Category: Chronicle

A timeline of truth. Every entry, in date order—dreams, memories, moments, and meaning. Track the unfolding, the patterns, the pivots. This is the whole thread, stitched one day at a time.

  • Jimmy | Residual Current

    Jimmy | Residual Current

    I’m asthmatic, I declared.
    The GP raised a brow.
    He tested, then explained,
    “No. You’re having panic attacks.”

    I didn’t understand.
    They came at night,
    when I was relaxed—
    not when I was anxious.
    I was twenty-one when they started.
    They’ve never left.

    Twenty years later,
    I explained to my therapist
    (because we all need therapy, right?).
    I panic after the event—
    shame for what I’ve said,
    what I’ve done.

    And it feels like an electric shock.
    Like being plugged into the mains.
    I gasp—
    just one breath of air.

    “Any family history of electric shock therapy?”
    she asked—casually, curiously.
    “I’m not sure,” I said.
    “I’ll find out.”

    Jimmy was my father’s uncle.
    Twenty-one, just a boy.
    A sailor in the merchant navy,
    on his way home.

    His family wait at the docks.
    But Jimmy doesn’t appear.
    He’s been badly, badly beaten,
    and taken into police care.

    Jimmy never came home.
    He was traumatised by the event—
    admitted to a psychiatric hospital.
    They tried to rehabilitate him,
    but he would always require full care.
    My grandfather couldn’t take him.
    No one could.
    So Jimmy was never released.

    Forty years later,
    my dad found him—
    institutionalised,
    lost in the system for years.

    Jimmy spoke very little,
    and only repeated:
    “You better watch yourself…
    the Newcastle lads,”
    he said when they met.

    I knew little of Jimmy,
    but my sister knew more.
    I asked her:
    “Did Jimmy receive electrotherapy?”
    “Almost certainly,” she said.
    “His records were lost—
    but they said
    he’d had all the top treatment.”

    Then she paused.
    “I never knew what to make of that.”

    I thought long and hard about Jimmy.
    What had he seen?
    What had he done?
    “I think he may have been gay,”
    I said.

    The merchant navy—
    a decoy of the time.

    My aunt,
    a medium,
    said the same
    when she channelled him—
    twenty years ago.


    Marginalia

    Jimmy was institutionalised at the same age I started having panic attacks: twenty-one. They’ve never fully left me, and now I wonder—are they mine, or his?

    When I began using AI in my ancestral research, I learned more about Jimmy through his natal chart. It helped me understand why he may have been institutionalised, and how he might have coped.

    I don’t take everything AI says as gospel, but it gave me a sense of him—and how his experience might echo in my own chart.

    Ancestral trauma wasn’t something I’d ever considered until my therapist asked about it. I never expected astrology or AI to help, but out of curiosity, I uploaded my chart to see if it might offer direction. At the time, I was just trying to make sense of it all.

  • We’re Going to Need a Bigger Boat

    We’re Going to Need a Bigger Boat

    What happens when the storm breaks before the spell does.

    We boarded.
    Turbulence grew —
    typhoon season.
    Nothing new.

    When the screaming
    started,
    I knew to be scared.
    I held back.
    I felt embarrassed
    to ask a stranger
    for his hand.

    What if we didn’t die
    today?

    When we landed,
    we waited
    for hours —
    on someone else’s
    runway.

    Pressure in the cabin.
    Raised, demanding voices.
    The door opened
    and closed.
    The white guy left.
    We remained.

    Finally,
    like refugees,
    we disembarked —
    200 km away.

    Inside
    people were frantic.
    Staff mauled.
    Like a drowning child
    sinking their saviour.

    Our bags,
    dumped
    onto a conveyor.

    The end.

    I didn’t speak
    Chinese.
    I was lost —
    I watched,
    on mute.

    I never lost sight
    of the man who’d sat
    next to me.

    “We’re catching a cab,”
    he said.

    Five perfect strangers —
    only him
    who understood.

    Our final destination:
    just me and him now.
    Flooded, knee-deep.
    Dark, foggy.
    Silence, inside
    and out.
    Only the low hum
    of the engine,
    and the water
    at our doors.

    From the shadows —
    of our haunted river road
    cruise —
    Neptune’s statue
    emerged from the mist.
    I blinked,
    I laughed,
    what the fuck-
    was I dreaming now?

    My hotel was underwater.
    I had no chance
    of getting there.

    Reception wouldn’t send
    a boat.

    We drove on.
    “That’s my apartment,”
    he pointed to the sky.

    “I would invite you,
    but it’s inappropriate.”
    I nodded silently.

    I didn’t feel unsafe.

    The taxi stopped.
    Like an island
    in the middle of
    the sea.
    The driver panicked,
    unfamiliar with the city
    and the terrain.
    Persuading —
    loudly,
    like only a negotiator
    knows how.
    We continued.

    A new hotel, located.
    Safe, dry —
    but not mine.

    “Here is my number,
    if you need anything.”

    I was thankful,
    deep gratitude.
    I had a bath
    to steady my soul.

    The next morning,
    I met
    to negotiate
    a few more cents
    on plastic toys.

    “I didn’t think you’d make it,”
    she said.
    She was hours late
    for the meeting.
    The floods still raged.

    I was on time.

    I was done.


    Marginalia

    This trip was the last negotiation trip I took in my corporate life. When I found out I was pregnant in the airport on the way home, I realised that anything could have happened to me that night and without a signal on my phone, no one would have known any different.

    At the time, I was only focused on my itinerary, which was to essentially haggle for pennies over toys that only cost pennies in the first place. It was only upon reflection did I think ‘what the fuck is this all about’ and decided this wasn’t it anymore.