Motivation
Motivation feels great
when having it
Morose when I don’t
How
My
Weary
Old
Bones
‘n’ brain
Drag
When inspiration’s lacking
In this instance
Mindless sketching
Thoughts drift
Draw out syllables
Wrapping tongue
‘round sounds
Moat
Eee
Vay
Shun
Abracadabra
The most delicious chicken Tom Yum soup served in an elevated bowl surrounding a spirit burner.
Lunch with work colleagues on Thursday at Phat Elephant, Brisbane. Located on the first floor overlooking Adelaide Street and Anzac Square. It can be accessed via Post Office Square to avoid the stairs.
In Australia, today is for the dad’s.
On Friday, Carenza of Balmoral Urban Country Club, formerly School of Etiquette drove to us to deliver the “I love my Dad” bandanna before travelling overseas for their holiday, yesterday.
In his 17th year, Stan has significantly slowed down, sleeping deeply for most of the day. We caught him mid-doze for this picture. He would not usually pose.
On my graduated return to work, this week, I completed six hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
For two hours on Wednesday, I participated in an in-person two-hours’ workshop on improving conversations. Slido is used for participant feedback, I’m guessing to make it more accessible for everyone. I forgot and launched into a diatribe of an example of how I had fulfilled my employers goals, values, and demonstrated OARS (acronym starting O for open questions, A for affirmation, R reflecting, and S for summarising).
One of the two presenters thanked me for sharing and reminded me we were typing our responses. Whoops!
The next one, whoops that is, came when all those that were able to (I’m using a wheelie walker for mobility) needed to stand for Simon says put your hands on your head, Simon says put your hands on your shoulders, Simon says put your hands in your nose.
What an enjoyable moment until the presenter said “clap”. Guess who was the only one. Silence, faux-pas number two. Did this influence my ongoing participation? I was oblivious to the rules of Simon says. It must be five decades since I played it.
In youth
Timex ticks endlessly
Youngsters play days away
Through learning
Everything’s possible
Hands begin to speed
Teenagers’ yearning
Anything’s achievable
Young people retain potential
Become discerning
Grains slip away
Through maturescence
Candles’ burning
Commitments lead to repetition
Necessary for earning
In prime of life
Responsibilities’ concerning
Hectic pace
Life churning
Into middle age
Seasons’ turning
Tumbling to sage years
Some things no longer options
Questioning
Remembering
Shedding
Fading into
Nothing
This week a new memorial has been unveiled in Canada’s Capital Ottawa, it is dedicated to the 2SLGBTQ public servants of the Federal Government who …
Thunder Head
Fairies plum and apple bright
Tainted tarts of rhubarb grown
Atop grim reaper berries glow
Oh when will the pale girl sing
Forever splotched from juice stains
We lie hidden from drama and dreams
In the half waking light of dawn’s dusk
Abundant fuzzy peaches fly high
Among lemon scented daisy followers
Purple pringles float aimlessly in the void
Awaiting the jaws of oblivion
It’s been one of those weeks where everything hits at once. Great news: I don’t have dementia. I do have severe depression, and when physical pain and systemic frustration pile up like they have over the last few days, it takes everything not to let the weight crush you.
Last Thursday was a logistical nightmare that turned into a physical disaster. With our car in the garage, I had to rely on public transport to get to my hand therapy appointment at Brisbane Private Hospital. What should have been a simple commute became a grueling obstacle course—navigating a total of 109 stairs across the journey, including all 86 steps of Jacob’s Ladder.
Between a broken wheelchair lift, steep incline, and hauling myself up those steps one painful push at a time, my body took a beating. Stupidly, using my left hand at the first flight from Adelaide to Ann street to grip a handrail triggered sharp, shooting pains in my wrist right after making good progress in therapy. Worse, the exertion flared up excruciating pain below my right knee and a stabbing ache in my right hip, leaving my mobility severely compromised.
By the time I tried to head home, a packed bus meant no priority seating, forcing me to give up, hobble down Adelaide Street, and wait in Hutton Lane for my husband to collect me.
Adding insult to injury is the ongoing battle with the insurer. They previously denied my right hip claim, citing “no material change.” Yet the objective imaging tells a completely different story: moving from joint space reduction in late 2022 to severe, bone-on-bone contact, sclerosis, and large osteophytes by early 2026. Carrying a 6–7 kg laptop bag on a commute isn’t just an inconvenience—mechanically, it adds dynamic force to a joint that is already structurally failing.
To top off the noise, I’ve ditched Facebook and Instagram for the third time. Bluesky is a bit less satisfying, but stepping away from the main algorithmic circus feels necessary right now.
I’m resting, recovering, and preparing for my next steps. One foot in front of the other—even when every single step is a fight.
We set off from home to Brett’s Wharf, looking forward to pizza, friendly hosts, and a wine or two at Julius in Fish Lane. The ferry was late, and we were told it would be terminating at Hawthorne, with other travel options to the city to be announced.
On the way to Teneriffe, the crew let us know that due to industrial action, buses were available to take us into the city. As we’d checked only the other day, pets aren’t allowed on any other form of public transport.
We alighted at Bulimba on the promise of a 25% discount through EatClub at Romeo Italian. We ordered generously. At 1:55pm, my husband received an SMS saying we needed to pay the bill within 15 minutes to claim the discount. The payment, discount included, was declined twice — so we paid full price.
Do you think we paid $35 for an Uber Pet to take us home, or waited until the strike lifted at 4pm and put that money towards another bottle of wine?
A heads up: this post meanders.
Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.
Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.
On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?
We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.
It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.
Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.
From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.
Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.
A heads up: this post meanders.
Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.
Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.
On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?
We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.
It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.
Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.
From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.
Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.
theINFP 