She says I'm weak, and immature, but it's cool; I know what money's for

I know I'm getting old for a few reasons. One of them is that I'm cranky there's nothing as nice as Maxinquaye getting made anymore. There probably is, of course, and I'm just not hearing it, being old, living at the end of the world, and spending all my time - very happily - with someone whose favourite music is listening to me deedle the title music from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

BTW I'm also cranky that there's no movies that good getting made anymore. Which is rich coming from someone who has been to see a new release in the cinema once in the past three years.

Kindgartenodyssey

The efforts to find Godzilla a kindergarten in our German destination continue - trying to get onto those 24 month waiting lists . . . with moderate success. We have a built-in handicap, which is also an sort of litmus test, in that the initial approach to the schools has to be in English. Of course the forms go back in German, but if there are any exhaustive questions about the parents or child, those go back in English too, with a laughable Google translation by its side for form's sake.

We hope to be reasonably handy with the language by the time we get there, but there's no doubt that it will be immensely useful to have Godzilla in a school where the staff talking to us in English won't be seen as some sort of cultural imperialism, or as a practical impossibility. And given we're only applying to public German schools, that's apparently a challenge.

The upshot of all that is he's only on the waiting list at two schools. And one of them I'd be tempted to take him off the waiting list for, as it's a Waldorf school, which when I applied seemed like a really great thing. Then I read more about Waldorf and realized it was a cult. Seriously. And I'm not talking going to websites like Waldorfisacult.com, which I have no doubt exist, but reading books on the Steiner/Waldorf system leant to me by enthusiastic friends.

I don't have any problems with cults as such; I just can't accept them pedagogically. Education is a field full of discoveries and awesome, as is child-rearing, and if you lock your pedagogy or philosophy of child-rearing into a cult, which by their natures claim a higher knowledge of how the world works that doesn't have to bend to evidence from other fields, then you end up with a stunted pedagogy. The weaning-your-child-at-nine-months thing was the first red flag. There were others. And there is the racism thing. Sure, you say, it's not racist anymore. Alright. Then it's not fucking anthroposophy anymore, is it?

Anyways, Godzilla's still on the waiting list, particularly for the nursery, since it's a forest kindergarten. We'll see what happens. 

Isabella

The F-word and I are rewatching The Sopranos. I'm glad. Not only because I'd forgotten pretty much all of it since I was high the first time through, but because I'm seeing it in a new light now. Being high all the time had helped me not notice the plot holes, which are now apparent, and I'm no longer wrapped up in thinking this is somehow perfectly crafted story television in the traditional sense. But things that left me utterly cold enough last time to have completely forgotten in the interim, like the "Isabella" episode, now seem like pure literature.

There are probably a few reasons for this, like not being high, and having spent a few years letting my own years of psychoanalysis settle and process, and gaining a family of cautionary tale Italian descendant in-laws in the Livia vein, but in the case of "Isabella" I guess the big one is now being a mother myself. Having a different relationship with the idea of a mother as the force that drives the child, and the damage a mother can do. Also having a different relationship with the whore/madonna dichotomy, which in my case isn't so much of a dichotomy as two utterly necessary stages of life, but in a generalized sense from a male perspective I appreciate now probably has a lot more than I'd understood to do with revenge and insecurity.

What sort of man will I make Godzilla into? The question has been there since years before he was conceived, which is part of the reason I got my man-hating ass into psychoanalysis in the first place, but until we saw his whang on the ultrasound it was a fairly academic question. And the "Isabella" episode helped me get it into a somewhat more coherent form. I don't know what sort of man I'll make Godzilla into. I suppose the best I can hope for is that it's a secure one who won't hurt himself and other people too much seeking to replace me or to make up for my shortfalls or to get his own back on me when he goes looking for a partner. A man who won't have extended hallucinations while having a depressive episode about some sort of idealized trogladyte infant existence with no luxuries but with a mother who loved him and made him feel safe.

Fuck, that was a good episode.

The maybe move

Yes, so, I think we are deciding to move to Melbourne for the rest of our time in Australia. On one level it's a purely financial decision, almost a financial no-brainer, though there must be some sort of catch somewhere. Our house here in L___, which we paid relatively little for, will fetch a great deal of rent due to its location and the prevailing economic conditions here, while a house or flat appropriate to the size our family will be during our Australian stay, in a decent, well-connected suburb in Melbourne, will be almost $400 less a month to rent (though a great deal more to buy). Even after the agency and gardening fees we're still likely to be comfortably ahead.

And then, as I discovered to my disgust while we were in Melbourne last week, everything is cheaper there. Gas, food, clothes, every fucking thing.

And then on a less financial level I think the F-word and I have discovered we're not country people. We're not even suburb people. We haven't fucking gardened since Godzilla was born and if you think that'll fly on a 1200 square meter lot in the subtropics you've got another guess coming, buddy. The jungle is closing in Apocalypse Now-ishly. A large part of me is thrilled at the possibility of renting this place out just so we can get an agency to take over the garden.

Anyways, on a less getting-away-from-this-shit and a more getting-into-some-new-shit I'm a little excited. I like Melbourne. It's an ersatz Toronto, which is limited but fine, and the weather is shitty there, but a) it can't be worse than Brussels was and we won't be there as long and b) living in the subtropics has taught me the limits of the happiness-inducing qualities of good weather. Particularly in terms of insects. It turns out cockroaches loooooove good weather. And that good weather periodically involves typhoons and rainy seasons which aren't fucking good weather at all.

Also when we got back from holiday we found out that our next-door neighbour had died - a really delightful woman. Very old but quite hearty; it was a surprise. She was out in her garden all the time and very fond of Godzilla - she was the first person who wasn't medical or parental who held him. I miss her terribly. She'd have been a delightful neighbour anywhere but I really treasured her in a place like this, where people don't tend to be awfully friendly. Anyone who replaces her will be worse and I'll be sad and resentful every time I look at them.

News flash

The trip to Victoria was some sort of emotional and professional success for the F-word and he will be exhibiting there in November/December. On top of that I think we're moving there around the same time. If we have two years left in Australia I don't think I can bear to spend them here. All the natural loveliness is wasted on me since I don't surf, garden, or enjoy skin cancer. Still under deliberation though.