I'm just back from dinner with a friend, so this seems like a good opportunity to get the Sunday Questions out of the way, particularly since the cat is now with friends and I'm taking off for Darwin tomorrow night.
Question, as always, come from Sunday Stealing, and a great job they do with it every week.
1. What's your life's motto?
At the moment, "Nevertheless, she persisted."
2. Where were you living 13 years ago?
I was living here. In this flat, in Melbourne.
3. Is anyone jealous of you?
I don't think so. Why would anybody be jealous of me? There's no reason for that. I'm pretty ordinary.
4. Where were you when you heard about the 9/11 terror attacks?
Ah, I remember this well. It was the morning of the Twelfth - remembering that Australia is a good 14 ahead of New York, so when it happened, in Australia it was late in the evening. I found out when I woke up around 6.30 a.m. and it was all over the television. I thought it was some dodgy movie. I then had to go to work. At the time, my office was on the 42nd floor of one of the Melbourne skyscrapers. I remember it took me about five minutes to get into the lift.
5. Do you consider yourself kind?
Yes. Very much so, and always.
6. Can you change your car's oil?
Can I change my car's oil? Probably. Do I? No, that's what mechanics who do you yearly service do - and the garage can ethically dispose of the old oil.
7. What's the last thing you heard about your first love?
Oh, I did a google search a few years ago. According to the interwebs he was still living in Adelaide and he still had a dodgy haircut. Dodged a bullet there.
8. Have you ever been burned by love?
Yes. Next.
9. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?
I think I bought a lotto scratch card the other week with some spare change in my wallet. That reminds me, I should get some cash out - I like having 50 bucks in my wallet in case of emergencies.
10. Do you hug your friends?
Sometimes. Depends on who and when. I'll often hugs friends on meeting them and saying goodbye. I used to be a lot more affectionate. It's something that's been beaten out of me over the years. I'm not sure I like that.
The Production: The Wrong Gods by S. Shakthidharan
The Company: Melbourne Theatre Company
The Theatre: The Fairfax Studio at the Arts Centre
Until: 12 July
Stars: 3.75
There's always a bit of a risk in seeing a play on its opening night. It wasn't meant to be that way, but work and travel had us moving our tickets to opening night, and you know, as a professional company, you're going to get a reasonable performance, even if the cast haven't hit their stride.
Adding to this when the writer/director and the co-director come out on stage to let the audience know that one of the cast members had been really sick and they would be miked up and wearing a mask, you think maybe you got the wrong night.
There was no need to worry.
The Wrong Gods is a thought-provoking play about family, traditions and the invasive nature of globalisation.
The MTC website explains it as such:
"Deep in a remote Indian valley lives Nirmala, a steadfast traditionalist, and her daughter Isha, who dreams of leaving the village to study and become a scientist. When a stranger arrives promising progress and an offer too good to be true, the choices they make will shape the fate of their family – and thousands of others."
And that's pretty much the crux of it. The minimalist set provides a great backdrop for the action, which is quite wordy. The tension between traditional mother, Nirmala (Nadee Kammallaweera) and her daughter Isha (Radika Mudaliyar) is authentically tense and rang very true (particularly if you've been privy to friends and colleagues from the sub-continent and their family intrigues. Vaishnavi Suryaprakash underplays the menacing Lakshmi to great effect, and Manali Datar's Devi rounds out the cast as a concerned teacher and community leader.
Something that took a little getting used to was all of the actors speaking in an Indian accent. This didn't detract from play, but it took a few minutes to get acquainted with the casts' speaking patterns.
And S.Shakthidharan's script is tight and filled with great insights about our changing world, tradition versus progress, and the ties of family over the needs of self-actualisation.
I know this review is not going to make that much sense. I did enjoy this play, but it didn't have the clout of the superlative The Black Woman of Gippsland. I think attending on opening night with one of the actors being a little sub-par possibly lessened the experience, but I give kudos to the writer who gave us, the audience, the heads up. Maybe in a few weeks it would be even better. As tonight was the first night, it gelled well. I'd like to see where they're at the end of the run.
I was walking up Whitehorse Road. It was later in the evening. It felt like I'd just come out of a movie at the Balwyn Cinema - somewhere I go to see films when I can't find them anywhere else. (The Balwyn Cinema is an arthouse place about a 20-minute drive away).
As I got back to the car, I noticed that there was a young woman, about 20-years-old, in a jumper, skirt and stockings. She was standing near the car. The doors to the car were open. She ran away.
Looking at the car, it was undamaged and from what I could see, nothing was stolen, but I still felt violated, as you do when somebody messes with your car.
I woke, rather grumpy, as does happen when you get a dream that shakes you up.
There was then a conversation with somebody about how I'm feeling about going in for an ADHD assessment. This is happening when I get back from the next trip to Darwin. They asked how I was feeling about this. And yes, I'm a bit discombobulated about it all.
In the past, I would have taken this to my dream group. I sat in one for years. That was an informative time in my life - but as I rarely remember my dreams, it became a bit pointless being there.
In a fit of curiosity, I turned to the web. What does it mean when you dream about your car being broken into.
Dreammoods.com, one of the more reliable sights came up with this:
"To dream that someone is breaking into your car suggests that your plans are not working out how you have planned."
A bit scant.
I also put this into ChatGPT to see what they say:
"Dreams about your car being broken into often symbolize feelings of vulnerability, violation of personal boundaries, or a loss of control in some aspect of your waking life. Cars in dreams usually represent your sense of autonomy, direction, or the way you're navigating through life. So if your car is broken into, it may point to:
Possible Meanings:
Loss of Control or Security
You may feel like someone is intruding on your personal space or influencing your decisions.
There might be a situation where your privacy has been invaded or trust has been broken.
Emotional Insecurity
It can reflect inner fears about being exposed, taken advantage of, or emotionally “robbed.”
Fear of Losing Something Valuable
This could be literal (fear of theft or actual anxiety about your possessions) or symbolic (loss of self-worth, time, opportunities).
Life Disruptions
It may signify unexpected disruptions or setbacks that are affecting your journey or goals.
Identity or Image Issues
Since cars can also represent how you present yourself to the world, a break-in may signal concerns about your reputation or how others perceive you.
To Reflect:
Did you recently feel like your boundaries were crossed?
Is there something in your life that feels “stolen” — time, peace, trust, energy?
Are you afraid of losing control in some area (work, relationships, self-image)?
I put in a bit more detail, stating that nothing was damaged or stolen. It came back with this:
That detail — nothing was taken and no damage was done — shifts the meaning quite a bit. It suggests a psychological or emotional intrusion, rather than a material loss. Here's how that nuance might play out:
Key Interpretations Based on Your Detail:
A Warning Sign or Wake-Up Call
The dream might symbolize a perceived threat rather than an actual one. You may subconsciously sense that something or someone is encroaching on your boundaries, but it hasn't caused harm — yet. Your intuition could be telling you to stay alert.
Feeling Exposed or Observed
Someone might be getting too close for comfort, or perhaps you've revealed more about yourself than you intended. The undamaged car implies your "outer self" is intact, but you're aware that someone has gained access — even if they didn’t “take” anything.
Trust Issues
The dream could reflect anxiety about trusting others. Even though nothing bad happened, the fact that someone got in might mirror fears around being too open or vulnerable, and what could happen.
Powerless but Not Harmed
You may feel like something is out of your control — a relationship, a situation at work, a change in life direction — but it hasn’t yet had consequences. There's a feeling of discomfort, but not damage.
Reflective Questions:
Did you recently let someone in emotionally and now you're second-guessing it?
Are you waiting for “the other shoe to drop” in a situation that feels precarious?
Do you feel like someone knows more about you than you’re comfortable with?
This dream seems to be more about anticipation than aftermath. Your mind may be flagging a situation that feels off, even if everything looks fine on the surface.
The Duolingo app is the largest on my phone and it tells me off if I haven't done my daily French lessons. It gets quite aggressive, changing from green to red if you've not opened the app and done a class for the day.
It also has a counter, telling you how many days straight you've done your French lessons.
My counter is sitting on 998 days.
Yes, for nearly three years I've been doing French lessons.
Can I speak, read and write French? Sort of. I'm not fluent, but I wish I was.
I can, however, understand the crux of most things I read, make myself understood and chatter away, butchering the language, but still able to be understood.
Okay, I'm underselling myself. I studied French through high school until first year university, I'm blessed with a good memory and a love of syntax, form and function.
I love that the French have awesome words for things. Dragonflies are libelulles. Wasps are guepes. Crutches are bequilles.
French rolls around parts of your mouth that English doesn't hit. The R's that grumble around the back of your throat. The 'illes' which makes an ay sound. The running on consonants.
It's just better.
But what happens when I make 1000 days, and I will do that on Friday. What then?
My cat is a ... umm... oh, let me find the right euphemism...
My cat is a teenage boy.
Okay, in human years, he's going on eight. In cat years that makes him about 42.
My cat is a 42-year-old, who, for the human equivalent, would probably live at home with his Mum, play a lot of computer games, doesn't know how to use a stove or a washing machine, and maybe have a paedo haircut. Probably not a full Jimmy Savill, but one of those haircuts which are just a bit bad and that makes you wonder about things.
Of course, my cat doesn't leave the house, expects me to wait on him hand and foot and gives the best side eye.
He's also got some great little habits.
Like wiping his bum on the kitchen mat. (Don't worry, I wash it regularly)
And his little private habit that happens in the bedroom.
My cat likes to.... oh, you know, spank the monkey. Choke the chicken. Take delight in Mrs Palmer and her five lovely daughters. Turning Japanese. You get it....
My cat is a wanker.
Walking into the bedroom tonight, I find him at it. We look at each other. He stops mid stroke and stares at me.
"Do you mind?" his eyes ask me.
I shrug. "Carry on. I'll come back in five minutes."
He gets his privacy. I let the merry masturbator have his way. Daft critter.
Sorry to share this. I could have talk about the last conversation I had at work tonight with one of the managers.
"Being good?" they ask.
"Never," came my standard reply.
"Got any pictures?" they joked back.
"Of course not! I'm Generation X - we never have proof."
We had a chuckle over this. We also had a chuckle over what you do in meetings when you have your camera and mike off.
I'm trying to address the holes in my reading history. Like, I'm reasonably well read as it is, but there are a few gaping chasms For example, I've never read Middlemarch, nor got through to the end of Tess of the D'Urbervilles. I've read DH Lawrence and Oscar Wilde, but I'm missed out on Henry James. I'm great with Shakespeare, but Marlowe not so much. I've managed to dodge Proust, Houellebecq and Jonathan Franzen until now.
I've not attempted reading Moby Dick in years (An American right of passage, I'm told). I've had Ulysses sitting next to my bed for a decade. But Ulysses is something you can dip in and out of, like the I Ching, or the Bible.
I only read Slaughterhouse 5 a few years ago. It lived up to the hype. But I've never got through Catch-22.
I've got form on reading around books as well . I read David Copperfield after loving every page of Barbara Kingsolver's Demon Copperhead. If an author leans on a classic, I will go hunt out that classic, to get more context. I've got a degree in English and a Masters in Writing. It's in my blood.
And I've never read Lolita, that pariah of a novel by Vladimir Nabokov that everybody knows about, but nobody's really read (or read at university, hated it, and has put it out of their minds). It's always been a Port Augusta of a novel, in that everybody knows where it is, but nobody wants to go there.
Late last week I picked up a book from my very large TBR pile, Gail Jones' A Guide to Berlin. We voted on it at book group, and it just missed out being on the list, but curious, I bought a copy. 20 pages in, I very quickly learned that there was a lot in the book about Nabokov, his time in Berlin, references to Lolita and Nabokov himself, and rather than going in blind, I've finally got down to reading Lolita.
I told Jay about this at breakfast, and she thought I was a bit bonkers.
"That's an awful book."
"That's part of the point of it."
"I don't know why you'd want to read it."
"It's a classic. Call it research."
She wasn't impressed.
I'll admit to listening to this rather than reading. Jeremy Irons is narrating the book. He can make anything sound wonderful, and I'm 34% in and enjoying it.
Yes, some of content is abhorrent. It's a book about a paedophile, of course it's unnerving. But just as I love Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho, Geoff Nicholson's Footsucker Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses, I get the unsettling, at times profane, at times, pornographic, then marvel that writers can go there. Now about a third the way through, it's reminding me of the book Perfume by Patrick Suskind.
And the writing is incredible. Absolutely cracking, complete with an unreliable narrator and a turn of phrase that's second to none.
Lastly, in filling this literary hole, I ask myself have I missed out by leaving it so long? I think not. This is a book where a bit of maturity can assist you in appreciating it. You're not supposed to like Humbert Humbert. You're not supposed to understand him. But you can appreciate this incredible text, even if you're being lulled into a false sense of security by Jeremy Irons.
You missed this birthday by around ten months, stupid arse. I'm still a bit mad at you, not that I've ever been able to stay angry at you. You can't help that you died. You were one of the few people I'd let gently mansplain to me. I'm not sure if you saw my eyes rolling, and you were never too condescending, but you did mansplain... I think you know that.
I'm not speaking ill of the dead. It was part of your charm, along with your dodgy dance moves, and floppy, curly hair that went against every corporate dress policy, your band t-shirts, your love of life and your more melancholy and thoughtful moments. Everybody has some give and take. You were definitely lots of give.
You're not here to wish a happy birthday to. Your spirit has mostly moved on from Darwin. I know this. That first trip up after you passed, you came to visit. You came and sat by my bed on the night I got in. Don't try to deny it. I felt you there. We had a chat. You left after we said goodbye. I remember telling you that it's okay to feel freaky about this - we felt strange about it too. It was good to feel you there - I'm sure it took you a bit work out how to move on from this plane to the next, especially as you weren't expecting it. (I wanted to tell you of another friend who passed recently - she was ready to go, and at her funeral, we felt nothing - she was up with the angels already. I doubt you'll meet her. Different sections of the plane/heaven/the next world, whatever you want to call it.)
If you're reading this, just know you're never too far from my thoughts, particularly when I'm in Darwin, or at a gig. I see you out of the corner of my eye in the mosh pit, beer in hand, dancing badly, head to the heavens, eyes closed, taking in the music.
I pass the poke bowl place, the Malaysian cafe, places where we had lunch. Our love of char kway teow - I loved that we had similar taste in food, and gin.
You're still a big part in many of favourite Darwin memories. Driving down the Stuart Highway with This Must Be The Place front and centre on your playlist. Sitting on your balcony watching the distant thunderstorms. Going to the First Nations gig at Bustard Town. You introduced me to the Deckchair Cinema, the Stonehouse, 1995 for coffee (though I still prefer The Meeting Place - anywhere but Dukes).
I miss your humour and generosity. I miss your cheeky smile. I miss bitching with you - as we could be bitches together.
I just miss you.
WH Auden said, "Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic".
With you, the thunder got way too close.
I'm sure you're happy where you are, wherever that may be. We never talked about what happens next, like this. Though you were a lapsed Catholic, what did you see happening? Or are you still roaming around Darwin, preparing your Darwin Festival tickets, going to Bass in the Grass, fronting up for your Wednesday night tennis game with your mate and preparing a gin, cheese and wine night with friends.
Yet, since that time, when you came for a chat, I've not felt you like that again. It's more a waft of you. A chuckle as I think about ordering Malaysian, a line of a song, the sight of a dodgy band shirt. The fizz of tonic as it tumbles over ice into a cold gin, the sweat on the glass, apparent in the wet season, and the condensation running down the sides.
