basement quashed

I wanted to remember this, so have typed it up at work. Having nowhere to keep it, have posted it here. I've no daily anymore, besides my paper journals, of which I've none with me today. I so rarely write long entries in them, though, them being generally small and unweieldy... and typing being so easier to express, to reflect and modify. Perhaps I should restart dazelie, I do so love that I have it to look back on.

This weekend just past I finally managed to get to Byron Bay. I'd wanted to go for weeks, months! but events continually impeded; Shadowrun, hangovers, essential shopping sprees, etc. Mostly it was that I wanted to take my friends, rather than go alone, but they so very often had other plans, damn them!

Jason decided not to come along, having just received a letter from the department of psychology berating him for being such a slack bastard, so wanted to catch up on some work instead. Chelle originally wanted to go motorcycle shopping, being about to be granted a license. I thus threatened to go on my own, in the face of their blatant defiance of my wishes (and would have, reluctantly, for just a day trip), as I'd learned the markets are only on once per month, rather than every weekend... this weekend, and I am going to Cairns next.

Chelle found her cycle during the week, however, so agreed to come. Hurrah! Then I received messages from Rohan, asking for company Saturday night, so I invited him, thinking he probably wouldn't come, yet he did as well. So the three of us went.

The drive took only two hours, when I'd thought it to be three. We arrived at around 3pm and had delicimous sushi (tempura salmon rolls with two sauces, split crumbed prawns filled with rice, tuna and avocado, soft shelled crab) followed by gelati. We checked into our "studio" the next beach down – one bedroom with a queen + single bed, as well as a separate lounge room and kitchenette. After lounging around a bit we decided to go shopping for supplies (liquor and breakfastfoods) before heading back into Byron for dinner.

I love Byron Bay so very. Not so much the intensely touristy aspect of it; more the creative, casual lifestyle, with organic goodness, beach and wilderness. Chelle and I devised plans for moving there once Jason and I are registered – a private practice, miscellaneous (I just can't recall the specifics) IT and computery jobs for Rohan and Jeremy, a host of eclectic pursuits for Chelle, including a stall at the markets where Chelle and I can sell our paintings; gardens, hammocks, surfing, drum circles (we briefly spied a huge one of such energy!), festivals, drug use, etc. I wish so!

Anyway, dinner! Hog's Breath Café, where Chelle and I shared nachos and steak. Rohan raved about the steak for a bit – slow cooked for 18 hours! A conspiracy was theorised as to how they knew how many to have ready for when we arrived. We then headed back to the hotel to get slightly trashed and wander up to the beach. Except the way to the beach was through some pitch black beachside woods – an interesting and hilarious drunken trek. The beach was chaotic: black, roaring, windy and stormy, lightning over the waves, freezing cold. We headed back to shower and pass out on the couch (o wait, that was just me).

I woke up to Chelle cooking breakfast – grilled haloumi, pesto toast, avocado and smoked salmon. I skipped the salmon, the rest was sublime (although I'm sure for people who do not detest slimy fish flesh the salmon was also sublime). We headed to the beach for some swimming and roasting. The morning beach was perfect – a light breeze, sand crinkled by last night's rain, water chill and blue, mountains on the horizon, copious hole-crabs and cheery, racing puppydogs greeting us gleefully from all angles. I received a slight tan (thank you sun), but melanoma and a friend's insistence I get my back looked at worried continuously at my mind (thank you sun), though apparently not enough for me to actually get looked at, mind.

After another shower, some cigarettes and morning vodka, we checked out at around 10am (QLD time) and headed to Byron for the markets. We went straight to the gushy fudz section and Rohan wandered off lost as quickly as he could. Chelle and I partook of delicious samosas and satay chicken, then began to aimlessly wander the stalls. I bought scented oil burner chips, a tantric colouring book and some pants for Jason. Chelle bought a pretty dress and a hugely floppy hat – it was so very sunny and abominably hot. We then received a call from lost Rohan and met up with him, and the search for toeboots began – my main reason for wanted to revisit the markets. I couldn't find them, and didn't, which was quite sad, but gives me reason to go back and try again.

So very hot and heatstruck we went back into the town for air-conditioned shakes (vanilla as a flavour is so underrated) for which the waitress undercharged. Rohan kicked up a minor fuss re. morals and insisting on paying the correct amount, to which Chelle and I shrugged; well, how else will they learn not to make such atrocious errors?

I set the agenda for the rest of the day: swimsuit shopping (for me), followed by doof shopping (for me), followed by stopping once again at the markets for a burrito (for me). I felt a tad awfully selfish but, well, no one else had any preferences! Chelle made out fine, liking the shops I chose and also buying a swimsuit, but poor Rohan lagged about in complete disinterest, yet with wonderful patience.

We left as the market stalls were closing up (no burrito for me, afterall) and stopped for a happy meal on the way home instead. ALL in all (is all we are), an immensely successful trip, one I hope to repeat again soon.

The other week (at least two weeks ago), I was walking to the bus stop. I walk to the bus stop often. I shut the front door, checked that it was locked, cut across the garden to cross the road, and nearly stepped on this:



Trust me, it was a lot huger, heavier, bloodier and smellier than it looked. Actually it wasn't smellie yet, but my mind thought it must've been, cause it was dead, so perceived the smell anyway, despite there being none.

I went inside and got some garbage bags. I couldn't just leave it on my lawn. It was somebody's great white pet. So after taking its picture, I struggled for half an hour to get it into a garbage bag without touching it. It was covered in bugs. People drove past every 5 seconds and made a point of scowling at me. I didn't kill it, I don't even have a CAR, I'm missing my bus so I can remove its ROTTING PRESENCE FROM YOUR SIGHT, so FUCK OFF.

I went and woke up my neighbour so he could drive the dead cat & me to the tip. He got all mad & told me to throw it in the garbage can. I said, "I can't sleep at night knowing there's a dead Buddha in my garbage can!"

So, we got to the tip, & waited for ten minutes for someone to come to the window at the drive-in spot. She acted all sympathetic when he told her we had a dead cat, & then told us we had to drive to the tip on the OTHER side of town so they could bury it. My brain screamed, "It's not even my fucking dead cat!" but my mouth smiled & thanked her, the traitorous thing.

Feeling quite guilty at this point, I said to my neighbour "Let's go to YAPS (something beginning with Y Animal Protection Society) instead and see if they'll take it, 'cause YAPS must have dead cats every day." Well, it being 7am or something, fucking YAPS was closed, of course. For my 50th bright idea of the day, I said, "park in that there carpark, cowboy, & pop the trunk." or something along those lines, minus the cowboy part, & I probably said "open the boot" rather than "pop the trunk," but anyway.

I was dragging the dead cat bag out of the boot/trunk, when a big fat lady pulled up out the front and started wandering around, staring at me. Then I noticed we were in the STAFF car park. I rather hurriedly shut the trunk/boot and hauled the dead cat bag over to a nearby dumpster. At this point the big fat lady started marching purposefully over, so I dropped it in and ran back to the car.

That's all.

Just so you know: my cat's name is Buddha. I never say "fuck," I just think it a lot. and when I speak to my neighbour, I stutter & drool 5 times a second, because I never say Anything.