or four a week. And I write outside the prompts at times too, from that other thing called inspiration. How come I suddenly dried up?

It must be that famous 'Now they'll find me out' syndrome.  Who do I think I am, playing with the big kids? This regardless of the fact that I play with superb poets all the time.  Ah, but the ones I am about to play with have Reputations. And they have them in my country. And they had them when I was just starting to make a name for myself.

But I said I would do it, so I have to. I did a lot of Tapping tonight (no, not on keyboard; I mean a technique for quickly dispelling unwanted emotions). I was able to write a poem at last, after discarding several atrocious false starts. It's not world-shaking but it's respectable enough.

I have to shake off this paralysing fear! 'Respectable' is not a word that I think should be applied to poems! I'd rather write wild, zany, outrageous things.

Pray for my soul!

Resident Reptile Becomes Rescued Reptile

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Dear lizard lovers and dragon fanciers – resident reptile is no longer resident. I was having a late shower this morning, while Selene was out in the back yard. Suddenly the little water dragon, which had been so quiet for a few days that I thought it must have been hibernating, came running into the bathroom. (Perhaps it was drawn by the sound of the water; perhaps it could also tell that the cat was not inside at the time?) It ran right up to the edge of the shower, which is open and unscreened, then froze when it saw me. I'm not sure which of us was more startled. So, giving it as wide a berth as possible, I got out and dried myself, wondering what to do. It remained frozen – attempting to be invisible, I guess.

I remembered that a wildlife carer had suggested throwing a towel over it, so I did. Then I didn't like my chances of picking it up in the towel without (a) damaging it (b) it getting away. So I shut the bathroom door on it and rang the wildlife carers.

They couldn't get anyone here until late afternoon, but finally a nice, calm, efficient woman turned up and the little critter has now been collected and taken away. She thought he was probably hatched only recently. She also thought he would probably survive his ordeal. And yes, I was right: he was indeed a water dragon. Wonderful creatures, but I prefer them outside.

Asking for Helpful Advice on facebook

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It seems to work for satyapriya when she does it, but in my case not so. I am still reeling from the last lot I received, and would reproduce for you my cries of amazement except those that come to mind are in language unprintable publicly, even for me (and you).

As some of you know already, a young eastern water dragon (lizard) has got into the house and is mostly hiding very quietly behind the furniture; I don't know exactly where. I've seen it twice, but unlike geckoes it is much too quick to be swept or herded outside, and also too quick for Selene-cat to catch. (She doesn't seem to be a ferocious hunter; treats it like her toys when they roll under the furniture: out of sight, out of mind.)

I'm afraid it will either starve to death in this insect-less house, or that Selene will at some stage manage to kill it. I'd like to save it, but it is not at all cooperative about being saved. For one thing, I don't even know where the heck it is when it's not visible, and that's most of the time. It is very good at hiding. I peer behind furniture with a torch, and see nothing. It was a pure fluke that I ever saw it at all. I have also done some shifting of heavy furniture, with front door wide open and Selene shut out the back, and really thought it had gone – but no, there it was in the middle of the kitchen after all ... briefly, before disappearing swiftly back under the couch or the TV or wherever.

So I asked on facebook if anyone knew what I could do. Someone opined I might keep it in an aquarium. How would I get it in there, I wonder? Someone else suggested I could herd it with box lids. Well, it's not all that small, and it reacted fairly aggressively to my long-handled brush and pan. (I was glad theye WERE long-handled.)

It Seems I've Turned a Corner

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Mind you, I've thought that before. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I've completed another stage.

But something's shifted.

I've moved more fully into acceptance, even embracing, of being alone. I like my life and my lifestyle. I like my home, and somehow I seem to fill it now without any need for company — other than my dear old black cat, who has adapted too. We are very content with each other, and have evolved new routines that suit our new circumstances.

I have a nice balance between my lovely, solitary, introverted activities at home — reading and writing, mostly — and socialising with my friends outside the home (and sometimes in it, too).

It's also nice that I live in a small town, where I've been for 20-odd years, so it's hard to walk down the street without seeing at least one or two people I know. That might involve a chat, a hug, or just a smile in passing. Whatever, it sure doesn't let one feel isolated or unloved! And walking into some shops and cafés, similarly, means encountering people I know as friends.

I have no family here, and sometimes think that when I am older, perhaps I should move closer to them. But while I'm still able to be independent, this is a good place for me.

I was quite sick recently, for  a number of weeks, first with shingles then flu as well. I had to miss the market which augments my income — after missing several previous ones for other reasons. I asked my medical intuitive friend (who facetiously calls himself Da Wizard) if the Universe was sending me a message about not doing the markets any more.

He thought about it, then said, 'No, it doesn't seem to be permanent; but you need a rest right now. There's some more development ahead for you, more gifts to come in — but you're not quite ready yet. You haven't got over wanting Andrew to still be with you.'

(I knew that last bit was true. I think I discouraged Mr J, whom I believed was the great new male friend predicted for me. He told a story about saying to another Scorpio he met that, both being Scorps, they should become great friends. He may or may not have been dropping a hint, but I almost immediately started talking about how my cat, Levi, was my Significant Other. Some little time later I had to send Mr J an email about something we were both involved in. His reply was polite enough, but somewhat cool and curt. Since then, I haven't heard a word. But I had a dream which made it perfectly clear to me that I'd discouraged him subconsciously-on-purpose because I still wasn't ready to move on from Andrew.)

Da Wizard advised me to resume meditating — which had lapsed almost unnoticed, as these good habits tend to do — so as to help myself progress faster.

So I did, and I rested, and I gradually got well. And then I noticed that the shift had happened.

I still think of Andrew, still talk to him, am still thankful every day that we married each other and had as long together as we did, and such a great life together ... but I'm OK now with my life being as it is now. I feel not only self-reliant but quite happy. Somehow life did go on, as we are always told it will, and has become enjoyable in its own right.

I am where I wanted to be, and aimed to be, after he died — thoroughly enjoying my own company.

(I still feel a teeny bit disloyal, even while knowing that's irrational, and that he wouldn't want me to ... but not very much.)

If it's true that I have some more development to come — and I have much respect for the accuracy of Da Wizard's insights — then it is probably too soon for me to get involved, platonically or otherwise, with another bloke anyhow. So it is just as well that, at the moment, I feel perfectly self-sufficient.

Things I Learnt Today

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1) If you're going for eye tests, don't assume three hours of free parking will be enough time before you can safely drive. Do assume you might need to ask a friend to be chauffeur.

2) If an assistant tells you that you might see the specialist herself next time you come, assume you will — and find out what it will cost.

3) If you don't have data activated on your phone, and your tablet doesn't connect directly to the net, don't go out without your portable modem. (In case you need to check your bank balance online — particularly if you use an environmentally sound and therefore rare bank which doesn't have branches everywhere.)

******

'It costs more today, because you saw the doctor,' said the receptionist as I was leaving. I managed not to faint on being told how much more. 

'The girls would have told you last time,' she added. I said I didn't recall being told, and wondered silently whether I should worry about Alzheimer's after all. But now I do remember the assistant I saw last time saying very tentatively, as an afterthought, that the specialist might want to check me too next time. No mention of dollars, I swear.  It's always been bulk billing here in the past, so I wasn't concerned.

Well, we sorted that one. Age Pensioner; nothing like that sum in bank until next week; so I signed a form to say I'll pay in seven days.

What I also didn't expect was that the specialist would put extra drops in my eyes right at the last minute before my long appointment ended. 

'How soon can I drive?' I asked. (Last time there had been no problem; I was given the drops early on.) 

'It varies,' said the receptionist. 'It can be two hours, or four, or twenty-four. Go and have a coffee or something while you wait.' 

I did that. Then I walked around for three more hours, waiting for my eyes to settle down — two hours over the free parking limit. I was given very strict instructions not to drive until I was sure my eyes were ready — and indeed I wouldn't want to, with the blurry vision I had for those hours.

Now what will happen? Will I have to present my little ticket and then money will be demanded? Will I be able to pay it by card? Will there be enough left in my bank after buying coffee and cake for lunch? If I can't pay, will they stop my car from leaving?

I guess I'll figure something out,

The eyes are nearly normal now.

Oh well, gird up the loins. Trivial adventure number one million and ninety-nine coming up. After I get through it, I'll no doubt feel pleased with myself for doing so. But meanwhile.... 

Later:
Whew! No cause to be proud of myself, but at least heaps of relief. It was easy. There was a handy little machine at the entrance to the car park, where I could insert ticket and credit card and pay the extra. Only $12. That much I had. (You can tell I'm not often in the Big Smoke. I expect most people know about these things.)

What else I learned today:

4) If you're going to be out of the house a longish time, do remember to take the water bottle you reminded yourself of the night before. Maybe stick a note on the fridge?

Things to be grateful for:

a) I hadn't had a lot of exercise lately, what with minor medical and surgical procedures. (Don't panic, all's well.) I didn't exactly power walk around Coolangatta but it was a very long stroll. 

b) If not the fierce heatwave of yesterday, it was still hot out — but I spent most of the day in air-conditioned shopping centre.

c) It's been years. The specialist didn't remember me well enough to ask about Andrew (who I'm sure she would have remembered; like many people, she adored him) so I didn't have to do the 'Oh, he died' thing. One can have too much of that.

d) I've been paying over-the-counter prices for the drops they were testing. Now I have prescriptions — much cheaper — for products which will work even better. And I don't need to take them nearly so often.

e) I am not required to go back. My GP can renew the scripts as needed.

f) There is nothing too serious wrong. It's just that, being a writer, and one who has embraced the digital age, I use my computer and tablet a lot. I even prefer ebooks to print ones for my leisure reading these days. So my eyes get dry, which messes up my vision — but not in a deep-seated, permanent way. It's easily fixed. The drops I have are referred to by the professionals as 'tear supplements'; isn't that cute?


Comments from LJ posting:

goldmourn

Posts written like this make things easier to read. I should use this format sometimes - if you see that I do, be sure to take some credit for it - I sometimes talk like this, numbering things in importance but then I forget where I was at and invalidate everything I was saying.

Surprise extra billing - not good! I don't like surprises, especially ones that cost me.

I just noticed you have a tag for sylvia plath in the sidebar - among all manner of interesting things! - and now I'm curious. oh - many interests or topics in common! makes me wish I'd been tagging my posts all along.

I hope today is going well for you.

Oh, and I should probably get my eyes tested as well. I keep putting it off but perhaps I shouldn't any longer.

snakypoet 

Ha ha, yes, the experts on blogging tell us we should write posts of numbered points if we wish to be read. But I seldom do, either; this one just happened to work out that way. If everyone did it all the time, it would get boring, don't you think?

If you keep feeling you should get your eyes tested, you probably shouldn't put it off too long. :)

I have read somewhere that tagging posts is mainly for the benefit of Google and other search engines, so people can find your stuff amongst other things on the subject. It may be so, but I do it for my own benefit, so that if I want to refer back to something, it's easier to locate. Not that I often do, but in theory....

goldmourn

I agree, it would get boring. Also, eventually people should tire of having everything listed to them, I would hope. But unfortunately, must admit, it does seem to attract the eye when one is reading through things. I'm certain that if I had made my long rambling posts broken down into numbered lists, even if it didn't make sense, it would have been read more than the way it is. Even by me! But thankfully, I did not do that. I do enjoy the format though. Maybe it's because I like poetry. Secretly, all these lists and buzz articles and whatnot don't realize that what they are truly yearning for are poems! Poetry! Stanzas! (Dare I hope that were true?)


Yes, I knew I was using the tags wrong the moment I started using them but I figured that I would exhaust myself obsessively compulsively trying to categorize my entries. Maybe if the tag system had begun when I started my journal, I probably would have done it correctly. Now, I would only do it right if I also felt I could stand to go through my entire history of posts and tag each one. I'm exhausted just thinking about it. I do think it is very beneficial to have tagged posts though - so much easier to find things on various subjects and common interests or related posts! For one's self and other readers.

I rambled too much. Yes, I should get my eyes tested. All of us, staring at our screens all the time, should take better care than we do.

captlychee

1. Writing posts in numbered form is handy if you want to make your points punchier, as the eye can glide down the list and see what it's interested in. But what of those of us who write lengthy meanderings about what we've had for lunch and where our traipsing has taken us?


2. Going through your old posts to tag them is a nice way to while away, say, a lengthy prison sentence, but otherwise it's not that much fun. However, putting a tag cloud on your page will show your tags in sizes relative to their importance, and that can be self-illuminating as well as making it easier for the readers to go straight you your posts about stuff they might be interested in.


3. Ah, tear supplements: put a drop in and wait twenty minutes for it to soak in before you can read your screen again. Now do one of those every hour. Now try to work through it. I ended up giving it up as a bad joke—and my eyes are as good today as if they were made of crumpled Glad Wrap…

snakypoet 

I have been using the tear supplements every half hour for three months, and (obviously) it doesn't take me 20 minutes to be able to read the screen. Without them, I was seeing so badly I was really worried. It is a huge relief to find that my vision problems were so easy to fix. (And now I can go on to doing them two-hourly.) I suspect it was the least of your problems!

captlychee

I suspect you weren't on Polygel or Celluvisc, as they are the thick ones that take forever to dissipate or whatever you call it, and kept me more or less blinded for twenty minutes at a time. But you're far better off supplementing the ol' lachrymal functions if you're going to stare unblinkingly at the screen.

It strikes me comically that one day I will need earwax supplements to keep my eardrums nice and supple to better appreciate the spoken word :)

snakypoet

No, I wasn't on those. :)

metahara.

Glad to hear all is well, odd adventure of it and all.

snakypoet 

Now that the odd adventure is well over, I am pretty happy about the outcome.

Using the Unfriend Option

Migrated from LiveJournal

Oh, the relief! I just unfriended a facebook friend / real life acquaintance (who, fortunately, I’m unlikely to encounter again, as he doesn’t live near).  Sweet, funny guy in person, when we met; but on fb, oh what a chip on the shoulder!

Having a discussion or even a difference of opinion is one thing, but being argumentative for the sake of it — well, after five years of attempting to meet it with reason, humour and tolerance, I just got sick of it.

He didn't even argue intelligently. He leapt in to take issue so hastily that he quite often got the wrong end of the stick, arguing against things I wasn't even saying. Or he would argue FOR positions that were patently ludicrous. He would take on my friends too, in comments. He waxed quite insulting at times.

Why did I put up with him so long? I can recognise an inferiority complex when I see one, and felt compassion. I still do, but I also see that being nice to him and/or putting up with him didn't help. He just kept right on being an aggressive dickhead. If anything, he got worse over the years.

As the grown-ups used to say when I was a kid — good riddance to bad rubbish.


Comments left on LJ:

bttrflyscar

you were smart to do that. I dated a guy like that once. for way too long.

snakypoet 

As they say, better late than never. But we make allowances, don't we? We try to see the best, and do the right thing. Gut instinct would be a better guide!

Although this fb friendship lasted five years, there were often long gaps between his comments. It's just that when they happened they were ALWAYS as I describe above, and now I can't believe I put up with it so long.

Never mind, I'm sure we have both learned our lessons, even if it did take us a while.

metahara.

Ah the modern world. Yes, life is too short and wide to sit close to stinky rubbish.