I’ve always wanted to be a writer. A good writer. Partly because I love words and the way they can move both writer and reader of all types. But partly if I’m honest ( the new me now) because when well done, it seems it can be portable.

I want to write because I want to hope that I’m half good at it. I want to write because I feel safer behind my words. But in the same breath I don’t think I’m that good at it. Or at best good enough to do the dream.

I don’t remember the small things of my life, my real life. I promise myself I will, but I don’t. I also don’t really remember the details of good enough stuff I read.

I’m listening to Geraldine Brookes giving the first of her four Boyer lectures. It is broadly speaking on the environment and having a sense of place. I usually get turned off by environmental activism as much of it seems to be anti people, anti relationship and anti balance and full of guilt mungering and but you must know generalizations

I like the way she put her acknowledgement of country neatly within the context of her lecture; where it made sense and resonated with the rest of the points she was making. I believe her. I join her in that sentiment wholeheartedly as opposed to watching it sit there like a sixth digit.

I now at the end of that lecture want to go and check that the wheelchair charger that keeps me disabled and handicapped from having any sort of real wilderness experience is off and run the handwashing load that is due as early as possible to make use the natural sunlight to dry things in air.

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This was a Facebook meme style update from a friend. It was too clever to just leave on Facebook particularly give it is something I’ve noticed,

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as: – Knowing when to come in out of the rain; – Why the early bird gets the worm; … – Life isn’t always fair; – And maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies, don’t spend more than you can earn and adults, not children, are in charge. His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion. Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn’t defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault. Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife Discretion, his daughter Responsibility, and his son, Reason. He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers; I Know My Rights, I Want It Now, Someone Else Is To Blame and I’m A Victim Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, do nothing..

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My recent readings having included re-reading Socrates’ Apology (as reported we think by Plato).

A passage has struck me: — apologies for the gendered language

 

“You are mistaken, my friend, if you think that a man who is worth anything ought to spend his time weighing up the prospects of life and death. He has only one thing to consider in performing any action; that is, whether he is acting rightly or wrongly, like a good man or a bad one” 27B-28C

 

 

 

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I remember studying the Stamford Prison Experiment nearly 15 years ago. It was shocking then. Now 40 years on the reflections are really just as interesting.

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I’ve been having a lot of things float across my radar that have got me thinking about labeling around the issue of disability. Lets start with some links while I try and synthesise my brain a bit.

• Cerebral palsy change for the Spastic Centre – Health – News – Northern District Times. As a former client of the service in my childhood can I just say. Yay! I’m pretty sure this was being mooted 25 years ago. As a child I hated having to say spastic in relation to myself because even though it was the correct technical term; describing a person who spasms,it was; and is derogatory. I just hope that they don’t spend the next 66 years having to handle the re-branding like others have had to so for so long.

• This post over at Deeply Problematic, looks at the definitions we give ourselves particularly around disability. Word order defines focus and priorities and, as such the messages we want to give others. Am I a
  • disabled woman;
  • woman with a disability,
  • differently abled woman
  • normal woman who just sits a lot

I remember thinking of myself as the last of these growing up and into my twenties. I found when strangers and children asked it was the the one that defused the tension, reduced fear.

While my impairment was visible (the main one anyone), the effects were not all as apparent as the wheelchair. Therefore I too have the choice as to my label. It’s got me thinking. More on this as it comes to hand (or head in this case). In the meant-time I have said  some of this stuff before.

• Another post on the lessons on visible/invisible temporary/permanent disability and the fct that we all need to be asked “How are you?” My favourite line, because I can so relate:

For the fifth time that night, I had to explain myself, and I was getting a little tired of my on-going narrative.  I gave her the 60-second version of my story.

I just hope I can remember to ask the question and wait for the answer.

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For those of you outside Australia, the entire continent is having some very hard times weatherwise at the moment. In Sydney yesterday the heat was oppressive–today is slated to be worse to the point where I can’t sit at my window (where my desk is) for very long.

In that context, this is what I wrote down yesterday at about 4 PM.

I used to be really worried about the space I take up (in my wheelchair). I still am really. I was raised to be quite conscious of it when I parked etc.

But I’m sitting at DejaBrew in the city waiting for a friend. There were no tables I could easily get to inside so I was aiming for a table in the shade outside. I’m having an ordinary coffee–table hire basically. I don’t think it’s the coffee’s fault. I think it’s just the heat.I’m trying to collect spoons and prepare for a all day meeting later in the week, when I need to set up and be intelligent.

There are two suits sitting next to me in the shade, with a table also shaded between us with the jacket and bag of one of the suits and his briefcase occupying.

Grey stripe suit is in charge (or wants to be), or pitching an idea and trying to look committed. He keeps eyeing me suspiciously. Younger blue suit is quieter, drinking water to the grey suit’s latte. He is clearly the one with the purse strings.

They are both engaged in the paper business of a meeting and taking three tables to do it. One for the grey suit and his paperwork, pushed against one for the blue suit and his papers. These tables seat four each comfortably. The coffee shop could seat 12 people in the shade in this space.

The craziest thing is that one table is for the blue suit to store his blazer and I got glared at when I parked there. They want a buffer perhaps. I should have just stayed there, but I felt shy.

Leaving me in the sun. Melting.

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First let me say; my granny (my mother’s mother) has been dead for very nearly 10 years. So no I don’t mean she’s literally calling, or even from the grave or even in a meta-physical sense. I mean that I often wonder what she would make of the world around me. I find myself asking on the cusp of a new year;
What would Granny

• do, (or perhaps more noteworthy not do),
• think,
• say (or again when would she hold her tongue), and even,
• wear.

Those who know me offline (or, as we used to say online;  in real life) will know then I speak very highly of my grandmother and the lessons she taught me and the wisdom she held so lightly. She was in my view the perfect mix of a modern (for the time of) yet woman who knew of the value of occasion, manners, common sense and practical service of others.

I don’t know whether this has a lot to do with her or not. However, I’ve been noticing a distinct slide in the above, particularly in public. Perhaps I’m getting old, or more old-fashioned but I find myself shaking my head, more often than I used to.

This example probably makes me sound very old and grumpy.

I recently met family for morning tea at a shopping centre on the other side of Sydney where I  indulged in a fruity version of Earl Grey tea called Girlie Grey,  I caught two trains  back home to the Inner West. The journey to see my relatives was uneventful except that half a dozen schoolchildren, now on holiday to February  were somewhat boisterous in the carriage down the stairs from me, with the parents ending up joining in on the mildly rough play. You could see other commuters trying to remain focused on the newspaper or book in front of them. I’m not sure how successful they were. But really that wasn’t too bad.

Less than two hours later I made the return journey. On the train heading into Central, two seemingly unrelated women in their early 20s bordered a couple of stops after me. One had a small suitcase, and one a trolley. Both moved quickly,  but were largely concentrating on the goings-on on their mobile phones. Both  sat quickly in the vestibule area where I am required to park (the other parts of the carriage going up or down via three stairs apiece. Also at this train station  bordered two older women who proceeded down the three stairs to the carriage proper. One of the younger women smiled at me and proceeded to continue eating a banana and consulting her mobile. I smiled back.

A few stops later, but still a stop or two before her destination the frailer of the two older women climbed carefully and nervously up the stairs to enquire whether we were at a particular station. The somewhat fitter older woman, also seemingly unrelated to the other was the first to pipe up that she still had two stops until her declared destination.

It really was a smooth enough ride on the train. It was still bumpy though and the frailer of the two looked increasingly unsteady on her feet and more anxious than anything about staying on her feet.

I found myself, while parked well out of the way wanting to leap up by way of a temporary miracle if nothing else and offer this woman my seat even though that wasn’t possible because I was using my seat (my wheelchair). Between the two older women now both standing I caught the eye of the younger one who had smiled at me earlier and gestured to the older women standing around us. She smiled at me blankly and stayed firmly in her seat.
I posted the following as my status update on Facebook as we rattled through the city;

This will sound odd I guess but I wish I could stand up for people on mass transit. There is a little old lady standing on my train while two 20 somethings sit and smile. I know I can’t assume that they can stand but. Grrr I want a cattle prod some days

I can’t help wondering what would Granny do?  I suspect that even in her 80s, she would have wanted to stand and give her seat to the “old dear”.
I know this isn’t normally a  manners blog, and perhaps it was my schooling as much as my grandparent that raised me to think that that behaviour is odd. But either way that’s my two cents. Here’s two more:

I don’t see any harm in offering your seat to someone who needs it more than you do regardless of age

Though  unlike that author I think that it is not just one age group that must be reminded.

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What healed you this year? Was it sudden, or a drip-by-drip evolution? How would you like to be healed in 2011?

(Author: Leonie Allan)

Whoa — this is a tough one, depending how I was to take it.

Healing and I have a strange love hate relationship. Some of the reasons why may well be obvious. The various churches that I have been into have also increased my scepticism and nervousness about this issue.

That’s if I take a traditional response. But, I’m not going to, am I?

Healing for me this year has been very much a drip dry healing, as it always is for me. Healing of my own anxieties, a settling of my moods, hearing of relationships (and I’m including with myself) and although it might not always be evident a renewed sense of “the piece that passes all understanding”.

I still have the health challenges, but even with regards those I’m still active and involved. And I’m calmer at some level that I would not have expected.

I found a level playing field with relationships. I know my limits better, and I’m better able to respect and noticed other people’s limits without having to run into them like a brick wall first. Not that I had bad relationships mind you, but things can always be improved.

The fun thing that I’ve healed this year is my love of reading and it seems of writing.According to  my book reading log I have read something like 25 books this year which in addition to the work-related reading I do isn’t bad.

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I haven’t done this for a while, but I like this question and I want to think about it.

What was the best thing you learned about yourself this past year? And how will you apply that lesson going forward?

(Author: Tara Weaver)

I’ve learnt a lot about myself, or at least I think I have. My problem now is I can’t exactly remember any of them with enough clarity and motivation to report on it here much less live it next year.

I think I’m proudest of learning that I can keep my own company quite well. I always liked being both with others and myself. But I now use that time well. I do good things with it. I’ve built good things with that time. I’m not scared.

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Growing up I always came late to the good fads. I was among the last to know about friendship bracelets, cabbage patch dolls etc etc.

In that vein, I’ve only just discovered #Reverb10 of blogging opportunity to review the year that was in a series of daily posts. I will try and catch up over the course of the month and do the five that I’ve missed out on. In the meantime however; today’s prompt is;

What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
(Author: Gretchen Rubin)

This is a difficult one for me as in the classic sense I don’t really make much, not in the tangible messy but fun sense. I mean I make a mess (see my earlier post), I make friends, etc. In the tangible sense, the last thing I made was a risotto. In the more ethereal sense, the last thing I made was a commitment to another person. I’m proud of my ability to buy in large keep commitments and build my energy levels around usage around the commitments that are already there. It had been always worked, but I’d like to think it has been appreciated.

This year all other things being equal I’d like to make myself into a lawyer. I would really like to finish that even if I never really use it. So close and yet maybe so far. I also need to make some decisions about where and how to live because I’m restless here and I have other options.

In a more tangible sense I’d like to learn to make nice salads.

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