Hear no evil.
(More musings from my dairy).
When my grandmother was a young woman, she met some young deaf men in Saint Kilda, Melbourne Australia. They drank beer and had a party. There may have been a board walk involved.
I try not to follow politics to much, you must do so many calculations to be involved in any real and meaningful beneficial way.
A couple of years ago senator Pine raised cutting back on university funding. I had relied on it to study computer aided biochemistry and saw red at the possible outcomes. I tempered my language and said that it would change the fabric of Australian society. The unedited version went along the lines, “l used to have a deaf friend, and she would probably be happy not to have heard that have heard that sh#t”
That might be close to saying l have black friends, but it is not.
She once wrote on a piece of paper, because my signing was so bad, that even if she could be cured of her deafness she didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to hear.
Sometimes l can’t blame her.
I once caught up with her and her brother at the Saint Kilda MacDonald’s, she was in an 80s tube dress. She had a smouldering hourglass figure and had Grecian hair that was wonderfully wild. If l had of been single and she asked me out, I would have worn a Santa hat and a present ribbon if that would have made her smile.
I brought her up in a conversation with a teller at the bank while doing a transaction. The teller was missing her hand. She was very pretty but too young for me, but l was always interested in what her story may be. l asked her one day what happened to her hand, I said l hope l am not being inappropriate. She said it was fine and that she was born that way, she said it was not very interesting, I said l doubt that. l replied, l once had a friend who was Greek, she could not hear from birth, and that I thought Aphrodite had cursed her, because she was jealous. I have never forgot her 80s tube dress. I was not flirting with the teller, she was at work and that would have been inappropriate, but it was a consideration of my friend from years earlier, and a principle that my grandmother had taught me.
At Uni we were discussing the Vietnam war at the time, and agent orange children came up in conversation. I considered if the teller was a consequence or a victim of that war, or possibly a victim of thalidomide . Her age kind of matched up to that of a Vietnam vets’ child. I was constantly being prompted to be political at university, and I was very annoyed at the political side stepping, done when abuses of feminism were raised. Applications of feminism that had in my opinion damaged the feminist movement. I had said multiple times, l need a little red book to be here. I couldn’t recite any political mantras. And years latter l still can’t.
So, l thought of doing something political. But not as prompted by other students. It is not that l didn’t have time for their cause, they had no time for me. The discussions we had on war produced a consideration of doing a piano performance.
We had discussed woman who wore red dresses and shaved their heads when they got married. I had no idea what it signified, and I told the class I always get stuff wrong. I thought that it could symbolize, red for blood, or the uterine lining that carries the baby when a woman is pregnant. But in the end l had no idea.
I had wanted to do a performance with the teller. I knew it would be profoundly affecting for her, if she was physically incapable of carrying a baby, dew to the effects of agent orange. But l wanted to remind everyone of the cost of war. A friend of mine affected me once, she went to Vietnam and volunteered in a children’s shelter for those suffering deformities from agent orange. It produced vivid visuals when she recounted the condition and conditions of the children. Innocent Victims of a war they were never involved in.
I considered something that others may see as radicle, l considered wearing a red strapless dress and playing piano while the teller stood there looking at me.
I had been lifting weights, had a shaved head, muscular thighs like a body builder and large arms. So, the dress might have looked comical, but my physic looked quite brutal. My body would have contrasted the gentleness that l can sometimes play a piano with. It was not to symbolize a supposed submission to her, as some in class had interpreted the wearing of the red dress and the shaved head. It was not intended to exploit her. It was to emphasise the fact that l had no children of my own. One way or another l had also been a victim of a war fought with chemistry, the result being that l would never have children.
Back to my grandmother, who also never had children. l had thought about it for years, what could have happened at that party at Saint Kilda, the one with the deaf young men. I concluded that the only regrettable thing that could have happened is that they never heard her. I had considered writing breath heavy, but it seemed inappropriate. Ironically, I am sure my grandmother was more than appropriate. She always said they were very nice young men. My grandmother isn’t around to berate me for it though. She had quite a presence, she used to wear trousers and walk into the workers, or men’s bar, if she felt like it, in an era when that would have been quite shocking. My grandmother was physically beautiful when she was younger, with a composure that never left her. Go Nan : )
Hear no evil.
(More musings from my dairy).
When my grandmother was a young woman, she met some young deaf men in Saint Kilda, Melbourne Australia. They drank beer and had a party. There may have been a board walk involved.
I try not to follow politics to much, you must do so many calculations to be involved in any real and meaningful beneficial way.
A couple of years ago senator Pine raised cutting back on university funding. I had relied on it to study computer aided biochemistry and saw red at the possible outcomes. I tempered my language and said that it would change the fabric of Australian society. The unedited version went along the lines, “l used to have a deaf friend, and she would probably be happy not to have heard that have heard that sh#t”
That might be close to saying l have black friends, but it is not.
She once wrote on a piece of paper, because my signing was so bad, that even if she could be cured of her deafness she didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to hear.
Sometimes l can’t blame her.
I once caught up with her and her brother at the Saint Kilda MacDonald’s, she was in an 80s tube dress. She had a smouldering hourglass figure and had Grecian hair that was wonderfully wild. If l had of been single and she asked me out, I would have worn a Santa hat and a present ribbon if that would have made her smile.
I brought her up in a conversation with a teller at the bank while doing a transaction. The teller was missing her hand. She was very pretty but too young for me, but l was always interested in what her story may be. l asked her one day what happened to her hand, I said l hope l am not being inappropriate. She said it was fine and that she was born that way, she said it was not very interesting, I said l doubt that. l replied, l once had a friend who was Greek, she could not hear from birth, and that I thought Aphrodite had cursed her, because she was jealous. I have never forgot her 80s tube dress. I was not flirting with the teller, she was at work and that would have been inappropriate, but it was a consideration of my friend from years earlier, and a principle that my grandmother had taught me.
At Uni we were discussing the Vietnam war at the time, and agent orange children came up in conversation. I considered if the teller was a consequence or a victim of that war, or possibly a victim of thalidomide . Her age kind of matched up to that of a Vietnam vets’ child. I was constantly being prompted to be political at university, and I was very annoyed at the political side stepping, done when abuses of feminism were raised. Applications of feminism that had in my opinion damaged the feminist movement. I had said multiple times, l need a little red book to be here. I couldn’t recite any political mantras. And years latter l still can’t.
So, l thought of doing something political. But not as prompted by other students. It is not that l didn’t have time for their cause, they had no time for me. The discussions we had on war produced a consideration of doing a piano performance.
We had discussed woman who wore red dresses and shaved their heads when they got married. I had no idea what it signified, and I told the class I always get stuff wrong. I thought that it could symbolize, red for blood, or the uterine lining that carries the baby when a woman is pregnant. But in the end l had no idea.
I had wanted to do a performance with the teller. I knew it would be profoundly affecting for her, if she was physically incapable of carrying a baby, dew to the effects of agent orange. But l wanted to remind everyone of the cost of war. A friend of mine affected me once, she went to Vietnam and volunteered in a children’s shelter for those suffering deformities from agent orange. It produced vivid visuals when she recounted the condition and conditions of the children. Innocent Victims of a war they were never involved in.
I considered something that others may see as radicle, l considered wearing a red strapless dress and playing piano while the teller stood there looking at me.
I had been lifting weights, had a shaved head, muscular thighs like a body builder and large arms. So, the dress might have looked comical, but my physic looked quite brutal. My body would have contrasted the gentleness that l can sometimes play a piano with. It was not to symbolize a supposed submission to her, as some in class had interpreted the wearing of the red dress and the shaved head. It was not intended to exploit her. It was to emphasise the fact that l had no children of my own. One way or another l had also been a victim of a war fought with chemistry, the result being that l would never have children.
Back to my grandmother, who also never had children. l had thought about it for years, what could have happened at that party at Saint Kilda, the one with the deaf young men. I concluded that the only regrettable thing that could have happened is that they never heard her. I had considered writing breath heavy, but it seemed inappropriate. Ironically, I am sure my grandmother was more than appropriate. She always said they were very nice young men. My grandmother isn’t around to berate me for it though. She had quite a presence, she used to wear trousers and walk into the workers, or men’s bar, if she felt like it, in an era when that would have been quite shocking. My grandmother was physically beautiful when she was younger, with a composure that never left her. Go Nan : )