Step Into the Light

I remember being 19.

It’s that age when you’re 100% an adult and no one on earth is going to stop you doing cool adult things like drinking litres of vodka, renting your own place (with five other people), driving fast, clubbing, drugging and generally grabbing life by the horns and swinging it around your head like a Warrior Princess. Somehow the fact that you have no savings, no assets, no qualifications and are barely scraping in $400 a week doesn’t throw a dampener on your lust for life, lust for experience and lust for the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on what town you grew up in). You’re answerable to no one, the world is one giant buffet and your whole being buzzes with premonitions of the fantastic shit you’re going to do with your life. And on top of that, you know EVERYTHING. Not the EVERYTHING you know when you turn 14 and realise your parents are stupid and the world hates you, but the EVERYTHING that adults know, because now you’re an adult too and are out in the real world you know what’s what, a’ight.

Last week, right outside my workplace, a 19 year old drove his Commodore into a tree no larger than my thigh, with enough force to tear the vehicle clean in half and pitch his body 50 metres down the road. No doubt he also left a huge trail of emotional wreckage after the event. I don’t ever want to be the mother who answers the phone at 1 am to that kind of news.  

I’m quite sure most 19 year olds come within a hair’s breadth of hurtling into a tree, and it’s only sheer luck and God’s sense of humour that lets them through to the other side. Because even while knowing EVERYTHING, they consistently mangle themselves in vehicles, over dose on every substance imaginable, get murdered while backpacking in foreign lands, fall off motorbikes, misjudge drunken knife fights and commit suicide with alarming regularity.

So to that 19 year old boy, who chose to terminate his life with such abruptness, indignity and heart-wrenching needlessness – every day I will drive past your plaque on the highway, and even when the masses of floral tributes and soft toys wither away, I’ll doubtless think of the other 19 year olds who never quite made it across to this beautiful place with the rest of us.  

The human race is inherently prone to seeking guidance in utterly intangible, scientifically unprovable institutions. We have religion, astrology, global warming, palmistry and Richmond Footy Club.

My particular vice is Feng Shui. I don’t particularly believe in Chi or Flying Stars or Lucky Numbers, but something about putting random shit in semi-random positions in my house makes me feel good.

I have a pair of miniature Fu dogs at my front door warding off negative energy.  Somewhat conversely, they don’t try to keep me out when I come home fuming after a crappy day looking to choke something and throw furniture at passing vehicles. I guess they’re fine with MY negative energy. Although when the body corporate gardener comes around once a fortnight he always topples them over with his leaf blower. Clearly kilowatts trumps Chi every time.

Then there’s my Three Legged Toad friend. He sits facing into my house with a coin in his mouth, bringing in wealth. He seems to be doing his job because I’m still employed, there’s food in my belly and as I type I’m looking at a pair of black boots I bought last weekend which are entirely unnecessary considering I already own three pairs. There’s no Mustang Fastback in the garage yet, but I reckon Toad Man is working on it.

My indoor water feature is supposedly doing something to my Chi, but I’m unclear as to what. Mainly it makes me want to pee. And when my cats drink all the water and leave the pump running dry, it makes grinding noises that’ll make your fillings rattle.

My bedroom is devoid of mirrors because apparently this is bad for your relationship. Also I have no desire to see what I look like at 6.15am on a Tuesday. Neither does anyone else apparently, seeing as I’ve been one of Beyonce’s heralded single ladeez for well over two years. To this end, I have a statue of a cutesy pair of lovers in the ‘relationship’ sector of my home. Well it should be in the relationship sector, but I’m not entirely sure where that is so it’s just on the hall table with my keys. One day it fell off its table and the chick’s head fell off and skittered across the floor, amputating half her boyfriend’s face in the process.  I glued it back on, but I’m sure it portends something ominous. Look out boys, headless Inga’s coming to rip your faces off.

Then there’s all this jargon about keeping your house uncluttered and letting in fresh air, which has been second nature to me since I was old enough to pick up a vacuum cleaner. I’m terminally terrified of accumulating crap, to the point where I don’t let people buy me birthday presents anymore, unless they’re edible, alcoholic, or have been specifically requested in writing and signed in triplicate.

Now who wants me to read their tea leaves?

It’s a very surreal, grim day in Melbourne today.

At last count, 131 people have died in the bush fires.

Business is carrying on as normal in the city, because we are the lucky ones who chose to eschew life in our idyllic little country towns in favour of the concrete jungle. One lady called the radio station from the usual Monday morning peak hour on the Westgate Bridge, saying she was looking around at her fellow commuters to find many in tears. People are donating like buggery - $6.8 million so far.    

Most survivors are describing their shock at speed of the fire, the darkness from the smoke and the incredible noise. I’m not sure what a 60 foot sheet of flame hurtling towards your home at 80km per hour sounds like, but the media are making good use of one survivor’s comparison to jet engines. Stop and picture that for a second.

The footage is heartbreaking. Families have died in their cars trying to escape. Parents have watched their kids being burnt alive. Homes, pets, livestock, wildlife, even entire bloody towns are gone.  

Kinda puts things in perspective.      

If there’s one thing I’ve had quite a bit of practice at, it’s being the drunken bridesmaid.

Last Saturday, a good friend wrapped me up in hot pink sari, slapped some make-up on me and made me follow her around all day with a bunch of Asiatic lilies while some bloke with a Nikon D2X took photos. Then I was herded onto a mini-bus and shipped to a local winery, where I was fed a three course gourmet meal – though the more subtle flavours may have been marginally diminished by the 90 litres of champagne I consumed on the side. There was dancing, merriment, and a chubby hairy guy wearing nothing but a tie.

It was my third foray into the world bridesmaiding, and I know I’ll be doing it at least twice more. That’s a lot of trips down the aisle for someone with nary a man-friend in sight.

Aftermath

I was on the phone to Ma and Pa Violet this evening.

"Dad, I have a date with a policeman on Sunday!"

"I hope there won't be handcuffs involved?"

" .... "

Ick.

And then...

"Mum, I have date with a policeman on Sunday!"

" .... "

"As in a romantic date."

"Thank goodness, I thought you were trying to tell me you're going to prison."  

I still wee myself every time. I'm only assuming it's not a medical problem.

While it's not particularly polite to steal someone else's literary confection, I'd still like to share an email I received from my fabulous Old Man... 

From: The old man
To: Violet
Date: Nov 26, 2007 6:46am
Subject: She's your Mum

Thought you should know the following...it might have inherited implications in your pursuit of the noble career of accountancy.

The following exchange occurred recently between Father and Mother of Violet.

F:  I just got an email from Curtises, they are visiting Saturday arriving midday, leaving at 5.

MOV: How many hours will they be staying?

F: (silent..adopts quizzical raised eyebrows)

MOV:  Four?

F: (silence...accentuates raised eyebrows)

MOV:  Three?

F: (slowly reclines, puts head under pillow)

MOV: WELL ITS NOT FIVE BECAUSE THEY PROBABLY WILL ARRIVE AFTER MIDDAY AND LEAVE BEFORE FIVE!!!!!

Gotta love her.

It's comforting to know that whatever's wrong with me is genetically traceable.