The BuffoonTheyAll Believe In...

Well here I am with nothing to whinge about for a change.

Well I could but what would be the point of that? I don't feel overly upset even if my Hubby has gone out without me. I don't feel angry at him for anything in particular. I just don't feel anything much at all.

Seven beers must be doing me some good; and I'm thinking of switching to the wine (leftovers from camping) soon. I still like the 'ol sensation of drink. It's relaxing and blocks shit out- though it often makes me focus even more on shit I'd rather forget, depending on my mood. I know now better than ever that I'll never be able to completely stop drinking. Why would I want to when everyone I know except for my Mother enjoys drinking? god, you'd be a social leper of sorts.

I must've started writing for a reason; very rarely do unless I have something on my mind. I don't know what it might be yet though, so please excuse me if I wallow or waffle on for a bit; just to keep the thoughts flowing. What am I upset for? I don't think I am but I could be. I just don't feel right about myself at the moment. Sounds a bit crazy and it probably is; but I'll just go with the flow. It's been so frigging hot perhaps my brain is addled; or perhaps its the grog I've drunk or a combination of both. I don't know where to start or if there is even a beginning anymore.

So I'll have a cigarette.

Am I still upset about fighting with my Sister? Or that I'm worried my best friend thinks I'm ignoring her and shutting her out of my life? I hope she doesn't think that. I can't explain to her about how I think her boyfriend is a manipulative shit; how he affects and changes her. I don't even know if I'm wrong or right about him actually. I can't tell her that she was the reason my Hubby and I fought the night he hit me; it would just hurt her too much and she's too vulnerable to shit like that. I don't want her to worry which I know is stupid because she worries about everything.

So I keep telling her that I've been really busy instead; or that I haven't felt like answering the phone. It just makes her even more worried. I think she thinks I don't value her as a friend anymore- which isn't true- but how can I tell her the real reason? Same goes for my Sister I'm afraid. I know that if I ring her she'll expect some sort of an apology from me about what I said about her kids. The problem is that what I said I still feel to be true; so I can't take it back. I can't take back how I feel and I won't- not even for a bit of peace between us.

If I die tomorrow I hope my Hubby doesn't pass on these journals to my Sisters or Mother. I hope he keeps them for himself and my Son. I don't know which would be worse; being dead or having my thoughts known by everyone? How bizarre that I should write that. That should be obvious- especially when I dread dying so much.

But really- if everyone knew the real me, the person even I don't know when I see her in the mirror- then that would be worse. People would know me for who and what I really am; and I couldn't go back to being the Buffoon who they knew but only Real Buffoon- who is infinitley more complex, sarcastic and pessimistic than the Buffoon they all believe in. Now there's an odd thing to say.

The Buffoon they all believe in.

Almost sounds like there is two of me; and I guess there is. The Buffoon people see and the Buffoon people have forgotten and who now chooses not to be seen. I could well be the first person with Multiple Personality Disorder who actually calls her personalities the same name. But I suppose everybody does that- there is a public and private persona to everybody. It's just the amount of how much people get to see of the Real Person that makes the difference.

My guess is that no one gets to see the real me. My best friend has a better chance than most; and my eldest Sister gets a good glance- or at least more than what the rest of the family sees. And my Hubby? If I was to write it as a percentage he would probably get ten percent of the Real me and ninety percent charade. My Son gets a bit of me too- I don't feel I have to hide the fun parts of my personality from him- only the sad destructive parts; though he sees that side of me as well.

I guess I'm happiest sitting in the shallow pools at the Beach with a beer and a cigarette; the people there think I'm funny and witty. And compared to most of them I know I have a good body; so it makes me feel good. The added bonus is that even with my clothes on I would still feel the same there; because it's safe and familiar- the place where I spent so much time in my childhood.

I probably feel the same way about the Farm; though it isn't the same anymore. It still holds memories for me- so that just walking down through Grayer's paddock or down by the Lake or boatshed I would feel calm; and remember walking there before; or riding Star or Peter there and remember how happy I was. I really must go back there soon- spend a whole day just walking around; taking the track down to the Hippy-church or walking through the paddocks; remembering the hills as I see them, even now, in my mind's eye.

Going down to the Point where the bush rocks grow moss and Maidenhair ferns frow in the shade; Peter's house paddock and the smoke-house; the taste of fresh blackberries from around the dams; putting your foot down a rabbit's warren; catching fingerlings in an old strainer and dragging them bag up the hill in a fish-box. Or the smell of lantana that's freshly picked; the hum of an outboard motor at six in the morning; when the dew frosts up the spider webs on the grass and in the trees. The calm of the Lake as you watch it atop the paddock as you call for the horses from the wooded areas where they rested for the night; flapping a tea-towel at Peter to make him gallop up the road, bucking and farting.

These are the things I never want to forget.

The tyre swing near the washing line; the day Kyla got covered in tiny ticks and when she spewed up all those sausages in the boat; the day I nearly trod on a red-bellied black snake as it was sunning itself; finding the Playboys under Boof's bed; sleeping on the hall couch underneath the telephone that never rang; the old brass beds that sagged in the middles; cleaning up the Little Old House; Grandpa's peach tree's covered in netting; boxes full of mullet and bream and blackfish that Grandma might make into fish cakes; Bess the Morris Minor; Granpa's ute that we'd fall asleep in after he promised a two-bob coin; going to the dairy for fresh milk that was still warm; rowing to Schmidt-Roover Island and carving our initials there; looking for the fabled watermelon patch that supposedly grew there. Hiding in the reeds; playing on Slippery Log- seeing who could walk furthest down it before falling arse over tit; galloping up the hill bareback; running down the hill pretending to be out of Little House on the Prarie; fires made from Paperbark trees; houseboats and jumping from their roofs; remembering the first time you realised you could open your eyes in the Lake and seeing the murky green weed world; sitting on the verandah in Grandpa's stock saddle; the rocking horse; Grandpa and his mate's drinking long necks of VB; the wall of empty beer bottles stacked against the house; ABBA concerts that we'd put on for Mum and Dad; Euchre games and Trivial Pursuit; laundry baskets full of food; a stove so dirty it hadn't been cleaned in probably twenty years; the banana trees; the frog that jumped out of the toilet and scared Grandma; tobboganning on the Lake; Star's foals- Benni and Tommy; the old farmer and his cranky wife who lived up the road; our Parents taking the stirrups off the saddle so we wouldn't get dragged if we fell off; my first canter; Cindabarr Beetlebomb and White-Sox; the day White-Sox sniffed my hand until Boney chased him away and nobody believed me.

Grandpa's ashes are there now- where they rightfully should be. He loved the Farm; as did we all. I told my Son that I want one third of me there, one third at the Beach and the final third was for him and my Hubby. Then I can be in three places where I was happy.

I wish all the time that my Son had known the Farm as it was; a place of beauty, a place of longing. Where we wanted to be; not just for a week every school holidays- but all the time. I haven't thought about it in a long time. It's amazing how much memory we actually retain and recall when we wish to. It's the memories that I love now; the memory of a happier more idealistic me.

Not this drunkard who holds the pen who has lost most of her zeal for life. That's Me.

But I am rn_buffoon.