I’m scared of dying.

As in the act.

I’m not scared of the concept of dying, or all those unanswerable philosophical questions that the topic is so heavily littered with.

I’m scared of the physical act.

Im scared of how it will feel.

As kids we used to play this game where we would sit on a chair and bend over with our heads between of knees and then breathe really fast until we would pass out.

Sometimes I remember that moment before it all goes briefly black, where you feel control start to slip away and you know you’re at your bodies mercy.

I never liked that feeling. I actually hated it. I rarely joined in when everyone would play that game, even as a young kid I knew I hated loosing control.

I guess that’s partly why I’m scared of dying. Those clawing final moments come in the ultimate form of loosing control.

But then, is it death I’m afraid of? Or is it being strip of my position in the drivers seat?

Sometimes it like looking at a picture of your self but one not drawn by you. Instead of it being comprised of your usual brush strokes, your usual colour pallet, it’s just slightly off the mark- Like a really good knock off.

When you look at the whole image you know it’s clearly you, but separately each bit seems foreign.

You run your finger across your lips.. did they always have this lumpy bit on one side?

You stare into your eyes and examine how your eyelids fold under your brow… They can’t possibly be this puffy normally can they?

Your under eyes seem different.. You can’t pick how, but they just seem different.

Your skin tone has taken on a different hue.

Your cheeks once boasted a splash of healthy pink, now overtaken by irritated red patches.

Nothing looks exactly like it’s yours.

In the absence of your mirror, or the absence of even just a pinch of logic and reasoning, you would surely protest that this image could ever be you… well, at least not the true you- you’d accept that maybe it was just a knock off, a forged attempt, painted by some other hand instead.

I’m sure it’s rooted in self confidence. It’s got undertones of risk taking and instant gratification. It simmers in my chemical composition.

Like some kind of potion drunk by cracked lips.

It makes my heart beat faster and faster as it begins to creep across the veins.

Once it’s in my blood stream I can start to feel my behaviour changing.

I loose direction, making decisions that I would never normally make.

My eyes widen, they search and find meaning in places that sober eyes remind blind to see.

My blood begins to curdle with lust and again my eyes begin to wander.

As the elixir finally consumes my being, I race more with every word.

Darting to and fro, hunting for instant gratification while I weave down rambling rabbit holes.

Just as my ideas out grow my capabilities, the potion begins to wear off.

I plummet with force.

Exhausted and punch drunk from the intoxicating potion, damaged by poor judgement and failed grandeur.

My only remedy is sleep.

Constant and deep.

As the vapours waft away to nothing I find myself unable to stand.

My eyes no longer seeing through manic lenses as they struggle against the monstrous weight of their own eyelids.

I become overwhelmingly thankful for the sobriety yet all the while remaining acutely aware that, while i rest and recover, somewhere inside me another batch of this overpowering potion is slowly brewing.

Waiting to once more wet my chapped lips. Breaking my sobriety once more.

I feel like I’m drowning, and I know he feels that way too.

We are both clinging to love like it’s the lifesaver that will keep us afloat while we keep drifting into rough seas.

I can’t stop talking at him, trying to somehow get through to him, trying to show him that I care enough to want us to be better- to do better.

I’m pretty sure he just hears my words only for their complaints. Like waves crashing down on him, sinking him deeper and deeper underwater.

He doesn’t hear what is saying, doesn’t understand that, by me wanting things to be better, that I’m saying I truely care about our relationship. I care if it survives.

Stupidly, when I feel this way, in my panic to try and keep from drowning, I start to paddle frantically.

I think he feels like I’m leaving him behind.

Sometimes I don’t even realise I’m doing it right away.

But once I do I immediately paddle right back into the deep waters, hoping that he will still be there, clinging onto that lifesaver.

I hope he knows I love him. Even when the seas are their roughest.

I hope our love can always keep us afloat.

I need new friends.

Friends who need a friend and not a baby sitter or a co-offender, not a look-out or a driver.

Catching up would involve bookings at restaurants with food, wine and pleasant lighting not booking in supervised visits had at metal tables under clinical lighting.

I need new friends.

Friends that make good choices. Choices that involve positive personal growth and not growing plants in hidden houses.

Friends that pay with bank cards in shops not friends who can count a thousand dollars at break neck speeds.

I need new friends.

I need friends who own one, maybe two, registered & working vehicles not friends with car yard front yards full of unregistered & immobile ”works in progress”.

I need new friends.

Friends with good credit and not good-behaviour bonds.

I need new friends.

This works.

Here is my piece;

I’m not a religious person, I could never grasp the idea of “blind faith”, however looking back at the moments leading up to that call, I can’t help but to question what forces are actually out there.

I’m always asleep that time of the morning, the world at 7am is for runners and retirees not me.

I fumbled for the phone when it rang, only just waking up enough to register its jarring ringtone.

Missed call,

Mum

Suddenly I felt my heart fall to my feet, my mind immediately wakes, I can feel my veins thumping as my blood pressure suddenly spikes.

“Shit, I think dads having a heart attack”

Now I should mention at this point that my father had always been in good heath and didn’t have any heart issues that we were aware of.

But for some reason, some cosmic reason, I immediately knew what that missed call was about.

I call back before my mind could even finish my thought.

Mums hysterical, dads in the ambulance being rushed to St Vincent’s hospital, she wants me to come quick.

Calmly I tell her that he’s having a heart attack, she insists that they haven’t told her what’s going on yet but that he’s very very sick.

I calmly repeat mum he’s having a heart attack, I’ll meet you at the hospital.

Those moments, that handful of seconds, between missing her call and calling her back, we in some surreal way the most real moments I’ve ever felt. So real that they almost feel like they have physical form- like I could reach out and touch every millisecond and feel it’s pounding pulse beneath its sharp and hard surface.

The memory exists in my mind as some strange artists installation piece.

What made me assume it was a heart attack I will never know.

Maybe I was just an innate educated guess based on family history or maybe it was something else, something explainable only through faith and beyond human forces.

Whatever it was, those moments will never leave me.

When I was calling mum back dad was being revived in the ambulance en route to the hospital, he had had a massive cardiac arrest - doctors told us that no one could have predicted it, he had a silent electrical cardiac condition that was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

Only 10% of people survive a cardiac arrest like his

And thats only if they receive professionally administered CPR within 4 minutes of the arrest happening.

Almost no one survives when an inexperienced person is the one to provide the immediate cpr, and if they do manage to beat the odd they almost always have some left over brain damage from the lack of oxygen.

I look back at how calm I was on the phone to mum “he’s having a heart attack I’ll meet you at the hospital” I don’t remember feeling scared in those moments.

Dad made a full recovery, “a miracle, touched by god” said the doctors.

I wonder if those moments immediately after I woke up, the phone call with mum, the absence of fear and the confidence I had in my diagnosis….

But then I stop and remind myself, I’m not really a religious person.

(if you have the time please comment with any suggestions or comments or feedback pretty pretty please xx.... chapter 2 is a shitshow of ideas and not actually a structured chapter yet lol)

(untitled)

Working in the Dopamine Department is always a rush.

Each and every dopamine neurotransmitter constantly firing across synapses and running in and out of neural pathways making sure its human citizen is functioning.

There are three main sectors in the Dopamine Department; The Department of Reward & Motivation (the DRM), The Bureau of Attention & Focus (BAF) and The Division of Mood & Emotional Regulation (DM&E). And then, Overseeing this whole bloody fiasco, is me, Daphnia, the Secretary of Dopamine.

Now, when I took this particular job 34 years ago, I had only skimmed over the briefing paper on Genetics and Predispositions for my specific human citizen, and boy do I regret that now, let me tell you!

Anyway! It’s my job to make sure all my dopamine agents are going out to the right jobs and that they are working in the correctly sized teams for each specific release. And, to be fair, we started off pretty well.

Everyone was going out to the right place, with the right numbers, at the right time. We even managed to limit interdepartmental disagreements to a low rumble now and then.

But, and of course in life there is always a “but”, our citizen did experience some external turbulence so to say… Extended exposure to reoccurring domestic violence and some other authority related break downs in trust.

As a former on-field dopamine agent for the DM&E, I knew we were going to take a bit of a hit. The resulting cuts to departmental funding would mean we would need to take some of the agents working on the “Mood and Well-being Portfolio” which was not going to be ideal in the long run as that meant having less agents working on the core policies on positive emotions and general sense of optimism.

See this is where the whole thing started, this first funding cut. You know that feeling you get when you’re arch nemesis neighbour just so happens to park in your favourite spot? You know that broiling anger you feel as you gaze upon your street, with your spot stolen by that grating asshole? Yep, that was it- that was exactly how I felt about those fuckwits down at the Norepinephrine Arousal and Stress Command (ASC).

I guess I should probably fill you in on what our human citizen had experienced. Now don’t worry, I’m not going to sit here and play back the full show- it’s just way too long and I’d rather not relive it, it was shit enough sitting through it the first time, so I’ll just give you some basic insight…

Her grandmother was someone she loved. Her tiropitas, creamy pasticho and poorly appropriated “special rice” were on the weekly menu and our citizen loved that. As a toddler, her yiayia was, in some ways, as present as her own mother. Her parents were driven, with the kind of work ethic normally reserved for working class homes, so this meant her grandparents inherited a large portion of her childhood school day caretaking.

Even now, she can still hear moments from back then. Judge Judy playing her 2 o clock spot in her grandmothers lounge, her widowed grandmother stood over the burning stove, as she had been for much of the afternoon.

Her cousins, bickered with whines and sneaky slaps, fighting over whose turn it is to play snap with their father Steve. And while she might have briefly felt comfortable, that feeling was not accepted, she knew that any resemblance of serenity that she might snatch up now would soon enough be drowned out by the sounds of the violence. When she was in that house, uncertainty was the only certainty she had come to expect. Well, uncertainty and guilt.

(Ch2)

The Government of The Brain had an “on-the-fly” approach to its distribution of funding, which meant that each department would have to plead their case every time they felt the citizen was facing a situation where they could benefit from the departments expertise.

The goal of every brain government is for all its departments to work together in managing all the different human citizens responses in the healthiest way possible.

And as is with all governments, this is not often how things play out.

The General of the Norepinephrine Arousal And Stress Command was a guy called Nigel. We both started out on the same project, I don’t remember exactly what it was, but I do remember that we had our team meetings in the prefrontal cortex building. He would always have these carefully dot-pointed notes done in this blur of anxious cacography that only he could read.

While my office walls were coated with reminders of great achievements, beautiful wild horses and all my favourite bright colours, his office was decorated with step-by-step guides, carefully directing you to the nearest exist or how to check for signs of stroke. The only thing we both had up was each of our report cards from our graduating year- both spilling over with high distinctions, but I don’t think we shared the same reasons for hanging them.

So anyway, Nigel ran his team just like a drill sergeant fresh outta ’nam, marching out his soldier’s as soon as our citizen heard the first signs of war, and, at my direction, we poured out behind him desperately trying to provide her with adaptive responses to handle it all.

Her grandmother’s back yard had a small brick patio that joined the back door to the large grassy garden out back that was sprinkled with reminders of home, a reaching fig tree, small lemon tree and the kind of make shift veggie garden that was clearly built in keeping with the mentality of a poor villager.

It was on that patio that a big green plastic table sat, its emerald green chairs seemed to be patient in wait for their next turn to be used. Her memory of that table, in that silent wait, can only be recalled for a moment before the nostalgic tranquillity is raided by the sound of her uncle’s accosting voice making hard demands with her grandmother’s thrilling questions in response. It’s at that point that her mind goes blank for a moment.

Which is actually not blank for any good reason other than the fact that Nigel and I were all the way down at the temporal building and didn’t make it to the hippocampus in time to form the memory properly… so yep, our bad…

Anyway, as soon as her mind is able to pull the next moment from its files, the moment’s moved to. Not up or down in severity, but just across. The air now seems to smell of immediate threat.

The sounds have changed, less verbal now.

Yard slipper’s soles slap the paved patio, plastic is dragged along the red ceramic and then lifted above his head.

Her grandmother, still circling the large green plastic table, yells Greek spoken pleas of mercy. He launches the plastic green chair toward her. Our citizen, delayed by the stress, her decision to jump up and intervene came just a “click” past the moment that her uncle threw the chair, and thankfully, around the same time her grandmother ducked. She hears the crack and clatter of the green plastic chair as it connects with the patio bricks and then collapses, tired on the ground.

Her memory ends with nothing more than the abrasive sounds, an omnipresent force of tension and the heaviness of residual fear.

The Dopamine Department, hand in hand with the Norepinephrine Arousal and Stress Command, deployed on-field agents for active policy implementation and we had worked together as on as part of the brain’s immediate response to stress. So look, I’m a pretty driven impulse myself, but I like to feel good. So I actively try and seek out experiences that leaving me feeling on top of the world

Every time I wipe away the crummy evidence from my lips and adjust my pants to account for my calorie loaded slip up, I find myself declaring “That is it! This can’t continue! My diet starts now!”.

It seems, like most things, the idea of a diet is much easier to handle with a full stomach.

A generation of sensory overload. The standard existence of todays youth.

We can't deal with anything so we try and take on everything while actually doing nothing.

We have perfected this concept, recreated it an then perfected it once more.

So please, credit where its due, thanks.

It's obvious that there are some exceptions to the rule.

Some managed to jump on the other life boat, the one that went the correct route back to shore.

These people avoid the rest of us.

They hide in libraries and go hiking on their weekends.

While we are trying to chemically alter the reality we live and reach a new level of misanthropic being, they are exploring the wonders of history, nature and space.

I've tried this once.

It required too much drive and in return gave very little in the field of immediate reward.

That's they key.

The song from Charlie And The Chocolate Factory once again rears its head;

"I want the world, I want the whole world".

Silver platter and all!

BUT i don't particularly want to lift a finger.

So if you don't mind just passing it over to me kthankyou, then I wont cause a ruckus when my time comes to walk through those fiery gates.

Oi! Larry! God! Mohammed or who ever the hell you are! Give me some kind of break here champ! I'm clutching at straws but each one keeps shrinking!

I'm not sure this is what i signed up for.

What's the number for the ombudsman of life? I've got 10 bucks that says it's not a toll-free 1800 number, which means my credit-less phone is once again rendered useless against this horridly cruel situation.

I guess every one has their search.

Their inner quest for knowledge or chocolate or oil or whatever they please.

Without these lifetime long journeys we would not be human.

The people who disregard this pure fact of life are nothing but confused and fearful souls.

It’s not about where you land but the way you flew, fell and glided there.

It's about those small exchanges of simple words with a stranger on the street.

It's the glow that fills your body when you make a new friend.

These silent pleasures are what shape us and make us all unique and strange.

I know it's going to be okay.

I know I'll find the oil-lamp destine to light my path.

I know this because I still enjoy these small, special pleasures of life.

With my jail cell bedroom, straight jacket blanket and dill sergeant TV screen, it's a battle to just get out of the house.

"Sleep is my drug, My bed is my dealer and the alarm clock is the police".

I'll keep marching on, left foot right foot, till I cease to exist.

I mean hey, isn't that the story of life?

I never really fully understood sports.

I never watched the Grand Final, or those hideously long test matches.

I didn’t even realise Melbourne was where the Australian Open was played.

I wasn’t in the local basketball team and I’ve never even been to a football match at the MCG.

But for some reason, some deep seated reason, I feel an innate need to like soccer.

Well, I guess it’s not that I “like” soccer so much, I mean I’m still stumped by the notion that one would actively choose to chase a hard leather ball around outdoors in the middle of winter, it’s more that I think I see soccer as the working class migrant sport…

Since I can remember I’ve wanted to be a soccer fan, so much so that I’ve got my chosen Greek League team, Paok, every 4 years I religiously force my dad to watch the entire broadcasting of The World Cup with me, I even spent a decent chunk of my youth holding my place as a member or South Melbourne Soccer club’s HFC Fan Club.

But even given all my efforts, my Deep desires to be a true fan, I’m not exactly sure I actually “like” soccer. Or any sport to be exact.

But I do think I know WHY I feel such a strong connection with a sport that I couldn’t probably careless about.

I come from Greek migrants who came to australia in the 70’s. They came with a dream, a suitcase or two and a poor understanding of Australian language.

They were too poor to play tennis, too ethnic for cricket and I’m pretty sure the shape of the AFL ball, to them, just didn’t make sense.

In Europe, even back when there was usually only one single Tv shared by the whole little Greek village, even back then soccer still managed to find their fields.

So, soon after their ships landed on the old green and gold, many young wog boys and young wog men set search for connection in this foreign land.

They often spoken a broken Greeklish- a pieced together form of English that they’d pick while working their factory jobs or by attempting to serve customers at their fruit shops, so their language skills were not exactly opening doors for them, socially speaking.

And they didn’t exactly have treasure troves of money spare to spend on community building activities.

But, they did have the bodies of fit farm workers and the competitiveness and the team focused loyalty of battling tribes men.

So tennis was out, cricket was out, horses seemed so much more overpriced than the village donkeys they had been used to- so equestrian was out, basketball didn’t seem to figure much into consideration and like I said, the Aussie rules footballs shape made them scratch their heads in befuddlement.

Soccer was familiar, energetic and the cost to play only slightly dearer than the ball it’s self.

It was accessible and it gave them opportunities to branch out their social circle beyond the extended family.

I think the essence of this nostalgia, this sense of linking to my parents youth. My father passing the ball between his Brunswick team mates, my mothers Sunday match afternoons perched on the side lines watching. My uncle’s rare opportunity to share a common ground with him son and our shared ritualistic easter Sunday family match, in the a cobble stone Brunswick lane way behind my grandmothers house.

So, while it is true- I just don’t understand sport, I do “like” soccer, and all it represents for me.