No Woman is an Island Either

Apologies for the length of this post. It's an article I've written for submission but thought it would make a good blog post as well.

I’ve been single and I’ve been coupled. Both states have their pros and cons of course and the characteristic perversity of human nature usually ensures that when we’ve been in one for a while we start to wish we were in the other. However I’ve been without a relationship of any substance, by which I mean one that lasted more than a few weeks, for around six years now and quite frankly I’m ready to say, with no apology, being single sucks.

My delight at all the alleged benefits of singledom has palled. I’ve exhausted the joys of freedom and independence, such as the chance to eat baked beans or cornflakes for dinner when I couldn’t be bothered shopping or cooking, uninterrupted monopolisation of the remote control, having sole executive decision making authority on everything from holidays to how often to do the washing, but now I’m over it. In fact I’d relish the chance to consult a significant other on a major life decision. No, more than that, I yearn for it. I’m sick of being totally responsible for all the lapses of judgement, crappy meals, financial blunders, dearth of clean underwear and other rotten choices in my life. Someone else to blame for a change would be great.

This of course is just another way of saying I’m lonely. Admitting to such a state however is something I’m fairly sensitive about. Overwhelmingly these days, to judge from much of the self help genre of literature and pronouncements of various experts in the field, we are made to feel that this emotion is at best a weakness and at worst a reflection of our total inadequacy as a person.

In an article I read quite recently, the writer observed in a tone of some perplexity that people living the life of a single person sometimes, unaccountably, express dissatisfaction with that state. The writer went on to not only deplore this foolishness but condemn the misguidedness of these solo self-pitiers in thinking that if they found someone, they might be happier.

To add insult to injury, with the total confidence of the singularly enlightened, the writer said that if a person admits to being miserably single, all it means is they are simply a miserable person. Presumably, according to this view, even in the remote chance that they luck out and land a partner, this pathetic excuse for a person will stay miserable and probably make the partner’s life a misery into the bargain. This sort of equates to stating that if someone is starving and has the gall to announce they’d feel happier after a bit of a nosh-up, they are just pathetically dependent on food and no matter how much they gorge themselves, they’ll never fill that psychic hole within.

The commentator is clearly speaking from the giddy heights of one who has surpassed all earthly longings and one can’t help but gasp at their superior understanding. It is truly helpful to realise that feeling a bit fed up with one’s own company and believing that life would be enhanced by sharing it with a compatible partner, means that we are in some way dysfunctional. What could be taken as self righteous pontificating, but is obviously educated insight, suggests that unhappiness with one’s lot as a single person is an indicator of emotional and spiritual poverty, lack of balance, poor self esteem, insecurity, or whatever pop psychology definition you care to pluck out of the air and berate your miserable self with.

Should this pathetic bumbling mess that is you have the audacity to imagine that having someone meaningful in your life would be great, you are kidding yourself. You are not looking for love, you are looking for a bandaid solution, a quick fix, or in the worst case scenario, if you are a completely hopeless case, an extreme makeover. The flaws are not in the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that have left you for whatever reason washed up on a desert island of solitude, they are glaringly, blatantly and incontrovertibly in you.

The logical progression of this line of thinking is that you must fix yourself before you can even contemplate in the vaguest most theoretical way, the prospect of attracting a mate. You must create your own harmony, balance and serenity. As you ascend the psychic ladder of karmic fulfilment, presumably you will start to find happiness within, tossing off all thoughts of needs, wants and desires as so much uncouth brutish baseness. In fact if you are good enough at this inner journeying and manage to reach the nirvana of complete self actualisation, people not only will start to call you God, or Buddha or Mighty Sage or something and fawn obsequiously at your feet, you will be in the exalted position of not needing anyone, ever, not even your Mum.

Hang on though. What about humanity and its (to use a nauseatingly ubiquitous term) sustainability? How would it be if we all declined to look for a mate until we had transcended to the plane of complete inner harmony and serenity, content in the certain knowledge that we were perfectly complete and whole both in and of ourselves, and no fleshly joy on earth could compete with the bliss of knowing ourselves to be at one with the universe? We would just live out our peerless days contemplating the perfection of our navels and not bother to get into all that messy reproduction or heaven forbid copulation, the two being of course somewhat interdependent. We would pretty soon become extinct.

And besides what’s so terrible about a bit of self-dissatisfaction? How else do we get motivated enough to make changes in our lives, perhaps take on new challenges, pursue new dreams, get out more, than by coming to the conclusion that we are not perhaps sufficient just to ourselves. Sometimes the blinding realisation that if this is all there is, we’ve been short-changed is just the impetus we need to get up off our butts and get out there and look for what we want. Too much inward focused contemplation often reveals things that are better left hidden, things moreover which we can do little to improve. I say forget the quest for elusive self-perfection, give it up as futile. Besides after a while, I don’t know about you, but I get bored with myself, sick and tired of hearing all that inner moaning about what a balls-up I’ve made of it all, how I’ve wasted all my latent genius on foolish misadventures and ended up in one of life’s fruitless cul de sacs, otherwise known as my day job. Yes perhaps I could have done better and regrets I’ve had a zillion, but I can’t turn back the clock and the enormity of fixing myself now utterly defeats me. Better to take it as given that most thinking people feel the same and get out there and find another flawed flounderer and have a bit of fun before it’s all too late, I say.

Mouldering away in miserable seclusion just because we have a few psychic flaws is moreover counter-productive. General malaise, if left untended in the belief that it is a sort of hair shirt we have to bear with equanimity while we strive for greater personal growth, can potentially ignite into anxiety, morbid misery or full blown depression in those who are susceptible to such frames of mind. In the acknowledged hierarchy of human needs, the need to love and be loved is pretty much up there with basic survival requirements. A longing to belong is not anything to feel ashamed of. While eschewing any suggestion that a sense of ownership should form any part of a mature loving relationship between consenting adults, I do believe a fundamental part of a successful partnership with an intimate companion is the feeling that you belong together. Whether or not it is openly acknowledged between you, if things are working well, you should reasonably expect to feel that here, with this person, is where you are supposed to be and that if you weren’t, you would both be missing something.

When you are alone, by choice or circumstance, you are lacking that connection. There are ways of compensating for that lack of course, and many do and must and can keep it up quite successfully for long periods of their lives. It is however not perhaps what they would choose, not over the long term in any case, and not, I boldly suggest, the way we, as the very social beings we humans are, were meant to be.

There is, it must be said, a difference between normal need and neurotic over-dependency on another person. If a person’s sense of self worth is not just a bit skewed but seriously out of whack, they can be lured into thinking that someone else will fix them. Here is where that inner psychic hole yawns so deeply that the sufferer is ready to grasp at anything that might make them feel a bit better, no matter how momentary or how self-destructive that panacea ultimately proves to be. Such behaviour tends to manifest itself in the development of dysfunctional relationships where one or both partners are so insecure that they end up basically tearing each other apart. That is a whole other horrifying but all too common ball game and I would not venture to suggest how best to deal with it, except to say that if you see one of the afflicted coming, run for your life.

As someone who I like to think falls within the range of the usually normal, or at least minimally neurotic, I can only look at things from that perspective. And it is from that perspective, as a single for too long person, that I have resigned myself to the fact that I must be a tad more proactive about my state of affairs than sitting around feeling fed up. As a result I have cast my principles to the wind (look where they’ve got me anyway, useless things) and decided to give online dating another go. I could tell you this decision was motivated by a need to extend the body of research for my forthcoming book on the subject, worthy ulterior motive though that is, but let’s get real. I freely admit I need to get out more. Well not get out so much as get in – into a meaningful relationship, before that old sun finally sinks below the horizon and I ascend to that nirvana in the sky, where you can bet they don’t have broadband.

A Watch Dog's Work is Never Done

Here is Fergus taking a breather from his watch dog duties. The mad koala took his leave of us a couple of days ago and will not be missed.

Although the coast appears to be clear, the wise Fergus knows one can never be too careful and has been patrolling the grounds with commendable zeal ever since.

Too much zeal perhaps as one of the after effects of the koala capers is that once night descends, he goes on heightened alert and at the sound of even a leaf falling to the ground springs to his feet and hurtles outside to check it out. A couple of times I've spotted him perched on the outdoor chair, gazing balefully up at the pergola, or the gum trees, his eyes peeled for the flash of grey fur. As a result, come morning, the poor chap is exhausted and succumbs to a well earned sleep.

Hopefully this will subside in time and peace will once more reign. That is of course, unless the magnetic powers of attraction that I seem to possess for native animals continues and we are visited by another species. I do hope it's not an emu.

Kenny K rides again

Just when we thought it was safe to expect a night's sleep uninterrupted by close encounters of the animal kind, Kenny K decided to drop by again. Hell hath no fury like a koala given the cold shoulder and this time he decided to give us that message personally.

The happy trio were peacefully slumbering en famille last night. Me snoring faintly and doubtless dribbling, Scully snoring loudly in her bed and Fergus on his/my bed not snoring but emitting pollutants from his posterior of sufficient strength to render our personal methane footprint the size of an elephant's.

Suddenly all hell broke loose. Fergus gave a clarion cry like a pack of hounds to the chase and burst from the bedroom into the loungeroom, from which there shortly came not four but eight clacking claws pounding the wooden floor. To this was added the cacophony of ferocious growling, yapping etc. as noted in my previous post, and another indeterminate sound which soon turned out to be .... wait for it .... Kenny K - having a very bad fur day and at large, and I mean large, in the bosom of our home. Whether he thought he'd drop by for a spot of quiet TV viewing while the coast was clear, or what I don't know. He had apparently slipped through the aperture of the back screen door left open to cater for urgent canine calls of nature in the night and then forgot which way was out.

Fergus already somewhat embittered by the previous confrontation was not about to do any turning of blind eyes, other cheeks or similar wimpish stuff. The scene that met my eyes was not a happy one. I had to decide in a flash what to do and being both a dog and and a koala lover there was a decided conflict of interest. The potential for flying dog and koala parts was high though. So what could I do but leap into the fray, feet protected by the trusty holy bedsocks but hands sadly not. Like the proverbial mother throwing herself in front of a truck to protect her beloved brood, I prized the creatures apart, seized Fergus and hauled him off into the bedroom slamming the door behind him.

I was then left to face Kenny K, alone, as is my lot in life. By this time he was in a state of advanced panic galloping about, as if to the strains of the William Tell Overture, scrabbling up armchairs, blundering into furniture and so on. Having the presence of mind of one who is expert in emergencies, or in other words doing the first thing that leaps into my mind, I threw open all the doors and windows and kept out of the way. Kenny eventually cottoned on that freedom beckoned and gallumphed his way out the door and off into the night, apparently uninjured.

On subsequent inspection Fergus also proved to be unscathed, which is more than I can say for myself. My passage through the house was marked in classical chain saw massacre fashion by large drops of blood on the floor and smears on the walls. This alerted me to the fact that I was wounded, messily but not mortally, now evidenced by some impressive looking medical dressings along one arm and finger.

Fergus when allowed out of the bedroom was bent on vengeance and spent the rest of the night seeking it. A glance at the bedside clock radio revealed the time of the incident to be 2.00am so there was a sizeable bit of night remaining. Sleep was but a dream as Fergus tore through the house in a frenzy for the next four hours. An excitable dog at the best of times, he outdid himself on this occasion. Scully slumbered on through the whole uproar. Deafness has its advantages.

What happens next who knows. I will be barricading the dogs in the house at night from now on at least until the coast is clear of the mad koala. If you don't hear any more from me, you'll know I've either gone bonkers from sleep deprivation or have started a new career as a taxidermist of native animals.

Another brush with an Australian fauna icon

I’m moving – somewhere – anywhere where the innocent populace is not plagued by rampant marsupials running amok.

First it was Skippy the kangaroo or one of his relatives, blundering into my car and causing one hell of a mess. Now it’s Kenny the Koala decorating my backyard with the fruits of what must have been a veritable orgy of pooping, and then to add insult to injury rudely awakening me from my well earned rest last night.

To be fair it wasn’t Kenny K who woke me. It was Fergus, my trusted terrier, conscientiously fulfilling his watchdog duties, who must have heard the plop of koala excretions hitting the ground or something (his hearing being very keen). On being alerted, he leapt to attention, sprang from his bed (unofficially my bed, but he sees it as his), tore outside at top speed and erupted in a frenzy of hysterical yapping interspersed with ferocious growls – both loud enough to wake the dead, let alone the peacefully slumbering neighbours. I gave it ten minutes or so, in the wishful hope that he might have just had a bad dream and on realising there was nothing there calm down and come back inside. No such luck though. The barking and growling if anything escalated in volume and intensity. There was nothing for it but to drag myself up and go outside to investigate, bedecked in all the splendour of my winter season night attire, complete with holy bedsocks. A vision that can only be imagined.

There was Fergus in full cry, springing up and down, tearing around in circles and generally acting like a mad dog. Above him, perched precariously on the pergola was Kenny, the giant koala. Judging from the state of his figure he had clearly been feasting on those special gum leaves beloved of koalas which I suppose are now flourishing because of all the nice rain we’ve had. Hence the voluminous poops. Despite his bulk, he managed to trot back and forth along the beams of the pergola quite nimbly, occasionally glancing down at Fergus in a taunting sort of way as if to say “come on dog – make my day”. Which I’m sure he would have – and his breakfast, lunch and dinner as well. No cute cuddly teddy type this one I can tell you.

Needless to say, it was mother who had to save the bloody day, as far as one can in the dead of night. After a few fruitless efforts to tempt Fergus inside with calls of “bickie, bickie” I realised this was useless. Normally no matter what the alternative temptation, Fergus is such a glutton that this feeble ploy actually works. However in this case a cartload of bickies wouldn’t have done it. There was nothing for it but to try and catch him. Easier said than done. Despite lots of plunging and lunging as he sped past, he managed to slip through my fingers. Eventually though as he was attempting to climb the wall to get to his prey, I grabbed his collar and hauled him inside. Of course I then had to haul him all the way to the other door that was still open in order to close it before he could slip through and escape again. Quite a test of strength it was too. Even at the risk of strangulation, the little bugger kept surging ahead, desperate to make a dash for the exit. But I prevailed and with all the exits blocked, decided it was safe to go back to bed.

Back to bed I went but not to sleep of course. Foiled in his attempt to get up close and personal with Kenny K, Fergus was not happy. He made this very clear throughout what remained of the night by rampaging through the house, pummelling at the doors to get out, whining and yelping and otherwise carrying on. The only one who slept was Scully, who luckily for her is stone deaf.

Aroused to another day of work by the clock radio, I dragged myself from my bed in an even more advanced state of stupour than usual. Fergus having momentarily lowered himself into a prone position for the space of a few minutes just before dawn, immediately jumped up again ready to burst into the outdoors – that exciting realm of furry nocturnal invaders. I made him wait until at least I’d had a shower and got dressed, thoughtful enough not to inflict my night-time sartorial ghastliness on any neighbours who might be abroad. Once we did venture outside, thank goodness there was no sign of Kenny K. Presumably he’d moved off to partake of another serving of leaves somewhere else, or after the excitement of the night, was sleeping it off amongst the branches.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide to pay us another visit tonight.

Kangaroos and Cars don't Mix

This is the story of something that happened to me a couple of months ago. I had lunch yesterday with Mme Benaut, dear friend and inspirational blogger, and she suggested I should recount this for the edification of others. And to serve as a cautionary tale.

It was, as they say in the classics, a dark and stormy night. In fact it was the night before I was to leave for a weekend in Sydney to celebrate my friend Nina's birthday. Being away from home of course necessitates putting my canine children (Fergus and Scully) up in a boarding kennel, much to their disgust. We've become accustomed to using a very good one at Mylor, (Top Spot Kennels) which although some distance away in the wilds of the Adelaide hills, looks after the dogs really well.

This particular night saw the onset of the autumn rain, with a vengeance. It had been raining steadily all afternoon and by the time I'd dropped the dogs off and turned back towards home, it was already pitch dark at six o'clock or thereabouts and absolutely teeming. While the rain was like manna from heaven to this driest of dry cities, it made driving conditions hazardous in the extreme. This wasn't helped by the fact that the stretch of road between Mylor and Aldgate, the next hills town, is very narrow, winding and dark.

My night-time eyesight is not all it could be, along with all the other failing faculties, so I was peering myopically through the windscreen and feeling fairly anxious already when a huge greyish white apparition loomed up out of the blackness to my left. With an enormous thud it smacked straight into the passenger side of the car knocking it off course and then seemed to disappear. There was nowhere to turn off the road and cars were right behind me so somehow I managed to keep driving, but very hesitantly as I didn't know how badly the car was damaged. I was also in a state of panic because I didn't know what I'd hit. For all I knew at that stage it could have been a person or a child. Visions of being convicted as a hit-run driver flashed before me. A bit further down the road there was a muddy turn-off to the left so I managed to pull in off the road and stop, very shaken. The drivers of two other cars behind me both stopped also to see if I was alright, which was kind of them.

One of them, a young girl, came over and I tried to open the passenger side door but it was stuck. She told me I'd hit a kangaroo as she'd seen it bounce off my bonnet and disappear over the other side of the road. The other driver who stopped was a young man who was really kind and thoughtful and had a very close look at the car for me to see whether it was driveable. He was soaked to the skin, it was raining so hard, but he still got down in the mud and looked under the car to see whether any oil or fluid was leaking out. He then offered to drive in front of me until we got to Aldgate, as by now I only had one headlight. I don't know who he was but I am very grateful for his help. It seemed like the car was alright to drive, in that it had no mechanical problems. Just the slight problem of a busted headlight and missing rear view window on one side, which had apparently been sheared off by the kangaroo.

I felt pretty bad about the kangaroo and was afraid that I might have killed it or at least seriously injured it, but there wasn't much I could do. Subsequently quite a few people told me they are actually pretty tough and unless you hit them full on with a vehicle with a roo bar attached, they often survive without too much ill effect. So I hope that was the case with this one.

It was a hair raising drive home as although I'd negotiated the rest of the narrow, winding hills road I was on, the remainder of the route was not much better and of course it was still raining heavily. Visibility with only one headlight was appalling so I had to keep the working one on high beam, which the approaching drivers probably didn't appreciate.

Finally I got home in one piece, which is more than I can say for the car. I still went away for the weekend and left the disaster locked up in the garage to deal with on my return. It needed quite extensive repairs as it turned out, although fortunately the insurance paid for them, all except the unavoidable excess.

Running into a kangaroo was the last thing I would have expected to happen so close to the metropolitan area, thinking they would only be a concern out in the middle of the outback. But apparently they are not uncommon in that area, and of course there are also lots of koalas. It made me realise that wherever you drive where there are trees and bushland, it's important to be aware of the wildlife that may be around and keep alert to the possibility of an animal getting onto the road. Of course in the case of this one, as it seemed to literally launch itself out of the bush on the side of the road straight into my car, there was little I could have done to avoid it. But I will be a lot more wary driving through those parts in future.

Nieces

On Friday my sister Rosemary and I had a girls' lunch with my two nieces, Renee and Melissa, ostensibly for Renee's birthday but also just to get together, the four of us, for a gossip and a catch up. We do this all too rarely and it was great fun.

Both girls have grown up into lovely young women and although they're both currently single, I'm sure some lucky bloke will be smart enough to snap them up some day.

They take after their aunt slightly I think in that they were a bit unsure of what direction to take in their lives when younger (in their aunt's case she was completely all over the place!). But they've now both found their way and are doing really well. Renee (in the middle) is a very dedicated primary school teacher and Melissa after quite a few years working, decided this year to take on a science degree at Flinders. She's done very well in her first exams and is enjoying learning again. Although it's a big challenge, I know the family attitude of persistence and industriousness will ensure she gets there and will then be able to look forward to an exciting and rewarding career.

Rosemary can be very proud of her girls, which she is of course!!

To Plot or Not

I've recently been reading quite a few books on writing by writers of varying degrees of accomplishment. These are not so much "how to" books as advice from those who may be expected to know, in so far as they have had books published. As an aspiring writer, I am eager for all the advice I can get, although as with any field of learning you must take some and leave some.

There is a common theme among a lot of such material that emphasises the indispensability of plot. This premise is based on the notion that in today's world of instant gratification, audiences have limited attention spans. As well, because film and television have become the entertainment of choice for the masses, being accessible, cheap and undemanding, people have become accustomed to a fast pace, quickly unfolding events and a speedy resolution to the drama. They are therefore not willing to hang around waiting for something to happen. Writers who hope to engage their readers are as a result encouraged to hit them between the eyes within the first couple of pages, or risk having their book unceremoniously consigned to the dustbin, or worse put back on the shelf.

I don't necessarily disagree with this. An exciting unputdownable book is a great way to while away the time, hence the popularity of airport paperback outlets. But the corollary to this, propounded by at least some of these advice givers, is that fiction that is not plot focused and escapist in nature, that is instead too much like "real life" is boring, tedious and not worth the time spent in writing it. Why, this school of thought suggests, would we want to read about something that could happen to us, who cares, yawn yawn? Most people's lives considered in this way are I suppose predictable and humdrum. And if one was to catalogue in detail the minutiae and trivia of day to day existence, no-one would be terribly interested least of all the writer.

But life is not all about that. There are highlights, lowlights and moments of great drama within the ordinary. People I am convinced like to identify. They like to find their own experiences in the lives and words of others. They like to know that others have felt the same emotions; frustrations, anger, joy, sorrow, whatever as they have. We can even find solace in reading about how someone has handled a tragedy in life that we have faced or may face. There is a place for this stuff.

As the writer Anne Tyler said in a recent interview, "the whole purpose of my books is to sink into other lives .... I would love it if the readers sank along with me." And plenty of readers have, considering her hugely successful body of work, recognised by the Pulitzer Prize no less. Possibly it's a way of portraying our shared humanity.

So there's no place really for an extremist view about plot driven fiction. There's room for both kinds. Some people love Harry Potter and anything by J.R. Tolkien, some love Virginia Woolf. Some just love anything that keeps them awake or helps them to nod off, whatever.

I like books of all kinds but I especially love books where I can relate to the protagonists and what happens to them, and they're the kinds of stories and books I hope to write. Equally there is great skill in writing good science fiction, suspenseful cliff-hangers, blood curdling thrillers or passionate bodice rippers. Horses for courses, as they say and anyone who is reckless enough to issue imperatives about what should and should not be written, deserves not to be read!