#weekenddad

#weekenddad #floridaman #webuiltthiscityonjohnsoncity #winning #comedy #lovewhereyoulive @markviolacomedy (at Mid town Mecca Lounge)

ill write more soon,...

Weekend Parenting- the struggle to remain relevant, responsible, and active. Being a parent is hard as fuck. Yeah, I know, thanks for the newsflash, Bill Cosby… but seriously, just in case you didn’t know, parenting is the most intensely difficult undertaking in humanity. A constant fluctuation between pure ecstatic glee and demonic rage makes for some crazy crazy times in one’s life. There’s the all-embodied fear of your offspring becoming ill, injured, or dare I say it… dying. There are the torrential flourishes of protective behaviour that can presumably be traced back to raw animal instincts. For example; when I’m at the playground with the djarjums and some little snot-bag kid starts acting out against one of my “cubs”, I scan the area for the parent responsible and shoot angry parent lazer-eyes at them like, “IS THIS YOUR KID??! WHAT THE FUCK, MATE??!” Aside from the constant fears and moments of stress-fuelled freak-outery, there are the good times. The greatest times you could imagine. Witnessing the development of your baby’s character, seeing them make friends, teaching them all about the strange world they’ve been poured into, relishing in the amazingly profound little statements they make, “Why are you wearing that cowboy hat, Dad?” - Innes-Djarlo, my almost-four fashion consultant. Okay, sorry guys, I’m Cosby-ing again… The thing is, I only get to experience all these things for a few days per month, because I’m what’s known as “a weekend dad”. Not a term I’m particularly fond of, seeing that I’m always a father, regardless of contact, but I guess I get it. My Kids live roughly 300 KMs away, in a frustrating little sea-side town called Warrnambool (I’m in Melbourne). I grew up there, and subsequently developed a considerable level of disdain for the place, so honestly I feel a bit ripped off that I have to constantly drive there to see the kids. A racist pocket of South-West Victoria with staunch Right-Wing governance and a cripplingly low level of resources for a person who doesn’t want to be a footy playing bricklayer. Speaking from experience here, so please don’t be next person who says something like, “ohhh, but it’s so nice down there. We took the kids to see the whales, they loved it!!”… I beg of you, please stop trying to convince me that it’s a nice place FOR ME. YOU might like it, on a strictly postcard level, but attempting to sell its beauty and comforts to someone like me, is like digging up the corpse of Chopper and telling old mate that the Pentridge apartment complex would be perfect for him. “The juxtaposition of the massive blue-stone walls against the adjoining Coburg Lake makes for such a statement on the triumphs of Melbourne’s civic capabilities, Mark!” I don’t really like Warrnambool, is what I’m saying. Sorry to all my friends and family who still live there, but I have too much angst and doubt about the place. I really hope it continues to develop into a more open-minded place (with better coffee, food, shopping etc. and less violence, drugs, and nasty wankers), for the sake of my kids. Some of the above-mentioned fears come into play when I imagine the troubles they might face with Aboriginal identity, bullying, creative outlets, and substance abuse… all the shit that wrapped me up in a gross little bubble for years. I love being a parent, albeit “weekend”, and I’m not going to let my biased opinions of their home-town get in the way of our relationship, but my car, spirit, and spine are getting damaged from all the driving. Once I arrive, I have to cram in a day or two worth of fathering, which feels pretty shitty. I just hope that I can explain it to them when they eventually ask why I’m not around all the time. Or why I’ve missed so many things. Yes, Skype and other technologies have made my absenteeism far more manageable, compared to what my own Father must’ve endured, but in a perfect world I’d have the kids with me 50/50. Seeing as they’re firmly planted in “Warny” I have a wine gum in an ant’s nest’s chance of that happening. I have to resource constant road-trips if I want to see the kids. It’s a hard pill to swallow. The fact that I need to stay with friends and/or family when I’m in Warrnambool brings me to the next part of the Nightmare… Involuntary Transience- several places I regularly sleep at, none of which are my home. I’m basically the best-dressed drifter in town. I have three regular dwellings, but none of them are my true home. I recently moved out of my Partner’s flat (but am still there half the time anyway), after living there for a while without being on the lease or ever really becoming an official tenant, and am now in more of a domestic-limbo than ever. I’m staying with my dear Aunty (who I call Mum) who has generously allowed me to board in her spare room. I pay rent here, which makes it semi-official, but I’m still waiting to get put on the lease so I can stay here permanently after she and her husband move back to Country for their retirement. I’m grateful for her support, love, and hugs, but I can’t relax here. They’re pretty noisy, and, well, if you know anything about staying with an older Black Woman, you’ll understand when I say that I’ve gotta always be on point! Aunt throws them curveball chores at ya, like she’s just testing whether or not you really love her. Example; the other day I was standing in the lounge, and Aunt was packing her bags for a road-trip up to Shepparton to inspect a house they were buying (sidenote- they bought a lovely little red brick in Maroopna). As she slung her bag over her little shoulder, she said, ‘Now Son. See all them herb plants out the back? The ones in the terracotta pots? I want em planted in the garden-bed under the lounge window, right?” she gives me a kiss and a hug and sets off to become a home-owner. BLESS HER… yeah, I know a bit about gardening, but fair go, Mumma! The third place I regularly stay is at my actual Mother’s house, in Warrnambool. Her and the Old Man (step-Dad but real father figure… keep up, guys) have moved back to (to use a McGowan-ism) The Dirty Old Town to pick up where they left off years ago, before they went and moved to Scotland to play key roles in the establishment of domestic violence services and other amazingly impressive community development achievements that I live in the shadows of. I’m blessed to have been raised by such dynamic people, but possibly cursed by the size of the shoes I’m starting to fill. Gee, digressing much? I was talking about the house. Yeah, the house, another in a long chain of beaten-up and worn-down old places filled with the eclectic bric-a-brac and worldly shit that has inspired me since childhood. My parents have a decorating style reminiscent, if a little more deliberate, of the shoreline following a major shipwreck involving an 18th Century trader-ship and a 20th century luxury yacht. The contrast between multicultural flotsam-n-jetsam and smatterings of lovely, gaudy pieces of urbane trinketry is quite a sight to behold. Oh, a whole bunch of driftwood and seashells really finalises the shipwreck shoreline analogy too. I love it. I love being in the home of my parents. I’m extremely fortunate that they decided to move back there around the time I was agonising over finding places to stay when visiting the kids (mates houses, caravan parks, I even started looking into buying a campervan…). I love that I have an opportunity to combine my Dad times with my parent/grandparent times, but again, it’s not MY home. I still have to stick to the rules laid out by the Matriarch. I still have to be fully communicative and responsible, even more so that I would be normally. Whilst I’m eternally appreciative for all the amazing things all these above-mentioned people have done for me (Lindy: I Love You like a maniacal, over-zealous stunt-man. I can’t wait to see you again. It’s been like three hours and I’m jonesing bad. Aunty Sue: Mumma, you’re the best. Such a generous person. For someone whose life was affected so severely at a young age, you amaze me with your endless empathy and love. Thank you for everything. Roy and Deb: The international power-couple of community development! I love you. Thanks for raising me with a focus on the real world. I know I was a little prick, yes WAS, but it’s worked out pretty good eh?). I do crave for a home. There’s only one place that feels like home right now, and it’s a long way away… H.O.M.E- Humanity’s Oldest Mental Enrichment. I’m at home (H.O.M.E) when I’m on Country; Quandamooka. It’s literally the ONLY time I feel complete. But, the completeness is sullied by the fact that I’ll soon be leaving again. A few times a year, I get to recharge the Spirit. It’s not enough, but that’s part of living in Melbourne. You get the best metropolitan experience on Earth, but if you’re anything like me, you’ve got somewhere else to go all the time. Between Warrnambool, Melbourne, and Stradbroke Island, I’ve got serious separation anxiety. I’m faced by a constant dilemma; stay in Melbourne and have all the modern resources, including a great career, but only see the kids a couple weekends per month, and continue being removed from Culture. Move back to (shudder…gulp…) Warrnambool and see the kids every day, but exist in a lifestyle swamp where my career would be dead, and also continue the Cultural absenteeism. Or, move to Country and be immersed in Spiritual fulfilment every day, but be even further away from the kids with the dead career, and struggle to find a decent coffee or a new pair of Levi’s 510s. Look. I love my life. I know this all sounds like a “poor me” “life sucks” kind of thing, but it’s not. I’m lucky. I know how good I’ve got it. I’m just putting all this out there in the hopes that someone buys me a helicopter, so I can stay living in Melbourne, and just fly to wherever I want in a fraction of the time that my sad little Subaru can manage…

It's RUN AROUND TUESDAY, fools.