I’m thankful for the new job I scored which has given me a modest pay bump, for at least a little while, but in the flurry of tying up loose ends at my current job in order to engineer a graceful exit I’ve been working too much and spending a lot of time hunched over my work laptop.

I worked at my current place for two years and didn’t think I was very memorable, mostly because I worked in a secluded office that didn’t get all that much foot traffic. I’m thankful that when I told some coworkers that I was leaving a few of them told me they would miss me and my “genuine and down to earth attitude”- I mostly take this to mean that I push back when I hear what sounds like pointless bullshit or needless veering off in meetings. I feel I can’t help doing this- I hate wasting time and am always striving for efficiency. It gives me a form of mental hives to watch others be indecisive.

I’m thankful for all the content I can use for the future that I generated in my current job, that I’ll be able to take with me. I’m thankful that I was the only person who did what I did which forced me to be independent in that sense. I’m thankful that I’ll be on a bigger team where I can bounce around ideas and collaborate more effectively, with people who most likely know more than I do.

But I’m thankful for the bike ride- I got home earlier than I thought I would and shovelled leftover farfalle with chicken and parmesan into my mouth. It was dark and I still haven’t bothered to buy any lights for my bike so I overrely on my high vis vest when it comes to the job of protecting my life while cycling. I’m thankful that I cycled through the parking lot of the golf course I live near, through the path that cuts through the woodsy area which leads to the footpath on the other side. I’m thankful that I cycled down the dark road that leads to the retirement village, then past the retirement village there’s a opening in the gate that you can get through on foot/bike which I did.

I’m thankful that immediately past this opening in the gate the somewhat gravelly residental street slopes noticably downward so I got to careen in the dark toward the reserve where everyone walks their dogs on the weekend. I’m thankful that because I’m currently staying in quiet suburbia everyone seems to want to stay inside after dinner if it’s dark so I had the reserve to myself. I’m thankful that the reserve was too steep and the path too gravelly for me to cycle so I had to get off my bike and walk it up the hill. I’m thankful that the sun had only just finished setting so the sky was diffused with soft purples and navy blue. I’m thankful that when I got to the top of the hill I tried cycling down and this idea started off well but the slope quickly became too steep and there wasn’t any lighting in the park which made me regretfully brake so I could get off my bike and walk down instead of risk an injury.

I’m thankful that when I was done with the reserve I cycled aimlessly around the residential streets, trying to see if I could figure out how to get home without using my phone. I’m thankful that some of the houses must have had dogs that smelled me when I cycled past and acknowledged my existence with their barks and I’m thankful to have felt the brief joy of being able to genuinely explore a new area (I’ve lived here for three weeks) while also being safe doing so. I’m thankful that I had my phone with me because I had to use it to get home as I suffer from the disease of most people under 40, which is that I have absolutely no sense of direction due to an overreliance on GPS technology.

I’m thankful that on the cycle home I felt, strangely, thankful for tearing my inner miniscus at 1am New Years day. I’m thankful that the reason I own a bicycle was for the purpose of healthily rehabilitating my knee at the recomendation of my physiotherapist, as a way to keep safely moving while I couldn’t dance. I’m thankful for what my physio said when I told him that the cycling was helping, in his Irish lilt: Yes, it’s good for the mind. Good to get out of the house.

I’m thankful that when I was a kid I equated exercise of most kinds as a form of humilation, because it involved using my loathed body to achieve some sort of goal which I often failed at because I didn’t like having to prove myself using my physicality. To this day I have a near phobia of team sports: You mean I have to exert myself toward some external goal and I have to disapoint people on my team at the same time?! That is a nightmare to me. I’m thankful that to this day the only types of exercise I can stand are kinds that are deeply uncompetetive (like social dancing, which I think of as one outlet for my creativity) and/or solitary (like solo bike rides, where I don’t have to withstand the opinions of others).

I’m thankful that when I got home I drank some water, hurriedly brushed my teeth, put my hair in a bonnet and immediately went to write this before any desire to do so left me.

I watched people dance and quietly quelled my feelings of mild jealousy as best I could. It was good to be at the beach but it still feels frustrating to not be able to move in the way I want to the most. The sun began to lower in the sky. A busker came by and politely told us he had paid a fee to perform in the place we were dancing, so we moved to the large pier that jutted out into the ocean.

I watched more dancing and did more filming on my phone. A couple's toddler wearing nothing but a nappy and a sun hat joined in as he watched my friends, swaying in his drunken sailor walk. I found AN who had met me at the beach a few hours after I arrived. He was buried in his phone. “Are you focused on something or do you have time to watch the sunset with me?” I asked him.
“Of course I have time,” he replied. He took my hand and we walked closer to the fence to see the sun move. A pair of black swans bobbed on the shallow waves. It was an unexpected sight. I told AN about the myth that swans mate for life. It happens a good amount but it’s not an absolute.

The sun slowly merged with the horizon. We noticed that it seemed to slow the closer it got to disappearing behind the ocean. Oranges, pinks and purples horizontally diffused in the darkening sky. The swans floated side by side. We took a group photo with the rest of our salsa group, trying to get the sunset in the background. There was discussion from the rest of the group about eating fish and chips for dinner, which neither of us fancied having. We walked a few blocks away to have curry and mango lassi for dinner.

After a few years of scant contact with my dad, in August of 2024, my mother rang me to tell me that the house he had been squatting in- the same place I spent a chunk of my twenties and a portion of my adolescence- was now due for demolition. The landlord, who knew our family due to how long we’d been living there, had been overall kind to us in his dealings and paid a final kindness when he saw my dad that day. Leaning, beleaguered, on his Mitsubishi in the driveway, my dad appeared unwell when the landlord drove slowly past to check on the house. He’d informed him of the demolition a while ago and was meant to have vacated, but he was squatting there instead. The house was an old build, possibly the oldest house on the street, and stuck out compared to the other residences. I remember this from when I would go for walks in my neighbourhood. He’d wanted to do a knock down rebuild for a while and was putting it off to convenience us and then my dad. He knew he was computer illiterate, old, somewhat physically feeble, and had an odd (to put it compactly) personality, so would struggle to move.

He rang my mother out of concern, who rang my brother and I.

A while before these phone calls, I visited my dad after he’d sent me a characteristically long and difficult to decipher text essentially asking for help to find a new place to live. I didn’t want him to know my address and he doesn’t have much money, so the cost of petrol to drive the round trip to see me seemed a burden he could avoid. It was easier if I went to his house.

At the time he lived with four other people who he sublet the spare rooms to- a straight couple, and a woman who looked to be in her fifties or sixties. The couple had a young child who looked to be about three. He stared in the way that little kids do when there’s a new stranger around. When I waved to him he shyly hid behind the kitchen counter.

This was the second time I had visited the house since leaving it and it looked slightly better off. The time before that he was living on his own in a four bedroom with a sizeable backyard. It was surprising to us that he’d decided to stay when he could have stood to downsize and saved some money. He lacked the ability to take care of it himself and the filth had piled up. He had been using the beds he wasn’t sleeping on as storage as well as the kitchen table and counters. I had to push stuff around with my feet as I walked around to avoid tripping, and navigate a path through. I could see the build up of dust and grime on various surfaces, which made a small tide of revulsion rise in my stomach. I did not want to sit on his couch. I’d visited that time in an effort to interview him for a personal project I was working on, and I couldn’t bear to speak to him inside. We went into the backyard. When I needed to pee, I chose to squat in the long grass in a secluded part of the large yard instead of using the bathroom.

When I’d asked him my interview questions he started off on his characteristic rambling that swiftly dissolved into near nonsense as he touched on whatever other topics floated into his mind. He rambled, meandered, from topic to topic, essentially monologuing. Sustained intellectual focus seemed difficult to him, so it is in turn difficult to follow his words. I reminded him why I was recording him and what it would be used for- he latched onto what I was saying momentarily, then seemingly disregarded it the moment I finished speaking. This is characteristic of what I know about him, but I still managed to be bothered by it. The thoughts and feelings of others, especially if those others were women and the negative thoughts and feelings were due to his actions, seemed to mostly be amusing to him if not irrelevant. Years ago I recall him loudly commenting on the bum of a female shop assistant as she bent at the waist to retrieve something from a drawer. She, the store manager, whipped around angrily and told him he wasn’t allowed in there anymore. He laughed as though she had told him a funny joke. A nearby shop assistant, a guy around my age at the time, gave him a look. She didn’t get that it’s a joke my dad had said, gesturing to her as though she couldn’t hear them. Hoping for some male camaraderie.
…Well it’s not much of a joke he’d replied, face flat. He shook his head slightly. It gave me a bit of hope, to see a man do that.

When we got back into his car with his purchase of transmission fluid, I let out a stream of swear words at him about what a misogynistic pig I believed he was. Is that so? he said, giggling. I fell into fuming silence. I reminded myself to give up on any hope of betterment at my hand in this arena. You can’t truly change anyone without the assistance of their own will.

But the more recent time at his house some of the clutter had been cleared thanks to what my father referred to as tenants, but my mild clean freak tendencies were still screaming internally at me. The couple and woman were all missing teeth of varied amounts, and the house had a distinctive dirty odour that I’d never smelled before and haven’t experienced since that I can only describe as burnt metal. I learned that dad had found the older woman living under the awning of a Woolworths and the young couple after he’d posted an ad for tenants in a free local newspaper. I learned that not much rent was being paid by the couple, who were also borrowing his car for free. They didn’t fill it up very much either by his account. “Why don’t you try to get the money from them?” I asked. “Did you have them sign some paperwork? You could go down that route,”
“It’s fine. They pay by cleaning the place up and making food” he replied.

When I visited they left fairly swiftly for some errand. I said hello and waved but got no recognition in return. The older lady had a clear dislike for them and carried what appeared to be a screwdriver with a sharpened end in her pocket, then took it in her hand when they passed by her to get to the front door. She told me she had a daughter around my age. She was friendly and smiley to me, visibly shy about her dental situation. She told me she had a daughter about my age who also “dressed all fancy” as I was. I was wearing a white shirt with buttons and black Doc Martens.

I showed him how to download the correct app to look at places to live. I showed him how to use some websites on his laptop, an old Chromebook I used for university that I then gave to him to use after I got an upgrade. I demonstrated each step, then asked him to copy what I’d just done. He seemed confused but told me he understood and was able to slowly copy my actions with prompts. As I walked out the front door, the older tenant followed me. We watched as the young couple piled themselves and their young child into my dads car. They drove off. As they passed us outside their clothes had that same metallic smell. I kept my face still. I lifted my fingers in a little wave to the woman. “Good luck out there” I said as I walked to my car. I was feeling full of the tremulous privilege of avoiding a lifestyle that resulted in missing teeth and living in filth with people who either hated or took advantage of you. I presumed I wouldn’t see any of them ever again, and this remained true for the people that weren’t my father.

We were told he didn’t seem well and this was a considerable understatement. He wasn’t at all, and he and his surroundings looked as expected. He was in the driver's seat of his car. The door was unlocked and I opened it to speak to him. His car was full of what looked like junk to us but we knew he’d see it as valuable because that’s the mentality of hoarders, or of this hoarder. He was unshaven and couldn’t speak. When I opened the door I smelled urine and realised he’d soiled himself.

“Hey dad, it’s me. Can you hear me?” I said, slow and clear. The voice I used for upset children and anxious animals. His pupils were the size of pinheads. His eyes roved over me, mouth opening but unable to form a response. I rang emergency services and waited on the line for a dispatcher to find an ambulance. I scanned over the junk in his car to see if I’d see anything of real value- drivers licence, birth certificate, medication etc. I found some things but they were minimal, buried under what looked like old towels, a large jug of water and an album of photographs.

I hadn’t willingly stepped into the house he used to inhabit for what felt like a long time. Now the place looked very different. It was mostly emptied, prepped for demolition. A small mountain of furniture and so on piled on the nature strip. I wandered around and looked at what I could of the empty house. In the garage my brother found the semi crushed body of a rat. I took a quick walk through the house as the dispatcher located an ambulance for me. The front bedroom windows had been broken and the screen door had been nearly removed from its hinges. The place was empty apart from some small toiletry items in one of the bathrooms. The burnt metallic smell was gone.

The dispatcher asked me to watch his chest very closely when I told her he’d lost consciousness during the call. I pushed past the neighbour who had made his way to his driveway. He’d stopped his motorised wheelchair directly in front of his car door, blocking my view. His concerned silent gawking seemed like a gigantic waste of time and space in the moment. “Tell me each time his chest rises” she’d said, so we can figure out his heart rate. I reached to wipe a bit of vomit off his chin with his jumper.

“Rise. Rise. Rise” I heard myself say. It felt like I’d been saying it for a while before the paramedics arrived, but in truth it couldn’t have been that long.

The paramedics were two calm young women, one of whom asked my brother to help our gangly father into a stretcher. He bent at the knees and pulled his arm over his shoulder and they got him on slowly. The paramedics used the voice that you use with crazy people and kids when they’re distracted and you need them to understand something. They needed to take his top layers off and he couldn’t move so I did it for him, one of the paramedics propping his torso up with the adjustable end of the stretcher. “Does he take anything? Drugs, alcohol?” one of them said, in a practised non judgemental tone.
“No. He’s never done any of that stuff. He doesn’t drink very much either, from what I remember” I said. She nodded silently, busy with loading him onto the equipment.

When he was loaded into the ambulance we heard them charge and then zap him with what I can only describe as medical jumper cables. Another neighbour came into our driveway. “Is he okay?” she asked.
“He’s in an ambulance, so no,” I replied. My brother gave me a look. I wasn’t being helpful. But why would you see someone being loaded into an ambulance and have questions as to whether or not they were okay? The answer is clear.

Before we left to meet the doctors at the hospital we were instructed to search for anything that would give clues to his medication or any ID documents. We emptied the contents of his car onto the driveway in an effort to find things but we found nothing. No license, passport, no bills with his name or address on them.

He was in hospital for around two months. Unconscious for half that time and in ICU for some of it, being watched by an individual nurse. He lost seven kilograms in three weeks due to being on nothing but a drip for that long. His body at first couldn’t expel excess fluid which was a problem, and resulted in his hands and ankles memorably blowing up to the point they looked like hams. He stayed in the hospital until he was in a stable condition. Then he was moved to a facility that works on rehabilitating people in order to gain back some physical mobility and independence. While this was all happening my brother and I were told of his assigned social worker, whose job was to get him housed in appropriate accommodations. She was competent, swift at responding to email, kindly and very clearly not a stranger to these sets of circumstances. We barely had to do any advocating on his part to get him appropriately housed.

In the last phase of his medical treatment he was transported to an outpatient clinic designed for physical rehabilitation. At this stage he had most all of his function returned, minus his existing arthritis and some other relatively minor health issues that occur with age. His main goal was to get moving independently, which he eventually managed to do. The personality I was familiar with never went away.

This whole process- from the ambulance to the permanent housing- cost us zero dollars thanks to Medicare, so I’m thankful for that too.

Before this experience I tended to pay a mild level of attention to homeless people I ran into, but this has since magnified. If I’m carrying some amount of cash and encounter someone unhoused, it’s clear to me that they could use my petty change far better than I ever would because the necessity of it is more urgent in their life than it is mine. No amount of money I give a homeless person is a waste. I think I’ll die believing this.

My dads housing, which is also heavily subsidised, is shared accommodation in a facility with nurses that are qualified to dispense medication and provide personal care. Most of the residents are around his age or older- people with significant disabilities, former addicts etc. It’s located in a suburb not too far away from where I live.

I’ve visited this facility twice. It’s large, quiet and organised. It’s on an unassuming street in a residential area, on a single floor building with a simple layout. From the outside it looks a little like a small medical clinic, but is residential on the inside. Most of the people that live there are quiet and seemingly keep to themselves, although I haven’t visited much. Everyone has their own room and there’s a shared living area. The nurses, who I chatted to briefly, seemed diligent and kind. The place smelled mildly of cleaning products and cigarette smoke from people smoking just outside the rear door. The large backyard area had a simple garden and some outdoor seating. He told me he spent a lot of time sitting out there reading when the weather was nice. Apart from the staff I was the youngest person there by a few decades. I kept getting stared at by the other residents because of this, I think. I stuck out. I don’t think they’re used to getting visitors. We don’t look as if we’re related either.

Once his case was closed with the outpatient clinic the doctor on his case rang me as his next of kin to brief me before officially closing his file. She used the word “remarkable” to describe his recovery from his near death experience. If a person is homeless, that is the most significant health problem they can have.

Toward the end of 2024, I rang my dad on his birthday; my version of a gift. He’d come to enjoy his new home then- the nurses took him out to lunch as they do for each of the residents on their birthday. He’d initially complained of a lack of freedom, but not having to worry about meals, housing and general home upkeep works for him. He’s reportedly treated well, and it’s better than where he was. His story, though, is one among millions. Each person I see sleeping rough now carries a piece of the same narrative, a reminder of the fragility of our given circumstances and the broad systemic failures that leave individuals behind who don’t have the benefit of their own support network.

I’ve been trying to finish writing this for a while, but couldn’t find the right type of end to it. All this happened months ago and I wanted to share it all then. I injured my knee just recently thanks to partying too hard for New Years, so I’ve been on crutches. I can’t go to the beach or dance- I would otherwise be doing a great deal of that around this time of year but now I’m forced to be with my own thoughts either indoors or in my car. I tried taking a walk (hobble?) but it was too laborious for me to get any enjoyment out of it.

Then, after a physiotherapist appointment, I sat in my car in the parking lot of the clinic and couldn’t stop thinking about what the old place looked like now. I drove there just to see it and parked across the street. The front and garage door had been replaced and the front lawn had been mowed. It’s a long term investment property which means a new family is renting it now. I looked up the address online and found the listing and looked at the photos. Since my dad left the place the landlord had finally gotten on with the renovations he had mentioned he’d wanted to do for years. New flooring, new carpet, new counter tops, spruced up outdoor area. The inside looked nearly foreign. I clicked through some more photos and found listing images that were taken when we lived there; I recognised a bread box in the kitchen that my brother made for a school project and the ugly couches we got for free thanks to my mothers job. That got a bigger reaction from me. I didn’t like living there for the most part, but I’m glad another family is getting enjoyment from the same place now.

I’m thankful for the large amount of revision I’ve put together for my students in the hope that they will perform well on the upcoming exam. I’m thankful for a considerately applied deadline.

I’m thankful for hole saws. I’m thankful for even pressure and a rigid forearm.

I’m thankful for more good fragments from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath:

“I am a part of all that I have met.” To you, all, whether or not you know, having wandered into the tissue of my life, and out again, you have left a momentary part of you which I will work into something. There is nothing but that it will suffer a sea change into something rich and strange. Through me transmuted.

[…]

I will stop being a loud-mouthed puppy that falls all over people in a frantic effort to attract them.

[…]

How many silver-plated statues have I erected, only to humanize them as I grew to know their vulnerable frailties –?

I’m thankful that I started learning bachata and because I have done it several times on a social dancefloor the beginner classes feel very easy. I’m thankful that last night, during the assessment, I completed mine quickly then jumped from lead to lead to help with each of theirs. I’m thankful for the rare times I can see that my practice has led to a demonstrated increase in skill.

As for minute joys: as I was saying: do you realize the illicit sensuous delight I get from picking my nose? I always have, ever since I was a child – there are so many subtle variations of sensation. A delicate, pointed-nailed fifth finger can catch under dry scabs and flakes of mucous in the nostril and draw them out to be looked at, crumbled between fingers, and flicked to the floor in minute crusts. Or a heavier, determined forefinger can reach up and smear down-and-out the soft, resilient, elastic greenish-yellow smallish blobs of mucous, roll them round and jelly-like between thumb and fore finger, and spread them on the under surface of a desk or chair where they will harden into organic crusts. How many desks and chairs have I thus secretively befouled since childhood? Or sometimes there will be blood mingled with the mucous: in dry brown scabs, or bright sudden wet red on the finger that scraped too rudely the nasal membranes. God, what a sexual satisfaction! It is absorbing to look with new sudden eyes on the old worn habits: to see a sudden luxurious and pestilential “snot-green sea,” and shiver with the shock of recognition.

I’m thankful for the time today during a spin in a partnered dance where I wobbled a bit as I moved across the pavement and my leads arm quickly shot out to steady me. I’m thankful for shared reflexes and I’m thankful for muscle memory. I’m thankful, in the same vein, for how when you have several dances with someone you learn their style of movement and respond to it with your own. I’m thankful for shared body language. I’m thankful that twice today I had to wait less than three minutes at the platform for the train.

I’m thankful for when your friends bother to gather around in the same room at the same time to play boardgames because that is what you asked for for your bithday (“For my birthday can I please see all of you and can we play boardgmes?”). I’m thankful for the single joint I copefully carried in the off chance that we might share it and I’m thankful that we did. I’m thankful for when Sp laughs; for when babies laugh in general. I’m thankful that I wore my statement earrings that say “DON’T TOUCH ME” which I recieved as a gift about a decade ago now (I’m thankful for enduring loves).

I’m thankful for the long meandering walk I took through various un/derkempt laneways in an continuing effort to explore my new neighbouhood. I’m thankful for good pens.

I left my workshop open during lunchtime sometimes so kids could come in and chill out if they wanted to. No phones allowed. This kid came in and another punk girl/friend of his and we yammered about this album and he noticed I had a Bluetooth speaker. In high school environments these are rare magical machines that are very exciting, and it is especially exciting if your teacher is open to playing music of your choice on it. I suggested listening to it, a slightly rebellious thing for me to do as I was at the time working underneath a boss whom many would refer to as a control freak. She was not on site for the moment so I put I’m Not Right on. When the opening lines of Awake came on we all started nodding slowly and clenching our fists a little and it felt like we had an understanding for a moment.

I’m thankful for when I solve my problems on my own. I’m thankful for overnight conditioner and I’m thankful to have found some pleasure in brushing my hair before bed. I’m thankful for dowels.

I’m thankful that our neighbour has started- somewhat contemptuously- referring to my housemates partner as Top Knot (lol) ever since he mowed the front lawn at 10am once. I’m thankful that in the wake of my impending move the house has been feeling rather full- three humans, three dogs and two cats which I’ve been escaping by reading outside in the dark under a blanket. I’m thankful that last night despite the cold I still did it then (I’m thankful that I’d forgotten I’d read The will to change by bell hooks many years ago and am joyfully rereading it). I’m thankful that top knot came out to the backyard and sat down on the other end of the verandah with a little pipe that I, to my surprise, thought he was using to smoke tobacco like in the olden days. I have a fascination with smoking technology (the first pipes people used to smoke from were made from reeds!) and asked him about it. I realised I’d seen it a million times before- those small cheap popular ones that are rough as guts on the inhale. I’m thankful that he offered me a hit and despite my attempts to smoke less I had a little, more to be polite than anything else.

I’m thankful that we chatted idly for a while. My housemate had come outside too and said to top knot “it’s time for bed!” and we all went inside. I’m thankful to have finally finished White Teeth and I’m thankful for this fragment:

We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greetings cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.

I moved closer. They hadn’t noticed me just yet, and I tried not to swear out loud despite being very surprised. There were five birds in the pile. What was happening was that four were trying to kill a larger five. He struggled under the grip of the four, straining his wings and legs wildly as they stood on him. Legs moving like a dying bug in its last throes. While the four were trying their best to hold him down, every so often one would jump off his body in order to peck and kick savagely at his head, seemingly trying to break his neck. I heard a crunch of bird bones; this seemed to come from his wing. My stomach lurched and I understood that death in our backyard was very possible for this animal.

I moved closer in horror and fascination. They saw and heard me coming. They separated immediately, and the big injured one used the chance to fly up very quickly and somewhat jerkily. The others weren’t too far off, though, and wanted to finish the job. They, relatively unhurt, snatched their victim mid-air and repositioned him in the centre of the backyard. The struggling, kicking, pecking, and screaming started up again. This didn’t faze him, though. He still had a good amount of fight in him, and I wanted to see him free, or at least avoid dying tonight. I followed them, and I was close enough for them to scatter. The attackers didn’t give up yet and instead flew up to the garage roof, waiting for me to leave them be. While this happened, the injured one flew across to the other side of the yard and shot into a tree after hitting the fence, moving off into the distance. The rest, watching this, seemed to give up. They flittered off. My heart was racing a little and my brain played out the sound of bird bone crunching.

I can't exactly explain it, but that’s what trying to stay sober is like sometimes.

I’m thankful for the big park near the chicken place that we wandered around for a while. I’m thankful for tree lined pathways. I’m thankful for the three separate newly wedded couples having photo shoots around the park, taking advantage of the weather while they still can.

I’m thankful for the strawberries I bought to eat with yogurt at work. I’m thankful to be getting better at using my time. I’m thankful for the confused, lyrical and sexy Unmastered. I’m thankful for the fragment: “the hulking monolith of politics gathers around you”.

I’m thankful for the benefits of keeping busy. I’m thankful for when I go for a walk and time it so that the sun sets on the way back. I’m thankful for impromptu phonecalls with people I want to hear from. I’m thankful for effort.

I was listening to a podcast and spaced out, looking at the moon. The clouds made the sky look like fan folded paper, each crease a ripple beginning at its centre. I walked closer to the lake. It was windless and the water was still. I walked to the pier. The ducks huddled under the pier scattered at hearing me move above them. They dispersed into the water, quacking wildly. I felt like a bit of an asshole for ruining their sleep but seeing it made my day feel worth waking up for. The sun still hadn’t risen. Their dark feathered bodies shimmered on the water. By then I’d walked further than I’d planned to but it felt fine as I could hear the next door residential street waking up. Lights turning on, doors creaking.

I stilled for a moment watchin the water, then began walking back to my car. The podcast was reaching it’s conclusion and I was pondering it and still feeling lifted by the ducks on the lake. The sun was about to rise but hadn’t just yet; the faintest orange glow suffused on the otherwise dark horizon. I didn’t notice the older man walking in the opposite direction until he was within arms reach, then immediately jumped and made a noise. I’m an expert at disapearing into my own brain. “Holy shit!” I gasped. “You fucking scared me dude”. We were both wearing all black, which surely didn’t help.
”Oh! Well, good morning” he said, laughing. We were both laughing, then. “I just wanted to say good morning”
I waved my arm in some sort of way. Neither of us stopped. I lost my way on the way back but not for long. I was no longer worried about getting raped and murdered. I know this fear is statistically ridiculous, but part of what builds fear is culture. Culture doesn’t care about stats. By the time I made it back to my car a pair of young women had started walking on the path and it all felt normal again.

I’m thankful that I found my ereader again after losing it for the third time and I’m thankful for cold water and I’m thankful for all the opportunities I have to look at unobstructed sky. I’m thankful for when I connect with students and have an opportunity to make them feel good about something positive they do. I’m thankful for salsa.

I’m thankful for all the technology I got to play with today and I’m thankful for CAD. I’m thankful for the student who knows the tech we work with very well and has become my unofficial teaching assistant.

I’m thankful for the massive amounts of tea I’ve gone through today. I’m thankful for the concept of resilience and I’m thankful that while I usually only ever listen to calm classical music at work in order to get shit done when I’m in the office I needed a Four Tet break. I’m thankful that Two Thousand and Seventeen made me type very fast, somehow, a piece of information that goes against the current data trend of “Mel can’t get work done when she’s listening to anything other than easily ignorable classical music or silence”.

I’m thankful that instead of going to the gym I took a walk before work this morning and even before the sun rose I could see the damage the storm had done on a great deal of trees in the park I went to. I’m thankful that it was dark enough that I tripped and nearly fell over a large branch that had fallen over the footpath. I’m thankful for the cold and the silence that exists in the very early morning, when most people are still asleep. I’m thankful that I found a good spot to watch the sunrise on the way back. I’m thankful that it felt better to take a leisurely walk instead of my usual, even if my usual is better for me in the long run.

I’m thankful for the time this week I walked through a room briefly and heard a female coworker say “Is there a term for when you gaslight yourself?” and I said “Yes. It’s called the effect of patriarchy that works to the point where you don’t even need some man to invalidate your experience because you’ve been taught to do it yourself”. I’m thankful to have done a good amount to earn the reputation of a ranty feminist killjoy.

I’m thankful for the lipstick and compact mirror that says the words “hot dogs for all” that I keep at my desk. I’m thankful for the leftovers from dinner with my mum on the weekend that I’ve been eating this week. I’m thankful for the small dramas that happen between the cats when they play too rough. I’m thankful for my demanding streak.

I’m thankful for the frozen mango pieces I had for dessert with ice cream on the weekend. I’m thankful for more good lines from White Teeth:

... Clara was a teenage girl like any other; the object of her passion was only an accessory to the passion itself, a passion that through its long suppression was now asserting itself with volcanic necessity.

I’m thankful for volcanic necessity. I’m thankful that during the “meeting” today it was just me and another person who was resigning at the end of the week, so we really just shot the breeze for 45 minutes, and she told me about her young child. I’m thankful that it felt nice to connect with an adult at work, which so rarely happens for me. I’m thankful we spoke about literacy levels and the role of public education in adulthood outcomes (when you look at the data on an international level, most people having access to public education is overall a good thing despite the many flaws in the system, and I’m convinced that this uplifting piece of information is what keeps most of us here).

I’m thankful for the big salad I ate for dinner. I’m thankful for the Contemporary American Poultry episode of Community, and I’m thankful for good writing.