Raymond,
I don't want you to think I'm like this in real life. I'm not. I can't really complain like this to anyone else, let alone anyone in my family. That would instantly undermine those bonds. I've seen this happen on several occasions. To other people. I'm smart enough to avoid it. One little comment at Christmas, after a little bit too much booze and bang! the whole shit-show comes apart at the seams. What does this say about humanity? People are just itching for any excuse, the slightest catalyst, to cut off ties with their own families. They would rather exist in silence for decades than make amends.
Anyway, I won't be that guy. I won't do it. Even though there are times when I feel like I could just tell them all to go fuck themselves and just walk away from the whole mess. As we have discussed over the years Ray, it is better to have an outlet than to allow these buried emotions and impulses to influence you in weaker moments. Such as Christmas day when the booze is flowing. On such occasions, I will laugh inwardly and I will think that at least one person in this world knows the truth about the way I feel. When I meet somebody I know for sure I'll never see again, I will tell them about you. I tell them about the letters we write back and forth. I will advise them to do the same thing: find a confessional pen pal who is completely disassociated from your current life and who is willing to listen to all gruesome details. So again Raymond I will thank you for being that outlet. And please send me your next letter as soon as you are ready, knowing there is someone in the world who is completely nonjudgmental about your current dilemma. You could tell me anything and I wouldn't care. They are just words on a page.
I flew into Perth last week. This is my usual trip out west to help my family. And believe me Ray, when I say they need help. I spent the first half of the week fixing a sun-rotted deck. The usual shenanigans with my brother in law ensued. The money issues that I've mentioned before? The way he expects not only free labour but also hopes I'll cover the actual costs of the materials. Here is a man who is comically slow to reach into his own pocket even when the financial burden rests squarely on his shoulders. My older sister has been carrying his lazy arse for the better part of a decade now. This guy is in his mid-40s and his main focus in life is fine-tuning his "sweet gaming room out back in the sleep out". His so-called "office". I talked almost exclusively about my older sister in my last letter so I won't go into too much detail about her.
My visit proved timely because my younger sister's dog died. This meant I needed to bury it. Like everything with my younger sister, the burial turned out to be more complicated than it needed to be. The dog died the night before. She didn't want it to die at the vet's or to be euthanised. Okay, fine. She didn't want to the animals "beautiful soul to evacuate its body in that harsh industrial setting". Of course, when I drove over there, I found her in a complete state. The plan was we're going to bury the mutt in mum's back garden because my sister lives in this shitty rental where everything is falling apart. I was none too happy about putting a dead animal in my pine scented rental but it was wrapped up in a plastic sheet and only a short drive away so I thought, let's on with this.
We take off. Traffic around the city is heavy. Heavier than I remember Perth being in the middle of the day. My sister was stressing me out, crying (which is understandable as she has just lost her dog. I'm not heartless) but she keeps talking about reincarnation. In her bookshelf at home, she has all these loopy books on this subject amongst the other spiritual rubbish. The thing is, I will not enter into these pseudo-spiritual conversations with my sister as I feel they have no connection to reality. And God knows she has spent enough time avoiding reality in her life. The endless backpacking, the spiritual retreats, the recreational drugs dramas and bad boyfriends who have lightened her bank account through terrible investments. So no, I will not take part in this extended fantasy she lives in. I won't say anything against it, but neither will I take part. And of course, my sister being an empathy monster, this causes tension because I'm not taking part, which means a dead end in the general chit chat as we make our way across the city. And as far as the dog goes? My sympathy only extends so far because, in my opinion, she should have put the dog down weeks, if not months ago. To keeping it going the way she did, with the cortisone injections and all the naturopath remedies didn't really do anything except prolong the animals pain. All this talk about dogs "beautiful soul"....in my opinion it was mainly about her "beautiful ego". It was cruel.
Anyway, the red light we are sitting out goes green and right away this guy behind me starts blaring his horn, not even giving me the millisecond required to react. I've got my sister in one ear talking about how the dog will come back as a grasshopper or some such shit, and this guy behind me, booting me up the ass. It really pissed me off but I don't do anything. I just cursed under my breath and hit the gas. Unbeknownst to me, my sister has lifted her hand out the car window, up into the hot slipstream of the West Australian afternoon to give this guy the middle finger.
We drive over to my mum's house. The plan is to bury the dog under the lemon tree in her backyard where all the other family dogs are buried. Little Richard, Billy, Elvis, Einstein, Nixon, Oppenheimer, Jimmy, Gungadin...All of them bones now, tangled up with the roots of the trees which have overtaken mum's garden. The thing is, it's illegal to bury animals in a residential backyard is these days, so we have to be discreet about it. We can't just drive an excavator in there.
I pull into my mum's street, park and get out. I come around to the back of the car and get the dead dog out of the boot. The same car we encountered at the lights ten minutes ago, the one driven by the guy who was blaring his horn, screeches up right behind me. Suddenly the driver is in my face. All I register is a lumpy bald head, sunnies, missing teeth and tattoos. This is Perth methamphetamine royalty at its best. Then I see stars. White stars. I have no time to react. This guy nails me, five knuckles worth, dead centre in the face. My sister comes running over and starts freaking out. I am sprawled out on the road, the dead dog on top of me, it's tongue lolling out, my Ray Bans snapped neatly in half. I still have no idea what just happened. For all I know, I just got hit by a car. I'm just taking in the majesty of those white stars up in the daytime sky, wondering why this constellation has assumed the shape of a fist imprint. I didn't get KO'ed but near enough. Things start to come back into focus and I hear my sister and this guy going at it, and then the guy must have gotten back into his vehicle and taken off. Hence the screeching tyres and burnt rubber.
Ten minutes later I'm giving my statement to the cops in my mother's living room. They seem completely bored. My sister can't get her story straight. About what this guy looked like. His licence plate. What day it is. She can't settle on one fact. She spends the whole time second guessing herself. I have a bag of mint peas on my throbbing eye. The dog is hidden around the side of the house because my mother is paranoid about the cops. It's hot today so if that thing starts to go off, I'm not gonna handle it. No way.
The cops treat this whole thing like its natural justice. Like an altercation at a traffic light followed by a punch in the face balance each other out. It always amazes me. This attitude the cops have over here, like, "We got better things to do with our time than this mate". Like what? This is Perth. This is all that ever bloody happens here-break-ins and assaults, usually caused by the road rage or drunk teenagers. I mean, Sydney people will run you down without giving it a second thought. Sure they will. They won't, however, follow you back to your house and try to finish off the job if they miss.
The cops leave and I think, okay can we bloody well get on with this now? But it's not over because the neighbour has come out to park herself on the back veranda in order to watch the proceedings. The same neighbour my mother has had a dispute with for the past 10 years and with whom she refuses to speak. Separated by one flimsy wooden fence, they are hateful enemies. Stay away from the windows but act normal, hisses my mother from the hallway. The problem is we can't bury the dog with the neighbour watching because she will be on the phone in a flash, reporting mum to the local council. So what can we do? We have to wait until dark. To pass the time we go off to a local shopping centre to have a meal. After loading out plates up with cruise ship food from the self-service bar, we sit in a plastic booth by the window. My sister and my mother begin to squabble about calorie intake, dead dogs, the neighbour woman and who will win the next federal election. They're not even aware of it. They are shovelling food into their mouths while berating each other. I have long ago realised these trivialities represent all the things that can't be said aloud. That these social contracts, these roles we are expected to play, sometimes they feel like chains. There is no point trying to distance myself from these people, I'm stuck in the same booth. Besides, my eye is now swollen shut so basically I look like I fit right in.
After this unpleasant experience, we drive back to my mother's house. By this time it's dark and we park at the end of the block so that is we won't alert the neighbour who may or may not have gone back inside by now. We creep back into the house. Don't turn on the lights, hisses my mother. Dressed in pink washing up gloves, I quietly go outside and get the dog and the shovel. Then I go back to the lemon tree and start digging as quietly as I can. I dig down about a metre, the blade cutting through roots and sparking off rocks once in a while. Over my shoulder, I can see the windows of the neighbour woman's house lit up but she is nowhere to be seen. My mother's pale face appears in the dark. That'll do, she whispers. My sister also appears, saying, I have a few words to say. You can forget about that mumbo jumbo, scolds my mum. Just put the bloody dog in the hole. Of course, this results in more tears.
I drop my sister off back at her place, then I drive to my hotel in East Perth. Long gone are the days when I would couch surf in my family's homes. No thanks. After dealing with them all day, I like the professional amenity of a 4-star hotel in the city. I will gladly front up the money for this. Filthy, I take a shower, drink some beer and then fall asleep to an adult movie which I regret purchasing on checkout a few days later because the attractive girl behind the counter has taken the trouble to itemise my bill.
I spend one more day finishing up the deck and then I go back to my mother's house, make sure she's okay, then say goodbye to everybody. There is one more unpleasant meal at the shopping centre, the same restaurant, and then that is it. I drive myself to the airport. I catch my flight back to the east coast, back to my life in Sydney. And on the way over, high above the desert, I fall asleep and dream. And all these things are jumbled together in a nonsensical way which, once I wake up over the lights of Sydney, I spend ten minutes untangling before I realise the plane has touched down.
I know this wasn't much of letter Raymond. It has helped me if that is any consolation. And isn't that the purpose of our letters? When you're ready, send me your next letter. Remember this is about trust. No matter what you say, no matter what you have done, I can handle it.
Kind regards,
I don't want you to think I'm like this in real life. I'm not. I can't really complain like this to anyone else, let alone anyone in my family. That would instantly undermine those bonds. I've seen this happen on several occasions. To other people. I'm smart enough to avoid it. One little comment at Christmas, after a little bit too much booze and bang! the whole shit-show comes apart at the seams. What does this say about humanity? People are just itching for any excuse, the slightest catalyst, to cut off ties with their own families. They would rather exist in silence for decades than make amends.
Anyway, I won't be that guy. I won't do it. Even though there are times when I feel like I could just tell them all to go fuck themselves and just walk away from the whole mess. As we have discussed over the years Ray, it is better to have an outlet than to allow these buried emotions and impulses to influence you in weaker moments. Such as Christmas day when the booze is flowing. On such occasions, I will laugh inwardly and I will think that at least one person in this world knows the truth about the way I feel. When I meet somebody I know for sure I'll never see again, I will tell them about you. I tell them about the letters we write back and forth. I will advise them to do the same thing: find a confessional pen pal who is completely disassociated from your current life and who is willing to listen to all gruesome details. So again Raymond I will thank you for being that outlet. And please send me your next letter as soon as you are ready, knowing there is someone in the world who is completely nonjudgmental about your current dilemma. You could tell me anything and I wouldn't care. They are just words on a page.
I flew into Perth last week. This is my usual trip out west to help my family. And believe me Ray, when I say they need help. I spent the first half of the week fixing a sun-rotted deck. The usual shenanigans with my brother in law ensued. The money issues that I've mentioned before? The way he expects not only free labour but also hopes I'll cover the actual costs of the materials. Here is a man who is comically slow to reach into his own pocket even when the financial burden rests squarely on his shoulders. My older sister has been carrying his lazy arse for the better part of a decade now. This guy is in his mid-40s and his main focus in life is fine-tuning his "sweet gaming room out back in the sleep out". His so-called "office". I talked almost exclusively about my older sister in my last letter so I won't go into too much detail about her.
My visit proved timely because my younger sister's dog died. This meant I needed to bury it. Like everything with my younger sister, the burial turned out to be more complicated than it needed to be. The dog died the night before. She didn't want it to die at the vet's or to be euthanised. Okay, fine. She didn't want to the animals "beautiful soul to evacuate its body in that harsh industrial setting". Of course, when I drove over there, I found her in a complete state. The plan was we're going to bury the mutt in mum's back garden because my sister lives in this shitty rental where everything is falling apart. I was none too happy about putting a dead animal in my pine scented rental but it was wrapped up in a plastic sheet and only a short drive away so I thought, let's on with this.
We take off. Traffic around the city is heavy. Heavier than I remember Perth being in the middle of the day. My sister was stressing me out, crying (which is understandable as she has just lost her dog. I'm not heartless) but she keeps talking about reincarnation. In her bookshelf at home, she has all these loopy books on this subject amongst the other spiritual rubbish. The thing is, I will not enter into these pseudo-spiritual conversations with my sister as I feel they have no connection to reality. And God knows she has spent enough time avoiding reality in her life. The endless backpacking, the spiritual retreats, the recreational drugs dramas and bad boyfriends who have lightened her bank account through terrible investments. So no, I will not take part in this extended fantasy she lives in. I won't say anything against it, but neither will I take part. And of course, my sister being an empathy monster, this causes tension because I'm not taking part, which means a dead end in the general chit chat as we make our way across the city. And as far as the dog goes? My sympathy only extends so far because, in my opinion, she should have put the dog down weeks, if not months ago. To keeping it going the way she did, with the cortisone injections and all the naturopath remedies didn't really do anything except prolong the animals pain. All this talk about dogs "beautiful soul"....in my opinion it was mainly about her "beautiful ego". It was cruel.
Anyway, the red light we are sitting out goes green and right away this guy behind me starts blaring his horn, not even giving me the millisecond required to react. I've got my sister in one ear talking about how the dog will come back as a grasshopper or some such shit, and this guy behind me, booting me up the ass. It really pissed me off but I don't do anything. I just cursed under my breath and hit the gas. Unbeknownst to me, my sister has lifted her hand out the car window, up into the hot slipstream of the West Australian afternoon to give this guy the middle finger.
We drive over to my mum's house. The plan is to bury the dog under the lemon tree in her backyard where all the other family dogs are buried. Little Richard, Billy, Elvis, Einstein, Nixon, Oppenheimer, Jimmy, Gungadin...All of them bones now, tangled up with the roots of the trees which have overtaken mum's garden. The thing is, it's illegal to bury animals in a residential backyard is these days, so we have to be discreet about it. We can't just drive an excavator in there.
I pull into my mum's street, park and get out. I come around to the back of the car and get the dead dog out of the boot. The same car we encountered at the lights ten minutes ago, the one driven by the guy who was blaring his horn, screeches up right behind me. Suddenly the driver is in my face. All I register is a lumpy bald head, sunnies, missing teeth and tattoos. This is Perth methamphetamine royalty at its best. Then I see stars. White stars. I have no time to react. This guy nails me, five knuckles worth, dead centre in the face. My sister comes running over and starts freaking out. I am sprawled out on the road, the dead dog on top of me, it's tongue lolling out, my Ray Bans snapped neatly in half. I still have no idea what just happened. For all I know, I just got hit by a car. I'm just taking in the majesty of those white stars up in the daytime sky, wondering why this constellation has assumed the shape of a fist imprint. I didn't get KO'ed but near enough. Things start to come back into focus and I hear my sister and this guy going at it, and then the guy must have gotten back into his vehicle and taken off. Hence the screeching tyres and burnt rubber.
Ten minutes later I'm giving my statement to the cops in my mother's living room. They seem completely bored. My sister can't get her story straight. About what this guy looked like. His licence plate. What day it is. She can't settle on one fact. She spends the whole time second guessing herself. I have a bag of mint peas on my throbbing eye. The dog is hidden around the side of the house because my mother is paranoid about the cops. It's hot today so if that thing starts to go off, I'm not gonna handle it. No way.
The cops treat this whole thing like its natural justice. Like an altercation at a traffic light followed by a punch in the face balance each other out. It always amazes me. This attitude the cops have over here, like, "We got better things to do with our time than this mate". Like what? This is Perth. This is all that ever bloody happens here-break-ins and assaults, usually caused by the road rage or drunk teenagers. I mean, Sydney people will run you down without giving it a second thought. Sure they will. They won't, however, follow you back to your house and try to finish off the job if they miss.
The cops leave and I think, okay can we bloody well get on with this now? But it's not over because the neighbour has come out to park herself on the back veranda in order to watch the proceedings. The same neighbour my mother has had a dispute with for the past 10 years and with whom she refuses to speak. Separated by one flimsy wooden fence, they are hateful enemies. Stay away from the windows but act normal, hisses my mother from the hallway. The problem is we can't bury the dog with the neighbour watching because she will be on the phone in a flash, reporting mum to the local council. So what can we do? We have to wait until dark. To pass the time we go off to a local shopping centre to have a meal. After loading out plates up with cruise ship food from the self-service bar, we sit in a plastic booth by the window. My sister and my mother begin to squabble about calorie intake, dead dogs, the neighbour woman and who will win the next federal election. They're not even aware of it. They are shovelling food into their mouths while berating each other. I have long ago realised these trivialities represent all the things that can't be said aloud. That these social contracts, these roles we are expected to play, sometimes they feel like chains. There is no point trying to distance myself from these people, I'm stuck in the same booth. Besides, my eye is now swollen shut so basically I look like I fit right in.
After this unpleasant experience, we drive back to my mother's house. By this time it's dark and we park at the end of the block so that is we won't alert the neighbour who may or may not have gone back inside by now. We creep back into the house. Don't turn on the lights, hisses my mother. Dressed in pink washing up gloves, I quietly go outside and get the dog and the shovel. Then I go back to the lemon tree and start digging as quietly as I can. I dig down about a metre, the blade cutting through roots and sparking off rocks once in a while. Over my shoulder, I can see the windows of the neighbour woman's house lit up but she is nowhere to be seen. My mother's pale face appears in the dark. That'll do, she whispers. My sister also appears, saying, I have a few words to say. You can forget about that mumbo jumbo, scolds my mum. Just put the bloody dog in the hole. Of course, this results in more tears.
I drop my sister off back at her place, then I drive to my hotel in East Perth. Long gone are the days when I would couch surf in my family's homes. No thanks. After dealing with them all day, I like the professional amenity of a 4-star hotel in the city. I will gladly front up the money for this. Filthy, I take a shower, drink some beer and then fall asleep to an adult movie which I regret purchasing on checkout a few days later because the attractive girl behind the counter has taken the trouble to itemise my bill.
I spend one more day finishing up the deck and then I go back to my mother's house, make sure she's okay, then say goodbye to everybody. There is one more unpleasant meal at the shopping centre, the same restaurant, and then that is it. I drive myself to the airport. I catch my flight back to the east coast, back to my life in Sydney. And on the way over, high above the desert, I fall asleep and dream. And all these things are jumbled together in a nonsensical way which, once I wake up over the lights of Sydney, I spend ten minutes untangling before I realise the plane has touched down.
I know this wasn't much of letter Raymond. It has helped me if that is any consolation. And isn't that the purpose of our letters? When you're ready, send me your next letter. Remember this is about trust. No matter what you say, no matter what you have done, I can handle it.
Kind regards,
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