So, friends of the blog, old and new. Here we are again. They tell me that blogging isn’t really a thing any more, and I get it: it’s another thing for you to look at, yet another job to do, and of course you have to actually find blog amongst all of the things that are flashing through your algorithm. Will you even be able to notice me? (See me, notice me, adore me). I see that the pundits are all over Substack and that’s where I am now supposed to share my heart. The thing is, I feel like I might have hit peak saturation for learning new platforms, and this happened unfortunately before Substack came out. I mean sure, I dutifully created an account and all, but I don’t think I can learn one.more.thing. At least not in this general area. I am soothed by THIS familiar template and blog knows how to draw the words out of me. I heard that Neil Gamin writes longhand and transcribes his stuff, becoming his first edit, but I just got a handache from the pen and a headache trying to decipher my pretend-doctor’s writing. I read that Cormac McCarthy wrote on an Olivetti, so I had a little go of that, and even though a manual typewriter was where learnt to touch-type, pushing those keys down is hard with these fancy nails, plus, my accuracy is down these days (under 90% on a recent typing test) so that got tiresome very quickly. For a little while I tried the longer FB post thing, but it was a bit like those Bunnings-style fruit and veg shops littered around the suburbs in the late 80s: NQR.

So here we are.

I want to write you some things, and I hope you might read them. I’m just not sure how you will find me, because the Instabook algorithm sure as heck doesn’t like me taking you away from the scrollhole and over to another piece virtual realestate.

Perhaps if we are going to have a fling, you and I, you might have to send me a message of some sort, and tell me where we can meet up. Tell me how you found blog, let me know if we can have another date here, or if I really do need to pop on some lippy and get an uber over to Substack. Back in the day we used to get our blogalicious content delivered straight to our RSS feeds, but is that even a thing any more? If we are relying on socials to get us together, then I think we might be doomed before we even get to first base. So how are we gonna do this honey? I’ll wait for you to swipe.

Too fancy to type

Today would have been Peter’s birthday. He died a ways ago, so I guess it doesn’t really count as a day of celebration any more, but still, it’s nice to have a day where you take some care to remember. I created a lovely day for myself: did some jobs early so I could feel smug, had a beautiful brunch in the sun with a friend who knew him well (we didn’t talk about him, nor did I tell her what day it was- it was enough to know that if I did tell a Peter story she would get it- sometimes I wonder if that’s the whole point of my life- to have people around me who get it), and then came home in time to take a moment on the top deck and look out to sea.

Peter was my Dad-not-dad. He wasn’t the one who donated the DNA, but he was the one who got into my head and heart and made my DNA worth something. He indulged my love of books, teaching me that it was okay to love what I love. He championed my writings, telling me that I had a voice that was worth listening to. He sat patiently and taught me maths that was beyond my comprehension, showing me tenacity, patience, and that I was worthy. He encouraged and helped me set up my first practice despite me being so very green, reminding me that I could do anything I put my mind to, and that he believed in me. He bought my records from me when I said that CDs were the NEWTHING and vinyl was passé, showing me (years later: this one took awhile Bluey) that not everything that is old is rubbish, and that there is value in things past, and that yes *sigh* after it all, it seems that your music taste (Tom Waites, Chain, George Thorogood, Bob Marley) may have been better than mine (Bucks Fizz, Duran Duran, Wham).

I could tell you so many things that I learnt from my Dadnotdad.

And today on his birthday I am trying to decide which one is the bestest.

It’s hard to figure, because the learnings have become mixed with the person I see as ‘me’, so I’m left knotted in what was already here, what he helped expand, and what would have died a little if it wasn’t so carefully tended. I know I’ll never unravel the tangled truth, but as I sit here on my balcony, I give thanks to the man who met a woman and fell so deeply in love with her that he took on three feral children* as his own, doing it so gently that they never had reason to rebel against him or say they weren’t his. For the man who was such an unobtrusive supporter of the woman he loved that we didn’t even realise how beautifully he held her until he died- the subtle cough as he touched her shoulder and reminded her that he was there, that he had her back, and that he would always support her? THAT is a rare and precious gift.

Perhaps most of all I give thanks to the man who taught us how to savour the moments. The man who diligently worked himself up from the mailroom to state-manager, the man who came from a rougher area but never let that become a chip to carry, the man who was never too proud to sweat and toil to pay yet another bill, the man who would always look to bring others up with him as he rose.

When I had my own family my Dadnotdad would come to our home, make some reason to spiral up to the top balcony, crack open a beer or pour a good red, and look out to that big blue that matched his eyes so well and say, “I wonder what the poor people are doing?”And every time it would make us laugh, and we would say, “This. The poor people are doing this.”

And how they love it.

So yes, this afternoon I am sitting up here and savouring, and thanking you for all of it.

Happy birthday Peter.

* Well two really- I wasn’t feral, but the twins sure as heck wanted to be.