I haven't posted much lately, but I've got some good excuses. The problems I'd been having with a housemate in Fitzroy were edging towards a spectacular climax the local tabloids would have loved. As I had no desire to feature in them I did the right thing and walked out. I spent a few weeks interstate, catching up with friends in NSW. I could use a lot of words describing the experience, but to keep things brief, I'll say most of the old crew are comfortably living in the same homes, working for the same employers, and seeing the same partners as they were on my last visit. Some cats and children have grown bigger, but not a lot more has changed.

I got a lot of reading done. Ramona had lent me some trashy supernatural novels that kept my attention for 1000km, but on arriving in Sydney I bought some quality non-fiction that I read and passed on as rent for couch space. For anyone who's interested, two of them ("Life at the Bottom" and "The New Vichy Syndrome") were by Theodore Darymple, a retired prison doctor who offers a bleak assessment of contemporary Western civilisation. Both really struck a chord with me, though I liked the former better (and like "Not With A Bang But A Whimper" by the same author even more). Darymple combines meticulous research with personal experience you don't get from many sociologists and writes as well as any other. If you briefly skim through some of his books you might think he was an embittered old relic disgusted by his country's fall from ascendancy (and its ever-growing underclass) but his real targets are the elites he blames for the problems he's witnessed first-hand in UK slums and prison cells. It's confronting but fascinating stuff.

I got to spend a couple of nights in Australian government housing, which gave me some field experience that won't inspire any great texts. It's much nicer in the mountains, where a short walk takes you out of town and offers some amazing sunsets where the heavens meet the earth. More trashy supernatural novels I got from a lovable ex-flatmate kept me busy on the long trip home, and a panicked call from yet another who's since made the move to Melbourne gave me further housing options. The Fitzroy housemate I couldn't stand had already been evicted - no-one there got on with him - so much of my incentive had vanished, but I moved on anyway. My new home, as of this week, offers more space, a friend I've lived with before, can trust and am happy to live with again, and no drug addicts or little dogs. Such benefits as window panes and a gas stove are incidental.

I have one more excuse, though it's not good at all. I don't want to make too much of this, but the woman who spent five months convincing me I was, in fact, a loving person - in spite of all I'd heard to the contrary - and inspiring me to try again - has found someone more compatible. In the past this sort of thing has inspired strong emotions and extreme creativity. Right now I feel nothing but a numbing emptiness. I know I'm not a unique case, but this doesn't make it easier. Moving has helped, but not much.

My one achievement, visually, has been a cartoon (see "Rebuke") which has been on my mind for a while. I'll have more time to myself in the near future, which might let me achieve more, but right now I can't make promises.

On an unrelated note, fellow Melbournians might want to check out the Chopper Read show at the Hugo Gallery on Smith Street. It may yield a few surprises.

Hoping to do the same before long,

JF