edenland

How To Tweet a Tweet on Twitter.

2012-01-30T19:59:00.000+11:00

Sound quality is strange because I was filming from twitter.

Things are always strange there.

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We Are All Still Made Of Stars.

2012-01-30T12:07:00.000+11:00

Three different people in the past week have made mention of the bum post I wrote in May last year. I think a lot about the bum that day too, and want to go back and see if he is still there. He won't be, but you never know. If I had been in a cranky mood or had my kids with me, I wouldn't have spoken to him at all. I would have walked straight past.

It reminds me to try and walk the earth with an open heart.

Here's the bum post. (Caution: swearing ahead.)

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On Monday morning I drove two hours down to Sydney, thinking my man bladder could cope. I was wrong. By the time I hit Parramatta Road I was busting. In the Cross City Tunnel I was in agony, and by the time I hit Double Bay I knew I was going to wet my pants.

I haven’t wet my pants for decades, and wondered what it was going to feel like. Flicking the radio off I crouched, gasped, breathing like a mofo, over the steering wheel. Suddenly, some public toilets appeared before me like a beacon of Hope. THANK YOU GOD. Miraculously swinging my car into the car park, getting out and staggering like I was walking over hot coals, not caring who saw. Didn’t even lock my car.

When I finally let go of that wee?

WOW.

Not long into it, a man shouted into the women’s toilets. "Anybody in here?"

“Um, yeah.” He was probably a cleaner. He was definitely in for a long wait. Kingdoms were lost and won in the time it took for me to complete that wee. I remember being a young girl, listening to older ladies do the longest wees and I found it so repulsive.

I am a repulsive older lady. When I finally finished, I came out of the stall and watched in the mirror as I braced myself - for the tyre iron to belt me in the face when “the cleaner” stole my purse.

It didn’t happen! I didn’t piss my pants! Best day ever already.

There was a bum sitting on a bench right next to my car. I walked past, looked at him drinking his Riesling straight from the bottle. I could tell he wanted to say something to me so I kind of stood there, waiting.

“You …” he lolled his head around, shut one eye, then finished. “You are a fucking SLUT!”

Except he didn’t just say SLUT, he said SEEELUT for added effect.

I thought it was the funniest thing. He continued.

“With yer fucken four wheel drive and yer fucken BABEEEEE in it. Fucking. Seeelut.”

I said, "Mate, I don’t have a baby in my car! How you doin’ today, anyway?”
Instantly he changed, and laughed, his face crinkled into a smile. “Hahahaha oh love! I dunno how I’m gonna get home!” I said mate – where do you live? He laughed and pointed a short distance away.

“Just over there! AHAHAHA!!”

We laughed together. It was Rose Bay – something told me he hasn’t shared a laugh with too many people today. He told me he was from Alice Springs. I said I’d never been there, but I’ve heard it’s amazing. He was so drunk he kept talking over me, but desperate for me to talk to him at the same time. I told him it was a beautiful day. I told him – “Mate! You’ve got it bloody good, sittin’ in the sun with your radio, watching the day!”

He looked up at me, fair square in the eyes. “Oh sweetheart. I’m FUCKED.”

I leant over close to him. I had so much compassion – I know exactly where he is, in that Lost and Hopeless place. I spoke directly from my Spirit to his Spirit. “Mate – we’re all fucked!”

And we had the last laugh, together, standing in the ritzy park next to the fancy boats. The bemused hoity toity businessmen and the hot mums with babies steering WAY clear of us.

I finally got to my sister Linda’s house in Bondi, regaling her with stories of wee and alcoholics and Hope. I’ve thought about that beautiful bum ever since.

One day, I hope we all can see that there is no us and them. There is only us.

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Somebody call out to your brother.

2012-01-27T14:09:00.000+11:00

I heard a snippet of this song last week in the car ... some guy was singing about being brothers. I thought of my guys so I shazamed it.

The only Australia Day tradition I have is listening to Triple J's Hottest 100

Yesterday, Matt Corby's "Brother" came in at number three - you can easily see why. This guy is twenty-two years old. The only thing more amazing than the beginning of this version of Brother .. is the end of it. First time I watched it my hands were clasped together, like in holy prayer.

How are some people just so talented? How can I bring up my boys ... those two brothers .. to feel this free?

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Baptism.

2012-01-25T20:54:00.000+11:00

Last week, I took the boys on a long walk down to the slippery rocks. Rocco jumped in puddles the whole way and I didn't rush him once. It took a LONG time.

On the way back, it started to rain. Heavily. We stopped under some trees for a bit, then I thought, who cares if we get wet? It's just water. We strode through the pouring rain, getting soaking wet in seconds. The boys screamed and I laughed.

Max ran up ahead. I was behind Rocco as he stood in the swirling torrents of water in the gutter.

Rocco is three and a half years old. Max is ten.

Back on Max's first birthday, we held a huge naming day ceremony for him, with lots of people. He was christened by a friend using water from the lake. No godparents. There were bushfires that day, and a water-bombing helicopter kept flying overhead and hovering, scooping up water next to us. It was awesome.

I've been so slack when it comes to doing those things with Rocco. Walking behind him in the rain, I had a sudden urge to just baptise him myself.

So I did. I cupped my hands and splashed water all down his head. He didn't even turn around, not even when I said "I christen you Rocco Riley with no middle name. May you live a long and happy life. Just really live it."

Now my boys are both the same.

A Thousand of my Closest Friends.

2012-01-24T22:05:00.000+11:00

Disclaimer: This post covers extremely delicate and sensitive information, including a very traumatic childhood experience. It may trigger some people.

Something really, really bad happened here recently. It was hard to know whether to write about it on my blog or not. When I found about it, I was so ashamed. I felt sick, and cried. Dealt with it as best I could.

I'm ready to write about it.

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I HAD HEAD LICE.

I had really itchy hair one day, needed somebody to check my hair. That's a mark of a true friend, isn't it? "Hey, can you see if I have head lice? Thks."

Luckily, my sister Linda was visiting that same itchy-hair day. I laughed, said mate, I need you to check my hair for nits. She laughed, then checked my hair for nits. Then we both stopped laughing because I had nits. She didn't even want to stay for a cuppa. "Nuh - mate, you've got nits."

I was in filthy, vermin-ridden shock. I actually blustered ... "But - but mate! I had so much to tell you but I can't tell you anything now BECAUSE I'VE GOT NITS."

She kissed her son goodbye. "See ya son. Try not to catch nits from Aunty Eden." She threw me an air kiss and left.

It was late afternoon, the kids were hungry, and the chemist was closed. I walked around the house and thought, what the hell do I do? Stripped my bed for starters. We just don't get nits. I was not prepared.

I had a case of headlice once before, when I was in grade six. I knew I had them. Used to excuse myself from the dinner table and go off into the other room, put my hair upside down to furiously scratch until my scalp was red and throbbing. Then calmly walk back to the table and finish my dinner. I don't know what I thought ... that they would magically go away? The back of my neck was embedded with bites, which my long hair hid.

Finally, we were in the car one day .. to get a haircut. I kind of knew that I should probably say something along the lines of, "Oh, so, I have nits." But thought it just best to stay quiet. I will never forget the horror on the hairdressers face as she came over to start cutting my hair. One look at my head and she actually walked backwards.

Those nits of 1983 caused me to have a whole week off school .... when I finally went back, EVERYBODY knew I had nits and Benjamin Williams had made up a rumour that my nits were so bad that I had to put a paper bag on my head every day to treat them. Fuck you, Ben Williams.

So ... I had no KP-24 hanging around my cupboard, the chemist was shut, and there was a very likely chance that my boys had headlice too. I remembered a rumour I'd once heard .. that hair dye kills headlice. BRILLIANCE. I had a L'Oreal hair dye in my cupboard from a recent blogging event ... THANK GOD FOR BLOGGING. As I was applying the dye, I ran the bath for Rocco. Who decides to climb up onto the wooden frame of the bath, do a nudie run, slip, and go careening off the edge. I saw it happen and just threw the hair dye up into the air where it sprayed everywhere as I ran over to Rocco who was screaming hysterically.

My towel came off so I was naked from the waist down. Just as I was wondering if headlice can live in pubic hair, Max came running in at the sound of the commotion, starts laughing at Rocco who starts screaming at Max and I yell at Max that Rocco almost broke his leg so Max starts crying but tells me to put some clothes on before he flounces off.

Hair dye was dripping from the ceiling. My head was itchy. Tell me you're jealous of my life.

The next day I bought all the paraphernalia. Shampoo, wire comb, a mirror .. the works. I told the chemist lady it was for my daughter. It was weird to be out in society, like, everybody knew. That afternoon, combing the eggs out of my own hair, crying from disgust. Why does headlice exist? Do they serve any purpose? No wonder Buddhist monks shave their heads ... they're never faced with the moral choice of killing headlice.

How utterly revolting are the eggs - and so tricky to miss. You can get every single egg but if you miss just one?

It's the one egg, to rule them all. And it hatches and you start all over again.

For days I sat on the warm wooden boards on the back deck, combing and sifting. In the end, it was kind of soothing. I was a beast. We are born, we get nits, we die.

We're just animals, after all.

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Naked blogging is dead. Long live naked blogging!

2012-01-23T12:02:00.001+11:00

My kids are watching Simpsons re-runs and I just promised them I'd take them somewhere - anywhere, if they'd let me get this written. If I don't write on my blog for more than a few days I get antsy and skittish. A lot of you know that if I don't write here for a few days, there's something wrong. A lot of you know me very well. It's strange and also cool and very weird.

I asked if anybody had any blogging questions .. everyone asked the same thing. "How do you feel about writing personal things on your blog?"

Why does anyone write such personal things onto the internet ... broadcast them for the world to see? The babyboomers are aghast, muttering behind their hands. "Have you SEEN??"

I wrote my first blog post almost five years ago. Under an assumed name, to document my IVF process. Shit happened, man. But the one defining thing for me is that when I very first started writing on the net, it was anonymously. It must have set the tone for my writing. When you're anonymous, you don't care what you say.

I didn't care what I said ... and I had a LOT to say. It wasn't your normal infertility blog, not at all. A few months into my stilted start on the internet, I read about the term "naked blogging." Oh shit. I'll have to delete everything.

See Jonathan Fields post on strip blogging HERE.

I kept writing anyway. When I was a kid my sisters friends used to call me "the shadow." I was meek and weak and let people walk all over me. (Sometimes I imagine travelling back through time to when I was young, punching and headbutting people who would squish me down. The surprise! I wouldn't be scared at all. I used to be so scared.)

Maybe my timid weakness back then is directly proportionate to the roar I have now. To have a voice was kind of empowering and I liked it. I wrote about being pregnant with Rocco in 2007 and 2008, and interspersed it with stories of my past and the shit I'd done. I had maybe a hundred readers. It was fucking cool. Sometimes I'd feel weird and not write, then get an email from some chick in Tennessee who felt weird about emailing me but did it anyway. To tell me she connected with my words so much, and thanked me, and told me to never stop writing. When people tell me their own stories back to me? That they don't have a blog and never will because they're too scared? That's why I keep writing.

I accidentally blogged pieces of flesh and bone into the computer screen. Shards of teeth and cracks of pain. Life is a bullshit seething mass of humanity! It's beautiful!

I blogged through my husbands cancer diagnosis and chemo. How he was a beige turdburger. How pissed off I was that chicks weren't perving on him in the street anymore. How badly I was struggling with a crying baby. How thirsty I was. (Very.)

Instead of shutting my blog down ... I only wrote more, in my real name. Before I wrote the Compelling post, I knew I couldn't write it and publish it. It's in a rulebook somewhere. So I wrote it and published it. Thank you, for commenting on it .. I haven't read the post since I wrote it, but I have read all of the amazing comments.

I may make some people feel uncomfortable when I cut too close to the bone. If my blog was an ecstasy tablet, I'd be peaking right now. If my blog was Eminem's career, I'm right about in the middle of the Recovery album. If my blog was a potters clay, you'd almost be able to see the finished piece but still need to iron and smooth out a lot of the kinks.

If my blog was Bill Hick's standup comedy routine, I'm when he travelled to the UK and branched out and started to realise a lot of shit.

There's a finite number of blog posts left in me. But I'm not done yet.

I joke about it a lot, but I honestly have come too far to turn back now. Even if I did delete it all, it's always going to be there. I lose out on jobs because potential employers google my name. I get odd looks when I pick my kids up from places. I've been hiding from people my entire life, scared and worried about what they think. I'm sick of it. I used to keep my recovery people separate from my school mum people separate from my online people.

Now, everybody knows everything.

I still am the shadow. I only care what two people think of me ... those two people are having a punch-up on the couch right now and Smithers is releasing the hounds.

I know who I am because I wrote it here. The strangest thing.

Do you care what people think? What's your favourite blogging style? And who's your favourite Simpson?

EDITED TO ADD: I do care about what people think. I just don't let what I think they think control my life. And I try to be appropriate in my blog posting. Knowing what's ok to say and what's not is kind of important. I don't like this post at all now and wish I'd written something cute about my kids instead. With pictures, and funny ditties.

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The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.

2012-01-19T21:11:00.000+11:00

artwork by Meek

I believe in small, symbolic revolutionary acts.

Today I was pushing my son in his stroller and saw an old guy coming towards us. I decided to smile at him, you know how the gurus say to smile at a stranger and you both feel good? Well as this dude walked past, I looked at his face, tried to catch his eye but I couldn't catch his eye. Both his eyes were too busy staring at my boobs. It happens ... I'm a female and he has a penis. It startled him when I laughed.

I'll try to lift a strangers spirits again another day. I won't lose hope.

I've stopped numbing myself and started to feel my goddamn pain again. It hurts. It's glorious. I'M ALIVE.

The only thing more important than standing up for yourself is standing up for other people who can't stand up at all. Once I even got arrested for it.

Breaking free from consumerism, attitudes, and expectations is key. Especially routines. Take your kids out for lazy fish and chips at the lake and let them get muddy and stay up late. It's so cool. So not boring.

I turned off the satellite navigation system in my car and was like Luke Skywalker using the force. Took a wrong turn into Chinatown ... it was so vivid and colourful and I vowed to go back for the Chinese New Year Parade next week.

Years ago my counsellor in group therapy listened to me harp on for twenty minutes non-stop. He didn't acknowledge anything that I told him ... just ordered me out into my backyard to plant my feet in the dirt. The whole group laughed and I hated them. It was to teach me to literally get grounded.

It worked.

You either feel the revolution burning in you, or you have a vague unease of something more. It will not be televised, not be televised, not be televised.

Do you want to know a secret? The most revolutionary act you could ever do, in this day and age?

Is tell the truth.

Pass it on.

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Shit: Bloggers say it, toddlers do it.

2012-01-17T17:47:00.000+11:00

At first, I didn't understand why my sister Linda text me a picture of her drinking a delicious coffee from Harry's in Bondi.

... until I noticed the penis.

I love my sisters. We call each other bro, discipline each others kids, laugh the laugh of a thousand maniacs. Last night I cooked them both chicken schnitzel for dinner. We laughed the whole way through, right up until 10.30pm when we tried to take a decent photo of the the three of us together. It was impossible.

I kept them up til midnight before they both flaked ... a personal best. Today we went to the beach. I was standing right on the edge of the water, watching Rocco, turned around .. and saw him under the water. Ripped my skirt off I wailed ROCCO and went running in ... Leigh's like, mate he's right there, he's fine.

I collapsed, shaky and sick with adrenaline. Still with no skirt on.

When we came back, Rocco ended up shitting throughout the entirety of Leigh's house. I tried to back-track and see where ground zero was - like an episode of toddler CSI. It was not possible. There was poo under the dining room table, poo all over the floorboards of my nieces bedroom, smears over both rugs. Trails of poo. Nuggets and turds everywhere. I ran to Leigh, innocently filling up the kiddy pool.

"Mate you will never know what happened after I clean it I promise. Now where is your mop and can I throw out this t-shirt?"

Rocco had made attempts to clean up said poo, and grabbed a shirt of his cousins which was embedded with .... fibres. Seemingly from a horse.

Leigh gagged. On my way to the laundry I accidentally smeared a bit on their bbq cover too. It was like, Hansel and Gretel for scatlovers. The whole house stank. I mopped everywhere with vinegar. I kept apologising.

I'll bring Rocco back for a sleepover when he's five. I love my children but will never get over the shock of cleaning up other human beings bodily fluids. One of the rugs is so bad ... it's sitting out the front of her house, going to the tip tomorrow. I will be buying her a new one.

Vale, Ikea rug.

Halfway through the clean-up I was so enraged, I went outside and leant down to Rocco and almost popped an embolism. "MUMMY DOES NOT LIKE CLEANING UP YOUR POO! PLEASE DO NOT DO THIS AGAIN!" I looked up to see the new French guy right there, Leighs new tenant. She was shaking with laughter. I told her I could not say hello right now and walked off .. to a professional skype call. With poo-fingers.

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I have other sisters too .... my bloggy sisters. Please meet Beth from BabyMac, Nikki from Styling You, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld, Bianca from Bigwords, and Glow from Glowless.

I much prefer saying shit than cleaning it up.

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Compelling.

2012-01-13T23:55:00.002+11:00

"Last year I relapsed after ten years. Wait - Eden, don't say that, it's too much information. What will people think? Write something else - anything else."- My brain, ten minutes ago.

You know what's worse than wanting to kill yourself? Wanting to kill yourself but you know you're not going to. That shit SUCKS, because you know you're trapped here. On earth.

I first tried to kill myself when I was seven years old .. left a suicide note on my bed, climbed inside my cupboard and waited to be suffocated. My sister happened to walk past my bedroom at that time, came in and read the note. She dobbed on me so I got out.

I don't know why I wanted to kill myself at the age of seven. That's a pretty full-on thing. Obviously I had issues. Pick a card, any card.

A few years ago I was sitting late into the night with that same sister, and she said, "Remember you tried to kill yourself that time when you were a kid?" I was shocked that she remembered. I've never forgotten it, all these years .. but to hear somebody else talk of it somehow made it real.

My real dads name was Bill and he was from Glasgow and he had red hair. He played tennis and acted like Roger Moore. My stepfather of eleven years was from Manchester in England. His mother used to keep him and his brother home from school and get them to break into the neighbours houses to steal things. We shared a love for horror films.

They are both dead now, and I have a category in this blog called "dead dads." It's a very flippant category, isn't it? I'm very black and wry, aren't I?

Recently I bumped into a very dear, old family friend in the street. She looked me in the eyes and told me I need to get over my childhood.

I'm trying. It was a trying childhood. My whole life to this point appears to be some kind of series of comedic, large events. My theory is that before I was born, I was up on some cloud going, "Ok ok I got it. Make this next life a DOOZY, like, so many challenges. Let's see if I can remember how to get through them."

Alcoholism/violence/hatred/suicide/addiction/psychwards/rehabs/detox/recovery.

Then? I thought I was home free. I was all settled down, married with my beautiful son and another on the way .. and the moment my husband got those goddamn fucking cancerous tumours in May 2008? Every single bet was off, from every single thing in my entire life. How much can a koala bear? HA.

I went nuts. But pretended I didn't. Until I couldn't pretend anymore and relapsed the relapse of a thousand dead junkies and here I am, back again. The soles of my feet are charred from running out of hell. What does that mean? You wouldn't want to know what that means. I tell you something right now .. the past while has been hard. Like, bad.

I write posts here that are freaky and scary, then I wake up and think you IDIOT why do you keep writing your crazy on the internet? PEOPLE WILL KNOW.

Guess what? There is no internet.

There's no internet, no twitter, no blogging, no infernal facebook. All there really is, is people telling their stories. Like cavemen.

You know what I did today? Took my boys to the public swimming pool, came home, and weeded a whole veggie garden. Then I made fresh coriander pesto chicken pasta. Then Donna Hay pancakes from scratch. I like to bake! I put ice cream on those pancakes and walked out to my back deck. The sky was pink and my ice cream melted and I was deeply ok.

I can do normal things too. I can be just like you.

Lately I feel a strength that has not been there for a long time .. maybe ever. I can be quite hugely powerful, if I give myself the chance. So can you .. you! The people who read here but will never say anything. That's cool. Thank you for the good thoughts ... I felt them. I feel you.

My two sisters know I will be ok and so do I. They tell me they are not worried about me anymore, that when I go dark and deep, it's cool.

It's cool.

I had to give up being a stepmother, for a while. Too hard. I'm married to a man who would die for his kids - all of them. He has a good heart. So do I. Life is messy.

My stepdaughter is the most amazing firecracker of a girl .. she gives me faith in the future. She reads my blog. If I was allowed to blog about her I would write a beautifully-written story about how creative and talented and amazing I really think she is. That watching the solid love between a father and daughter kind of crumbled me, a bit. (A lot.) That it is all my stuff, all mine.

I told myself I do not miss what I never had. It's a lie.

"Get over your childhood Eden." "I'm trying."

This is the post I could not not write. So annoying. It's dedicated to Cherie's people:

"I'm just a tiny little nurse, in a metropolitan city of Australia, who reads your blog to my patients every Friday.

And you mean something to me. And you mean something to my patients. And that matters.

So maybe you have 1 or 2 haters? Meh. You have 9 people who request a dose of Eden over any other drug that's prescribed to them.

Every. Single. Friday. And it's been this way for a long time now :) "

That right there is the power of a "blog."

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To rebuild some semblance of credibility, I will be blogging about blogging for most of next week. Do you have any questions about blogging? Or the fact that these days I do not take drugs ... I AM THE DRUG. (insert lolcat here).

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You have the right to remain ridiculous.

2012-01-11T23:15:00.000+11:00

" ... Wild maverick outcasts like us who cannot be tamed."
- from Happy Feet II

Last week I caught myself lining up some potatoes that had grown shoots so I could choose the one that had the best-looking penis.

And I thought ... really, Eden? You're doing this?

Damn straight. I do ridiculous things all of the time, I have to. To balance out the dark. Poking fun of ourselves and the absurdity of life is a right.

I dance in public, talk to strangers, rap to my stepson and all of his friends until they clear the room, allow myself to look like the biggest tool ever. And I just don't care. It's taken years to get to this point ... you know how you see self-conscious, stricken teens? Remember being so painfully shy that you almost died? From the shy? I will never be like that again. I love being a tool.

The other day as part of Fat Mum Slims January photo challenge, the prompt was "daily routine." I posted this.

It's hard outside for a pimp.

Max took the photo without even batting an eyelid .. he's used to it. My sisters kid Tommy was here, he was looking at me like .. are you serious?

"Um, Aunty Eden? But why?" I told him, just to be silly and to make people smile. He was down with that, and asked if he could have a go of the shaving cream. Then Max asked. I let them, told them one day they will be men, shaving every day. I gave them a few pointers for when they do.

Best mates .. Tommy is older by three months.

One day they will look back and realise their first-ever shaving tips were given to them by a 39-year old woman.

Speaking of which ... today is the 11th. For almost a year now I've done something big or kick-arse or meaningful on the 11th of each month. And I actually stuck with it. When I turn 40 in March I'll recap all of them. (40 HOLD ME.)

This month is dedicated to giving yourself permission to be a complete nutbag. Like, printing these up and sticking them all over town.

These posters were pretty lame. They were just to brighten somebody's day. The next ones I do will be all political and even more culture jammy and make people think. (Seriously though Philip .. put your jazz hand to a phone and call me!)

Lastly, here's a one-minute video of what happens when my ten year old dares me to do something. I'm screaming in abject terror because I was abjectly terrified.

Skin your knees. Nothing makes a goddamn bit of sense and some truths are too heavy to bear ... you may as well have a bit of fun on the way.

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God is a Blogger.

2012-01-09T12:37:00.000+11:00

God has been tapping the keys of her Royal Standard No. 5 typewriter since before they even existed. She's cool like that.

She's a blogger. Each day she writes a new post, sitting perched on the Appalachians, admiring her handiwork as the sun breaks into her sky.

Sometimes she lights a Drum, hand-rolled just like she hand-rolled that one snake to put in Eden, back in the beginning.

There's no such thing as coincidence and she has too many secrets. So she hides them in places we'll never find .. our own hearts. She never wonders how it's all going to end because she's already there.

She writes of love, death, and herself. The three true themes. You can see her font in fields and trainlines, waterfalls, the notes of a symphony, the tightness of a newborns fist.

God is a blogger. Her only inspiration is from the people who've given up all hope but keep going anyway.

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Guess who's back?

2012-01-06T12:01:00.000+11:00

Straight from a bacchanalia festival!

We ate cake and candy canes. My hugs were shrugged off but I kept giving them anyway, then we all went for a drive to get chocolate.

Straight after that photo was taken, a huge punch-up occurred after Max pushed Rocco off the couch and Rocco came back swinging. I shouted and sent them both to their bedrooms. There's six years difference between them, I never actually EXPECTED the fighting. It's the one thing above all that just gets under my skin, so I'm always going in with my whistle calling time-outs, trying to work out who done wrong by who. When they are teenagers I'll be calmly sipping tea and handing them boxing gloves, telling them to take it outside.

Rocco was all ... are you mum or are you Eden? Max was all ... I'm bored, when can I have a sleepover?

And I was all ... my babies that grew in my tummy! *smother*

This morning, Rocco asked to please put Neminem on. I want chicka chicka Slam Shady. So I put it on and he went back into his bedroom, comes out .. I want Not Efren. He rocks out to that for a while .. comes back.

"And now, I want Sorry Mama."

He is three years old. I don't know whether to be appalled or proud of my mad parenting skillz.

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So - my last post. Doozy! I'm slowly replying to everyone who commented .. thank you. I realised from your words that most of the time, the biggest haters live in our own heads. Fuck that.

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The force of what's attacking us.

2012-01-04T22:07:00.000+11:00

"Now let these words be like a switchblade to a haters rib cage
And let it be known that from this day forward ..
I wanna just say thanks cause your hate is what gave me the strength
So let em bic's raise cause I came with 5'9 but I feel like I'm 6'8."

- Eminem "Lighters"

If you are a person who continually and deliberately goes out of your way to make somebody feel bad .. you're an arsehole. Simple as that. I picture you sitting at your computer, opening up your browser, clicking around and spewing your venom out in the dark. Quickly, like a snake.

In 1991, U2 took themselves away to Berlin when the wall was falling, to reinvent and reconstruct themselves. They were hated on by the press, critics and journalists. For being "self-important and insufferable." It was really hard and they almost split up. Self-doubt was huge .. they kept going anyway. Even though all their sounds and songs were wrong and it was freezing and there was no magic.

The breakthrough point came during the first workings of Mysterious Ways. The two extra, unused bridges at the end were used as a whole new song ... One.

It's in our nature to want to create. It feels good. Beautiful meals, poems, a garden, a song ... a blog post. We make something. Sometimes we make something and even share it with other people. Sometimes people respond in kind, a shared humanity opens up, and we feel connected.

Sometimes people take a huge dump on it. People will always do this because people will always be arseholes. I'm not talking about critical thinking or opposing views here .. I'm talking out-and-out vicious and hurtful behaviour. Thing most worrisome about hate websites? The sheer volume of commenters on them. I've been around the net since before Chickenliver came and abruptly left. I've seen attacks, stone-throwing, suicide threats, closed-down blogs. Anonymous twitter accounts trawl the net every day, looking for blogs and people to publicly shame.

I have a thick skin ... manskin. I know that my personal memoir genre of blogging is looked at as pretty strange by members of the general public. But I keep doing it anyway, for lots of reasons.

Know this ... every single word I ever write on my blog, I am accountable for. I've said it and I own it. Nobody can use my own words against me. I wrote them! And I'm being very deliberate when I choose them. I'm not going to stop the anons and haters who try to get in via email and hurt me, especially as they appear to be getting more personal.

I just want to thank you, haters. For feeding me fuel .. making me push past and be ballsier than ever before. How dare I write a website that people read? How dare I be honest and open? Actually, how dare I not? My light burns bright. What am I supposed to do .. run inside my bedroom and hide it under my bed and plug the doors, to not offend people who limply live their lives in their limp jaded houses?

You can gnash your teeth, gnashers, but you can never hate me as much as I hate me. I win at hate - and if I *was* a hater, that's just another thing I would be better at than you. I'd aim for the fuckin' jugular. Your words make me better and stronger than before, and I sincerely thank you.

When the band finally made Achtung Baby and nobody knew yet and they were STILL getting dissed in the press? Bono said:

"Let's use the force of what's attacking us .. to defend ourselves."

And he swaggered out there in his rockstar jeans and fly sunglasses and filthy attitude. To this day, people hate Bono and call him a megalomaniac arsehole. It's hilarious - he's not, and he know's he's not. And now he's past the point of caring. He went back out there but couldn't do it without armor.

"If I was going to expose my heart, I needed the right kind of armor. To protect the rest of me."

My armor is cowboy boots, the Buddha on my back deck, the knowledge that I stay clean in this godforsaken world. And the power I feel in knowing that although I'm nowhere near perfect, I still have integrity.

It's sad to see so many people scared or worried about what people will think or say, if they dare to start creating something. What if you were about to create the next masterpiece? Even just a masterpiece that five people see? Do it despite the haters .. hell, do it to spite the haters.

We need a call of arms to the risk-takers and the seekers of truth. To keep going, past the gnashing naysayers of doom. To look at a blinking cursor and think, "You know what? Imma write my heart today."

Lastly, if you are one of the few people hatin' on me .. and you wake up in the middle of the night with a distinct sense of somebody sitting next to you in bed, don't worry. It's just my psyche, stroking your hair.

OUT.

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Oh. So quiet.

2012-01-03T19:46:00.000+11:00

The past few days at home by myself have been shocking. I've stayed up late, slept in, bumbled around, and done things completely on my own. I'm me again. It's fucking outrageous and I've needed it so much.

When I wake up in the mornings I freak out .. which is nothing unusual, I always freak out. Usually along the lines of "Ah no .. ANOTHER day? Didn't we just have one?" That's just one of my Truths in this lifetime .. I don't like life or the world very much, and have thought about cutting it short many times, but I'd miss the ending. It's like a marathon.

You know what I do like? My sons. I've walked into their bedrooms just to smell their smells. I'm going to be a better mother this year. Last year I dropped the ball. I want to look into their faces often and mean it. Listen to them more, read lots of books, help Max with his maths, teach Rocco how to do everything. (Because that's all he ever wants to do.) No more short-tempered swat them away like flies. Oprah once said the best thing you can give a kid - any kid, doesn't have to be your own .. is to light your face up when they walk into the room.

I need to honour myself, before I can honour my children. Never realised that before.

I just want to be a strivey striver, man. And never stop.

It was so much easier taking the Christmas tree down instead of putting it up. For the first time ever I wrapped the lights around my arm like a lasso and packed them away carefully so they aren't a tangled mess next time. You know, like normal people probably do.

Yesterday I went to a women's recovery meeting and I announced it to be the best meeting I have ever been to in my life. We all shared about being alone, creativity, and giving yourself the space you need in the world. That meeting has saved my life for the past few months.

I felt jiggly and decided to go for a quick walk around the block, so I plugged my ears with Eminem and walked. My neighbours stood at the end of the road talking, and I felt viciously self-conscious. Sometimes I can't talk to people and I don't know why. I turned off early to avoid them and ended up walking all the way to the lake. A few times I even broke out into a run, and after I got my breath back and my stitch subsided, I felt victorious.

That walk ended up being two hours long. I listened to the entire Recovery album, then Eddie Vedder, Adele singing the Cure .. suddenly I HAD to hear Nick Cave's Ship Song immediately. Downloaded it straight from iTunes as I walked past the metal bridge. Because we live in the future now.

It's such a beautiful goddamn song. I cried. I'm lonely. It's not killing me. I'm completely ok.

When I got home I cleared out clutter and crap for hours. Both boys bedrooms are now ready for when they get home. I sculled Red Bull and ate chocolate and watched the new U2 documentary From the Sky Down. I felt like I'd cheated on Bono with Eminem lately, but it's cool. There's enough room in my heart for both of them. Fascinating that Em is only just now realising spiritual shit but Bono has been on that path for ages.

I opened the window near the kitchen sink, to free a trapped black butterfly. It didn't notice that it could just fly off at any time.

When I was in my first rehab I did some family of origin work about the roles we play. Even as adults, we can use survival mechanisms that we don't need anymore. It's like we're soldiers stuck in some Korean jungle, still fighting long after the war is over.

I blew a gentle breeze on that black butterfly, and you know what he did? Swear to God, he flew straight outside and started soaring and divebombing past the window, back and forth. Like an eagle. I think I saw a teeny fistpump, before he flew away.

I cried for a lot of reasons. It's good to notice things again.

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Midnight is where the year begins.

2012-01-01T02:05:00.001+11:00

Two photos of things that got me through the past year:

These boys. Oh my god, these boys. They force me to get honest and grounded and just keep trying.

Mrs Woog and I, blurry and triumphant on the dancefloor at Sparklecorn. Bring on NYC.

Had waaaay too much time on my hands this New Years Eve. Here is the video to prove it. It's quite offensive in parts. Like me.

Happy brave new year. It's gonna be a bloody ripper.

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Behind the scenes of the new Edenland blog header.

2011-12-29T19:32:00.000+11:00

There was way too much change when I was a kid, so I tend to keep using something until it breaks or dies. I've had the same blog header for over three years now .. knew it needed a revamp about two years ago. I thought about it, and decided to just do something small.

So I hired some graffiti artists to come to my house and spray my office wall. Then I organised a photographer to come over and take some shots of me IN my new blog header. Then I got Australia's best blog designers to tweak and perfect it all. I also now have a new commenting system so I can reply back to you personally.

I've sucked at most things in my life but GODDAMN I love my blog.

Too much?

The artists are Andrew and Levi. Their work is featured in the new book "Zero Tolerance: Street Artists of the Blue Mountains" which you can see HERE

The guys are available for work and commissioned pieces .. even canvases shipped to overseas.

One day last year I was standing in my local post office and told the guy behind the counter I had a blog. And felt like an IDIOT .. I don't usually tell people. Suddenly this voice pipes up behind me .. "What's your blog? I have one too." The voice belonged to Mary Canning and we exchanged heavy life histories before we got out of the shop.

By the time we walked down the street, we knew everything about each other and were friends for life. Her blog is Shines Like a Postcard and her photography website is Mary Canning. Not only is she a hugely talented photographer, Mary is a precious Soul with an inquisitive nature and giving heart. When I retreat into myself and don't return her phonecalls she knows it's because I have to shut down to keep going. Because I am a really fucked-up person. Thank God she doesn't take it personally.

Mary I adore you

For years I've tried to find decent designers in Sydney who know their way around a blog. Finally, there is Jarod and Liz Productions

They are married AND awesome. They are patient and clever ... Jarod even photoshopped my stupid lipstick out. Liz blogs at Lizosaurus and loves dinosaurs and cats. Once she said the c-word on her blog. I haven't even said the c-word on my blog.

They both tried so hard to get me to move to Wordpress, but I just wasn't ready for that kind of commitment. I tell myself I'm staying on Blogger because I'm being ironic and making a statement about the nature of success, but really I'm just too terrified. Ree told me to stay on it too. "Just keep doin' what you're doin', honey." It also helps that my esteemed business associate Mrs Woog and I have the phone numbers of some pretty hot Google executives, for whenever we hit a bloggy snag.

Now what the hell did I do all of this for? All of this time and money and energy? I have absolutely no idea. But man it felt good. Fuck reasons.

I'd blog for free every day for the rest of my life. I don't do it for stats or business or money, I do it for something much more valuable than that ... something indefinable. One day I might even work out what that is.

Goodbye, old cartoon header. You served me well!

There were a lot of shots to choose from.

Pre-photoshopped lipstick

This one won. My sister said it's like I have a secret. And I do .. I have a fucking million secrets. My tagline is still the same, because I keep trying to outrun it. I don't like any photo of me anywhere, ever. I look too me-ey. But man I love my wall blog header. I walk into my office now and POW. It's Edenland, right there. I created it .. or it created me. Jury's out having a smoke and watching porn on that one.

Anyway, that's enough of my new blog header. What do YOU think about my new blog header? Or blogs in general? Or secrets? Or porn? I can totally answer you in the comments now.

Think I'm growing up. Shit just got real.

AGAIN.

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Big Strength

2011-12-27T15:43:00.000+11:00

I am staying in the house of a woman whose only child died. How do you get over something like that? My guess is, you never do. Why are we so preoccupied with "getting over" things?

She has stunning artwork and sculptures ... Rocco is in love with the "T-Rex egg" in the backyard. Really hope he doesn't break it.

Love this. It's like two people are countries. At a kissing point, with their own laws and policies and customs.

Even the tree is amazing. It grew out of the earth until something big happened, which made it change course entirely. It went in a completely new direction but the knot in its trunk where it all changed and shifted is probably the strongest part of the whole tree.

I've looked at this picture the most. My heart breaks for a mother who could not save her daughter, as death looks on.

It's a beautiful house, I'm sure the owner is beautiful too. There's grief and strength in every room.

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White Wine in the Sun

2011-12-25T16:39:00.000+11:00

4.03pm. It's a fair to middling Christmas Day, complete with prawns and sunshine and laughter. Everybody is concerned about my drinking except me .. sparkling mineral water and lime all the way. I'm completely fine .. clinked my glass and announced to the full room: "Just letting everyone know that I am completely fine, repeat, I am fine. There is no need to ask me how I am anymore." They all cheered.

Why would I not be ok? I'm ok as I ever was. I'm as fine as I ever was. I'm as fucked as I ever was. I'm exactly the same as everybody else.

I wrote a trivia quiz with seven different categories and fifteen different questions on each one. Funny, dreadful questions that will make my sisters shriek with laughter .. I know for a fact my stepfather will pick the Sports questions, only to find ones about the wives and gossip of famous sportsmen. He will laugh and I'll say Jim come on .. you *know* I hate sports.

Family of origin, although tricky .. remind you of who you are. It's a comforting relief. All of the women in my family have a deep, generational strength. The Taylor clan. We came to Australia as convicts. We get through anything.

My two boys are laughing and eating lollies, shrieking and jumping in the pool with all of their cousins. I've said yes to everything they have asked for today, and probably will again tomorrow. And the day after that.

Quite looking forward to Boxing Day though. Hope you out there are as ok as everybody else too.

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The True Parts.

2011-12-21T23:52:00.000+11:00

I drove straight off those mountains with one mission.

Accomplished.

My sister Linda lives in Bondi and she made me Spanish Chorizo Chicken and wouldn't let me help or clean. She also made me laugh. Our kids played together and I lay on her couch and felt better.

It's been rough, man. And now, let us consolidate that roughness with Christmas! I just today worked out why it's a hard time for so many .. every single Christmas you've ever had in your life gets remembered. Which is equal parts awesome and terrible.

::

On the way down, I made a split-second decision to drive past our old childhood house in Mt Riverview .. we lived there from 1980 to 1987. Usually, we never stayed more than a year or two in a house.

So weird .. like I could just walk inside the front door, slam my school bag down, and forage for food.

We used to spread our beach towels on that driveway and lie there after a swim. The sun would beat down and mould our towels to the concrete panels and we'd laugh and stand up and do it again.

My old bedroom window is right there above the carport. Inside that room, written in black texta on the inside panel of the built-in cupboard is written "EDEN BARRIE WAS HERE."

In cursive.

For so many years I'd look out that window and wonder what would become of my life. Where would I go? Who would I meet? I always swore I'd never forget what it felt like to be a kid.

As we drove off, my son said, "So mum, that house has stayed the EXACT same for 32 years."

I told him yes, and realised that a lot of me has stayed the same as well .. the true parts. Which is not such a bad thing, not at all.

::

"You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last."

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Awake at a Wake.

2011-12-19T12:28:00.000+11:00

Live every day like you've just been to a funeral.

You're at the wake with the curried egg sandwiches going stale on a plate and you're sitting there in shock, seeing the world as it really is instead of how you construct it to be. Reality gets beautifully ripped away and you sit there holding the truth in your hand like some amazing thing.

The truth was there all along. You weren't.

It all slips away .. the pretense and the lies you tell yourself, all the things you think matter so much but they don't and never will. At last count, I've been to twenty-five funerals. Most of them before I hit thirty. That's a lot of dead bodies, a lot of people who can't feel the wind on their face anymore.

You're not dead, why are you waiting?

Live with compassion. Have a sense of urgency in everything you do. Admit how much of a prick you really are - mea culpa, arseholes. Own it all. Stop placing so much value on what other people think of you .. who cares? Kill a pig and skin it and cure the skin and make your own drum. Beat. March.

Wake up. Seriously, wake the fuck up. Because one day you won't and somebody else will be having an epiphany at your funeral and you'll be looking on from the afterlife thinking, dang.

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I told him he could choose one.

2011-12-16T21:55:00.000+11:00

He stood behind me, waiting patiently.

"Mate, I said one TOY. Not one whole box of toys."

The sweetest blue eyes stared at me as he half-hunched over and spoke like Robert De fucking Niro.

"I. Chose. One."

He got none.

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Not a goddamn Christmas post.

2011-12-15T21:54:00.000+11:00

I made the mistake of buying the Christmas chocolate advent calenders on the sixth of December this year .. so on the first day, Rocco got to eat six chocolates.

Try telling a 3yr old why he can't have six advent chocolates every day. He will not understand .. tantrums will ensue and the calenders will lay on top of the fridge gathering dust until Christmas morning when they can eat all the goddamn chocolate they want to.

Max did craft all by himself and came up with these:

I'M SERIOUS. And very proud. They are double Ninja Stars.

I paid him $1 for each one and then made them into Christmas decorations.

I had to put the christmas tree up by myself this year. I put it up by myself every year, but this year it stung hard. I'm the only adult in this house now. But I swear to god, nothing ... and I mean NOTHING, says Christmas more than an oversized santa tie from Hot Dollar.

He has more Christmas spirit than everybody put together.

Every year I say, I'm going to make a gingerbread house from scratch! And never, ever do it.

This year I decided to do it despite myself anyway. Tried to force myself to get all festive and shit. This is what happened.

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Why this two minutes and fifty-three seconds symbolises everything that's right in the world.

2011-12-12T17:07:00.001+11:00

Michael Buble Heckled By Mom - Watch MoreFunny Videos

I love how the mum has clearly had a few wines before she walks up to the stage and asks one of the best singers in the world to please let her son sing. Why? Because she *knows* her son can sing.

I love how Michael Buble humours her at first, and listens. You can see his mind ticking over, flitting between annoyance and then resignation .. and he generously asks the 15-year old boy name Sam to get up onstage and sing with him. He didn't have to do that. He makes Sam feel at ease as the opening part of "Feeling Good" plays.

One of the best parts is just after Michael Buble sings the opening lines, and he relinquishes the mike over to this complete stranger. He's almost cringing, has no idea what this guy will sound like. But he gave him a chance anyway. That's called having blind faith .. in something you're not sure is going to work, but you do it anyway.

Have you watched the video yet? Did you see the few seconds it took for Michael to realise that Sam does indeed have an amazing voice? When Michael pulls away and jumps up and is so excited in his utter glee. That's called "Mudita."

Mudita in Buddhism is vicarious joy .. "the pleasure that comes from delighting in other people's well-being rather than begrudging it." World needs a lot more of that going on, don't you think?

I love how this video was completely unstaged and unscripted. It really happened, like a really real thing. That seems to be getting more rare in this homogenised, careful constructed world nowadays. Sam ended up on talk shows over in England, saying how mortified he was when his mother first went up. But he concedes that she could totally be his manager one day.

It was filmed more than a year ago. I've watched it so many times, and can't contain my heart at Michael Buble not being able to contain his heart. What a beautiful guy.

And that young Sam would be 16 now. He's just a good haircut and a decent shirt away from getting a whole lotta tail.

HOLY SHITBALLS MOM.

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Nathan.

2011-12-11T22:51:00.003+11:00

I found out a few days ago that Nathan's mum had put the call out to his old cronies at rehab.
"She is searching for people who knew Nathan. She wants to know a little about his life, from people he knew ... Eden, I find you to be an inspiration in life itself and was wondering if you could fit him into a blog or write something I could give his mother. She called me today and told me she had asked many people to write something about him and she had no replies. I think it would make her Christmas to hear just a little of your story about him .. to please write a few words to her, reminding her of what her son was like."

I've never met Nathan's mum. We could cross each other in the street and just keep walking, unaware. The thought of her getting no replies utterly kills me. Imagine asking the strangers who were in rehab with your child .. for some memories of them. Anything. Seriously, imagine how hard that would be.

Nathan's mum, Nathan was beautiful.

He wasn't a tall guy, but he had the friendliest and most gorgeous eyes. And a wicked smile. He was funny .. genuine, friendly, and very cheeky. He and I were just mates ... which was rare for me back then. I had a habit of cracking onto every cute boy I saw, and took extra care in the mirror before the meetings at night.

There was such a camaraderie in that place on Waratah Street. Nathan was very popular, because his heart and laughter were infectious. We'd cruise out in groups for coffee, go to the movies, watch videos late into the night on the weekends.

I miss that place, and the people. It's easy to glamourise and romanticise it ... and holy shit the group therapy. The group therapy. We were pummelled and pulled apart. Some of us got it. Some of us were cracked open just enough to let some clarity in like Jules says in Pulp Fiction.

I saw Nathan "get it" for a while. He and I were actually quite similar. We flitted around, in and out. Had a few false starts and spells around the track. We'd see each other in the street, and always stop and say hi. It's like we were Ralph and Sam, taking it in turns. I'd boost him if he was down and out, then a few months later he's boost me. One day I walked into the fruit and veg shop and there he was, proudly carting the palletes around. He'd got his shit together, and for the first time in a long time, so had I. We were just so fucking proud of ourselves.

I walked past that church that time and I don't know why I went in but I did. And there's Nathan and Paul C, playing the guitar and piano together, just jammin' out. Laughing, and having fun. Straight as the Ace of Spades, both of them. How incredible was Nathan's guitar playing! You must have paid for lessons? People often talked about it.

I'll never forget the time in group when Nathan had just been to the dentist. The therapist was questioning him about the painkillers - what did they give him and how much was he taking?

He had a whole pack of Panadeine Forte, and admits that he wasn't in any pain right then. But he'll hold on to the pack because he *might* be in pain later.

She laughed so hard she had tears, told him what classic addict thinking that was and got him to surrender his pack over. (Begrudgingly.) I didn't know why she was laughing. I completely understood why he'd hold onto it. Pre-empting his pain, I guess.

Nathan's mum, there was more pain to come. He struggled with it. I witnessed it. I heard him share at meetings and then he'd go back out and come back in. It's a real unique hell, that kind of struggle. I am so sorry.

I cried hard when Paul C came running into my room to tell me that Nathan had died in his bathroom. Paul C came to visit me in 2001 when my son was born. He bought him his first ever stuffed toy .. a blue and white puppy called Bones. He still has it. Paul died not long after - heart attack from too much coke.

For so many years I kept thinking that I saw Nathan in the street. It was uncanny. Then I'd realise that he was gone, and wouldn't be pushing the fruit palletes or playing that guitar or lifting weights. Or stroking his new baby girls hair. All of those undone things.

I am so, so sorry.

I wish I had more memories for you. I wish I could blow you away with insight and funny things and reasons why. I passed a photo I had of him onto his daughter, he was at his grad and had a white t-shirt on with jeans and he was happy and proud. You can see it in his eyes.

I don't know why some of us make it and some of us don't. My thoughts are with you as you spend another Christmas without him. I can tell you that I'll never stop thinking about him. Or the others who have gone now too.

I'll try my hardest to honour them by staying on the right path myself and living life to its fullest. For all of us.

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The People in Line at the Eminem Concert.

2011-12-09T01:12:00.002+11:00

In the middle of the Eminem concert the other night, the camera caught some blonde riding her boyfriends shoulders and lifting her top up. Eminem's eyebrows shot up. I was jealous of that chick .. her freedom and fun. But mostly, her boobs. They were magnificent - brown nipples, even.

Some chicks get all the luck.

Seeing him live in concert was unreal. Even though the sound was shit .. it was a pleasure just to be breathing the same air as him for awhile. His opener was Won't Back Down. Which set the tone for the whole concert, and I suspect will set the tone for him for quite a few years yet.

"I feel like I'm morphin, into something that's so incredible that I'm dwarfin, all competitors."

Before he came onstage, we read the screens about how he entered rehab in 2005 and then spent the next almost five years as a recluse, not touring.

Finally, after all these years, he's admitted he's a drug addict. OD'd in late 2006 and spent Christmas in hospital then spent the next few years in a depressive slump. Completely fucked up, wishing he was dead, and questioning everything.

He spoke of this, between his songs. His current album is called Recovery - the one before it was Relapse. Rappers are literal, yo.

"Cause sometimes you just feel tired,
Feel weak, and when you feel weak, you feel like you wanna just give up.
But you gotta search within you, you gotta find that inner strength
And just pull that shit out of you and get that motivation to not give up
And not be a quitter, no matter how bad you wanna just fall flat on your face and collapse."

Fascinating to see the change. Instead of an angry peroxided guy in a hockey mask, there was this incredibly mature, talented performer. He twitched his hand, like a freaky genius does. I don't think he has much experience in performing straight, yet. He was shy.

"Ok. I'm guessing all of you out there, you people who come to an Eminem concert ... you're pretty fucked up."

The whole crowd goes nuts. He said that he always used to be fucked up too, but this time he's gonna remember the Australian shows because he's completely sober.

"Ok, let's take a lil trip down memory lane."

Launches into My Name Is, Real Slim Shady, Kill You. He sang snippets of each, the most awesomely fucked-up medley in town. I smelt beer and pot. The whole entire crowd was indeed, entirely fucked up.

As he introduced Not Afraid, he dedicated it to anybody still struggling. Watching him perform this song live after I'd done this with it back in March .. was kind of magic.

I've been thinking about him all week .. aside from being incredibly sad that he's not in Australia anymore. He's in the process of huge metamorphosis. The most interesting and talented people transcend themselves, again and again. He'll be back, for sure. Probably doing something completely unexpected, like touring with a symphony orchestra or something. Now that he's clean .. brilliantly clean, he's going to harness up all of his energy in a completely different way. His entire career so far has been while he's on drugs. Imagine what he's actually capable of!

When he talked to me during the concert, Eminem kept calling me "Sydney." That guy is so romantic! My friend Mrs Woog got a whole heap of people on board and they had #edenandeminem trending on twitter. It was magnificent, because here I am standing there, a straighty-one-eighty feeling all different kinds of emotions in this sea of fucked-up people ... and my friends in the computer made me and Marshall be together. On twitter, at least.

(Eminem has 7.6 million followers on twitter. And he follows NOBODY. Goddamn that beautiful arrogance.)

The people were a mixed bag. Young, old, try-hard, jaded, drunk. It's such a spectacle, to see a big stadium show like that. We're all the little people, there to see this big star. When I stood to exchange my T-shirt because I am never as skinny as what I actually think I am, I looked around at my homies in the merch line. And realised ... we're all just as important as the star we're there to see. We all have a piece of Slim inside. We see in him what's in us. This is why great artists resonate with so many people .. we relate to their truth, their words and their pain.

One of the best parts was right at the end, during the encore chant. I filmed as Em came back on stage and when the strains of Lose Yourself were recognised, 30,000+ people all ejaculated together.

My usually shy, newly ten-year old son fist-pumped the air. Even punctuated it with a few WHOOAAA's. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The music, the moment .. you better never let it go. My heart swelled out it's familiar decade-long swell.

Some chicks get all the luck.

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