Tag: The Life of Lara

It’s all here. Adventures in extreme knitting, the house of poop, and suburban permaculture. You may also find rants about politics, ecology, humanitarianism, responsible living, toe floss, and other topics not covered here. Expect profanity and irreverence. You have been warned.

Another bit of history bites the dust

My friend David used to have a thing for Standard cars. He and his brother Andrew (my boyfriend for a while) shared a massive Standard Vanguard painted with Hammertone Grey that we all called Chubb. It was a fabulous way to arrive at a nightclub, but leaving could be difficult, what with having to crank the beast in the pouring rain, etc…

So anyway…

David and Andrew, but mainly David, used to work on cars a lot. It was David that taught me how to change the oil on my Ford Escort Panel Van, and gave me the confidence to know my way around a combustion engine so that no mechanic could ever baffle me with bullshit. And one day, David was pulling apart an airconditioning pump, and on his workbench I found a gorgeous captured bearing, or “thrust race”, covered in motor oil, which I proceeded to work over my hand and onto my wrist. I was a lot thinner then, and luckily David didn’t need to put the pump back together, so I kept wearing it.

Over the years I got fatter, and the bracelet became a permanent reminder of those days, one I wouldn’t dream of removing, even if I could.

Unfortunately, when Inigo was about 6 months old, the metal strip joining the two halves finally wore away, and the bearings all fell out, and my gorgeous bracelet was reduced to a torture device that cut into the flesh of my wrist and ached off and on.

On Saturday night, thanks to Richard, I finally had the means, the opportunity and the temporary fortitude provided by gin to remove it.

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Before.

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In the vice.

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First attempt with the angle grinder.

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The hacksaw wasn’t much use.

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Finally free!

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The aftermath. You can’t see it here, but I have an injury on the inside of my wrist, I am not sure if it is a cut from the vibrations, or a burn from the steel heating up, but it will heal soon, and my wrist feels so much better. FOr the first time ever I have been able to cuddle my boy without worrying about putting an eye out or hurting him.

Bloody hell!

Dad just rang. Some assholes broke into mum and dad’s house last night and stole some Christmas presents from under the tree, and the keys to both their cars.

The Subaru was left in a nearby side street with one wheel missing, and the Mazda 121 was driven through a peterol station to fill up, then driven out without paying.

Then the fuckers set fire to it. RIP Edmund.

The shrink

I saw the counsellor from Sids & Kids yesterday. Apparently, an important part of this whole “grief” thing, is actually crying. Who’d a thunk it.

I’ve been working hard at keeping it all together, and worrying more about how other people feel (and protecting them from the horror of my grief), so the tears get quashed, I put on a brave face, and get on with life.

So, my new years resolution (which I don’t believe in, and I am nonetheless doing, and doing early this year), is to fall apart a little bit. If I feel sad, I will cry, and I will try not to worry about protecting other people (except Inigo of course). I spent years training myself not to cry, to protect myself from bullies, so allowing myself to cry is a steep learning curve.

We’re going up to Pearl Beach after Christmas until after New Years, and I am going to take that time for me, for healing, and for saying “get stuffed” to feelings of obligation and concern for others.

If you’re a friend, please don’t ask me how I am. The answer will be “shithouse”. If you’re not a friend, I will lie, and tell you that I am looking forward to Christmas, that I had a good day, that things are fine, that I am getting “better”. But what is “better”? A slight improvement? Or is it just a word to make you feel better about my disaster of a life?

If I don’t know you, if you ask me how many children I have, I’ll say, “one, he’s three”. But if you’re a friend, or if I want to be real with you, I’ll say, “Three, but only one living. I lost twin babies this year”. It’s horrible saying it out loud, but it’s even worse denying their existence.

FFS…

I believe in freedom of information, and I believe that everyone is entitled to the presumption of innocence.

That is the preface to a brief rant I am about to share about the whole wikileaks palaver.

I blame the new morning presenter on 702, who keeps alluding his opinion that Julian Assange is innocent of whatever he is being accused of in Sweden. Even though he hasn’t been accused of anything. So, yes, it isn’t fair to comment on a case until both sides have been revealed, and even then, it is possible for the truth to still be elusive – but still, you need both sides of a story to form an opinion. And the only people that have been talking publicly (that I have heard) in Australia, have been lawyers for Assange, who vociferously state that the sex was consensual, and therefore extrapolate that there can be no case to answer.

But think for a minute about consent. Just because you agree to have sex with someone with a condom, does that mean you also agree to have sex without a condom?

If you agree to sex at 1am while you are awake, does that imply consent at 5am while you are asleep?

I don’t presume to know the facts of this case, but I do think that the women making the complaint against Assange deserve the same presumption of innocence that he seems to be getting in the Australian media.

And every time you say that a rape charge “can’t be proven”, or it’s just “he said, she said”, you’re telling another victim of rape that it isn’t a good idea to report a rape. You’re telling women that the rights of a man to have sex are more important than the rights of a woman to say no.

Is that the message you want to give your daughter? Your sister? Your self?

It’s been said far more eloquently elsewhere, for example – here.