Work has stalled, and through necessity comes invention - I've created innovative ways of looking busy in the workplace, even at close quarters. The key is having a question ready at all times.
'Ryan, is that terrorist porn you're...'
"Ah-ha!" I interject, "Just the person I wanted to see. I was wondering about blah blah blah..." (Blah Blah Blah is the name of a community just outside of Wasnt-reelee Doinmuch)
It's not that work has stalled - it is difficult to stop that which you have not started (thank you Isaac Newton). And like the invading armies in Iraq, I just don't seem to be able to make any progress. There are a few projects that we aim to complete here at the Health Board. However, I am just a tool within these projects.
I am the means by which other people accomplish objectives. Someone wants to get a film about smoking put together - I make their intentions a reality. Another wants to document their efforts and approaches to managing mental health in the community - I, like a big hairy camera, capture that and present it to an audience.
For each person's will, I am the way. A role I'm very comfortable with. But at the moment all the 'wills' are either absent or unready, and while I always thought I really liked not doing anything, I've discovered that I really can't stand not-having a project. Usually I would create my own project, but if there's one thing that Maningrida does not need is another Balanda with an agenda. If there were two things Maningrida didn't need, it'd be the Olsen twins.
The one thing that I've learnt about dealing with Aboriginal people is that most people don't get it. We're here to help! - it's the catch-cry of white workforce. Respect is the buzz-word. We claim to be an 'invisible' force that assists an Aboriginal community to operate efficiently in the way that it would feel most comfortable - being respectful of cultural sensibility. This is done by introducing/imposing a process or institution on the community, teaching them 'how it is run', then leaving them (eventually/hopefully) to run it themselves. Welcome to the West, you can do whatever you like here, as long as it's exactly what we say.
It's a cultural insensitivity that is at the very center of our sensibility. We live under a secular government that gives national public holidays for Christian celebrations. 'I know you're Jewish, but what do you mean you don't celebrate Christmas? How does Santa know which house to go to?' It seems we look at Aboriginals and never imagine that what they want might not be exactly what we want - fame, fortune, freedom, success, tax-exemption, a magic carpet and an 18 year old girlfriend. Or even better, an 18 year old carpet and a magic girlfriend. Imagine that, Poncho. Imagine that.
I exaggerate for the sake of summary. In truth, some institutions are actually listening and the people of Maningrida have some sock-pulling-up to do (necessarily, if reluctantly). The fact remains that every idea I have about the ways to communicate through film are biased towards a life's education in Melbourne. And what I'm learning here will be methods of communication effective exclusively in Maningrida - not Aboriginals collectively. And so I am a tool - a filter through which ideas pass and come out in DVD form. Which is good - most things I process come out in the form of shit.
Nonetheless I am creating my own project, in the hope that it can be hijacked by the people of Maningrida and put to work to whatever ends they dare deem. Trying to create an entity that is fleshed-out yet formless. A template that is waiting for someone to fill in the blanks. It's an exciting and challenging endeavor. I'm really enjoying the work, even if I hate the waiting.
It took a while for me to come to terms with the fact that my films would be valueless outside of the community walls - poorly put together, and largely in languages that not even I understand. Still there's a strange satisfaction in the knowledge that I am not the point or the purpose of my profession - in giving up ownership of my work. I just hope it can help to make a little impression on the object of its intent - the Olsen twins. It may take two to tango, but it takes three to build a human pyramid.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
Lessons
Never take candy from strangers - ask if they have any carrot sticks. A simple rule, but pretty much the only one I live by. 128 days since my last abduction. To tell the truth, I feel a little lost when I'm not being abducted. I went to a support group for missing persons, but no one showed up. I consoled myself with seaweed rice-crackers and tabouli, even though I wasn't really sure what 'tabouli' was. Apparently it's Arabic for arse-paste.
The candy rule is one of those universal laws you're taught as a kid. Like don't lick knives in the toaster, don't blow-dry the cat while taking a bath, and try not to 'go on fire'. I'd say pretty safely that none of these fundemental rules have been taught here in Maningrida. The kids seem to do whatever they like, and what they like is screaming indoors, climbing on stuff and throwing rocks at shit. They are not so much misbehaved as they are acting like drunk adults. They should know better.
On the way back from lunch I saw three little boys playing in an old water-filled esky, splashing and laughing. Gone are the days when I could just hang out with a couple of my mates, naked in a small plastic box. Childhood is a time of exploration. But what lies ahead for children who don't have any rules worth breaking? And how well equipped will they be to face a world should they ever find themselves outside the insulated world of the esky?
It makes me wonder what other life-skills they might be missing out on. I'm told (by a close personal friend) that Jennifer Love-Hewitt can't ride a bike. She was an awkward pre-pubescent, like a chicken fillet gone wrong - a breastless skin. Her busy professional childhood denied her what many of us take for granted; poverty. Here in Maningrida bikes seem awfully scarce. Where's the joy in getting testicular cancer if you can't use your super-chemo powers to win the Tour De France?
They're in the middle of building a 25m swimming pool here - that's about twelve and an half meters. The plan is to get Bronze Medallions for 30 locals and have them staff it. Although the town may be right by the seaside, swimming (ie. certain death by crocodile) has never been high on the agenda. The beach is so shallow here, even if you did want to get your nipples wet you'd have to pack a lunch for the wade out. Asking locals to get a bronze medallion is like rounding up a herd of cattle and asking them to sit for a motorcycle licence.
I can't comprehend not being able to swim, but thousands of episodes of Baywatch serve as solid evidence that the affliction is rife. Open seas may be one thing, but how do you drown in a pool unless it's of your own vomit? Isn't the human body naturally boyant? Even unconscious people only drown half the time. Babies know how to swim instinctively - we all know how hard it is to drown one of them. Is swimming like getting an erection; when you think about it too much it becomes really difficult to do? Oh, the shame and stigma.
I've decided to put together a basic survial guide for the young people of today. It'll have all the essentials; don't take candy from strangers, but get your drugs from any scummbag who knows a friend of a friend of a friend; don't run with scissors, but keep your cancer-causing mobile phone close to your genitals at all times; don't sit too close to the TV, just get a bigger fucking telly, you cheap bastard. As for the swimming and the bike riding? Enter them all in a triathalon and let Darwin sort them out.
The candy rule is one of those universal laws you're taught as a kid. Like don't lick knives in the toaster, don't blow-dry the cat while taking a bath, and try not to 'go on fire'. I'd say pretty safely that none of these fundemental rules have been taught here in Maningrida. The kids seem to do whatever they like, and what they like is screaming indoors, climbing on stuff and throwing rocks at shit. They are not so much misbehaved as they are acting like drunk adults. They should know better.
On the way back from lunch I saw three little boys playing in an old water-filled esky, splashing and laughing. Gone are the days when I could just hang out with a couple of my mates, naked in a small plastic box. Childhood is a time of exploration. But what lies ahead for children who don't have any rules worth breaking? And how well equipped will they be to face a world should they ever find themselves outside the insulated world of the esky?
It makes me wonder what other life-skills they might be missing out on. I'm told (by a close personal friend) that Jennifer Love-Hewitt can't ride a bike. She was an awkward pre-pubescent, like a chicken fillet gone wrong - a breastless skin. Her busy professional childhood denied her what many of us take for granted; poverty. Here in Maningrida bikes seem awfully scarce. Where's the joy in getting testicular cancer if you can't use your super-chemo powers to win the Tour De France?
They're in the middle of building a 25m swimming pool here - that's about twelve and an half meters. The plan is to get Bronze Medallions for 30 locals and have them staff it. Although the town may be right by the seaside, swimming (ie. certain death by crocodile) has never been high on the agenda. The beach is so shallow here, even if you did want to get your nipples wet you'd have to pack a lunch for the wade out. Asking locals to get a bronze medallion is like rounding up a herd of cattle and asking them to sit for a motorcycle licence.
I can't comprehend not being able to swim, but thousands of episodes of Baywatch serve as solid evidence that the affliction is rife. Open seas may be one thing, but how do you drown in a pool unless it's of your own vomit? Isn't the human body naturally boyant? Even unconscious people only drown half the time. Babies know how to swim instinctively - we all know how hard it is to drown one of them. Is swimming like getting an erection; when you think about it too much it becomes really difficult to do? Oh, the shame and stigma.
I've decided to put together a basic survial guide for the young people of today. It'll have all the essentials; don't take candy from strangers, but get your drugs from any scummbag who knows a friend of a friend of a friend; don't run with scissors, but keep your cancer-causing mobile phone close to your genitals at all times; don't sit too close to the TV, just get a bigger fucking telly, you cheap bastard. As for the swimming and the bike riding? Enter them all in a triathalon and let Darwin sort them out.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Recalibrated
It's happening again. In Adelaide it was a cockroach called Bernard. This time I've started having conversations with a grasshopper that lives in my kitchen. Her name is Lois. Usually I'd talk to my self, but I've been starting to piss me off lately, so I'm giving myself the silent treatment. The stupid thing is I don't even know what I'm mad at me for. Still, I'm determined to make myself stew until I figure it out. I don't mind the silence, I just miss the sex.
Lois started it. Polite 'hello's on the way to the laundry. Some chit-chat about the weather.
'So... hot today, isn't it.'
"Yes, Lois. It's always hot."
'You don't have to bite my head off! That's praying mantises!''
"Why do we always fight?" The relationship developed quickly - like a pre-pubescent full of chicken hormones. There was a time when I thought there might be something between us. Now we're 'just good friends'. She's off every night with that fucking gecko from Accounts. Smarmy little sticky-footed prick - I can hear him laughing at me. He's just using her as an appetizer.
I tried feeding her for a while, but I found I have no idea what grasshoppers eat. I still haven't worked it out exactly, but I know it's not fillet miniogn - there's $23 I'll never see again. She is fond of Hokkien noodles - perhaps the kung fu connection is stronger than I thought. She doesn't like that I'm smoking again. She says I'm ruining my health. I guess that shit is more important when you're lifespan can be anticipated on one page of a calendar.
Smoking is a strange thing. It's said that no matter how long you quit for, you never stop wanting one. For me the triggers were always simple - drinking and watching people smoke on telly. Pour me a beer and pass the sparkie. It's like coffee and newspapers, peanut-butter and bacon, milkshakes and spraypaint - born to be together. However, lately I've been finding I've been having an odd association. It's all because of that disgusting mouth-cancer warning sticker. Now, every time I see someone with a horrible disfiguring mouth-cancer, I'm literally salivating for a cigarette. It's all Pavlovian and shit - and not in a good meringue-y way. It's interesting how quickly the mind can adapt.
It's 10 o'clock and the excitement from Thursday late-night shopping is yet to simmer down. Dogs are fighting wildly in the distance and the headlights of the night-patrol vehicle cut a swathe through the blackness out the back verandah. I've turned the fan off - the constantly moving air has started to give me a headache. And for the first time in ages there is silence. Dogs barking, people yelling, distant doof - it's all like white noise now. I've re-calibrated my senses. This is silence. For future reference; stinky is the new scentless, I engage with the world through my seeing-eye dog, and I've replaced my entire sense of touch with a bowl of packet-made soup.
Fuck it. I've gotta turn that fan back on. I'm sweating like a junkie in a sauna. But apart from that, everything up here is like normal life. The alienness has evaporated. My life here is fun, comfortable and normal. Now I can spend my days talking to my only friend the grasshopper, until one day I wake up to find her dead on the kitchen bench being eaten by ants... what? what? why are you looking at me?
Lois started it. Polite 'hello's on the way to the laundry. Some chit-chat about the weather.
'So... hot today, isn't it.'
"Yes, Lois. It's always hot."
'You don't have to bite my head off! That's praying mantises!''
"Why do we always fight?" The relationship developed quickly - like a pre-pubescent full of chicken hormones. There was a time when I thought there might be something between us. Now we're 'just good friends'. She's off every night with that fucking gecko from Accounts. Smarmy little sticky-footed prick - I can hear him laughing at me. He's just using her as an appetizer.
I tried feeding her for a while, but I found I have no idea what grasshoppers eat. I still haven't worked it out exactly, but I know it's not fillet miniogn - there's $23 I'll never see again. She is fond of Hokkien noodles - perhaps the kung fu connection is stronger than I thought. She doesn't like that I'm smoking again. She says I'm ruining my health. I guess that shit is more important when you're lifespan can be anticipated on one page of a calendar.
Smoking is a strange thing. It's said that no matter how long you quit for, you never stop wanting one. For me the triggers were always simple - drinking and watching people smoke on telly. Pour me a beer and pass the sparkie. It's like coffee and newspapers, peanut-butter and bacon, milkshakes and spraypaint - born to be together. However, lately I've been finding I've been having an odd association. It's all because of that disgusting mouth-cancer warning sticker. Now, every time I see someone with a horrible disfiguring mouth-cancer, I'm literally salivating for a cigarette. It's all Pavlovian and shit - and not in a good meringue-y way. It's interesting how quickly the mind can adapt.
It's 10 o'clock and the excitement from Thursday late-night shopping is yet to simmer down. Dogs are fighting wildly in the distance and the headlights of the night-patrol vehicle cut a swathe through the blackness out the back verandah. I've turned the fan off - the constantly moving air has started to give me a headache. And for the first time in ages there is silence. Dogs barking, people yelling, distant doof - it's all like white noise now. I've re-calibrated my senses. This is silence. For future reference; stinky is the new scentless, I engage with the world through my seeing-eye dog, and I've replaced my entire sense of touch with a bowl of packet-made soup.
Fuck it. I've gotta turn that fan back on. I'm sweating like a junkie in a sauna. But apart from that, everything up here is like normal life. The alienness has evaporated. My life here is fun, comfortable and normal. Now I can spend my days talking to my only friend the grasshopper, until one day I wake up to find her dead on the kitchen bench being eaten by ants... what? what? why are you looking at me?
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Future
When we were 18 me and the boys went to Schoolies Week. We had t-shirts printed up that said 'SECURITY' and spent the rest of the week walking around looking unconvincing. Good times.
Months later I was hanging-out with a girl I was sleeping with - I happened to be wearing the t-shirt. 'Hmph! Security?!' she scoffed, 'you might as well be wearing a t-shirt that says 'COMMITMENT'!' Much has changed since then. For one that girl learnt to keep her smart mouth shut. To this day no one has found the body.
In all honesty not that much has changed. For a second there I had a little crisis and thought I'd better start looking to settle down. But that passed like a nation at a Republic referendum - hastily, without thought or discussion. No, no. Think of the future? That's not for me. That should be left for paranoid schizophrenics, over-bearing parents and paleontologists.
The only time I ever considered a 5 year plan, I'd been arrested for possession with intent to traffic. Luckily, when I got to court, the judge kept calling me Chuck, gave me a balloon and sent me down the shops for cigarettes... and they say the system doesn't work.
I bring this up because for the first time (this month) I'm wondering exactly what the future will bring. Will I really send my kids to school on jetpacks? Will DVD give way to 'BrainFilms' administered directly into the eye with a paintball gun? Will religious tensions bring down society like an epileptic fitting at a game of Pick Up Sticks?
If I come back here next year (as it appears I may) will it mean that I'll be celebrating my 25th birthday while on a return visit to my parents house? Living with my parents at 25?! Isn't that like a litmus test for serial killers, paedophiles and bloggers? I'm not that guy, am I?
My name is Ryan Coffey. My hobbies include sitting around in my undies, eating a sandwich. (I was going to say 'eating a sandwich in my undies' but that conjures pictures. Hairy, salty pictures.) Usually I sleep with just a sheet over me, but sometimes I like to use a blanket, but leave the fan on low. I use mouthwash even though I don't like the taste. One time, on the weekend, I got a call from a market researcher and I happily provided her all the information she required.
What a confession. I feel like I should present myself to a police station for chemical castration. Or just whack one of my nuts flat on the counter with a rolling pin. Just one. I want the other one to watch - make him squirm for a while, eventually he'll talk. Then I'd have a talking nut. That'd be something, wouldn't it? Alas, my gormless existence.
Don't fret for me. This listlessness will pass, like my future so far has already. I guess I just wish I had married that girl when I was 18. She was funny. I like that. There's no laughing about a smashed nut.
Months later I was hanging-out with a girl I was sleeping with - I happened to be wearing the t-shirt. 'Hmph! Security?!' she scoffed, 'you might as well be wearing a t-shirt that says 'COMMITMENT'!' Much has changed since then. For one that girl learnt to keep her smart mouth shut. To this day no one has found the body.
In all honesty not that much has changed. For a second there I had a little crisis and thought I'd better start looking to settle down. But that passed like a nation at a Republic referendum - hastily, without thought or discussion. No, no. Think of the future? That's not for me. That should be left for paranoid schizophrenics, over-bearing parents and paleontologists.
The only time I ever considered a 5 year plan, I'd been arrested for possession with intent to traffic. Luckily, when I got to court, the judge kept calling me Chuck, gave me a balloon and sent me down the shops for cigarettes... and they say the system doesn't work.
I bring this up because for the first time (this month) I'm wondering exactly what the future will bring. Will I really send my kids to school on jetpacks? Will DVD give way to 'BrainFilms' administered directly into the eye with a paintball gun? Will religious tensions bring down society like an epileptic fitting at a game of Pick Up Sticks?
If I come back here next year (as it appears I may) will it mean that I'll be celebrating my 25th birthday while on a return visit to my parents house? Living with my parents at 25?! Isn't that like a litmus test for serial killers, paedophiles and bloggers? I'm not that guy, am I?
My name is Ryan Coffey. My hobbies include sitting around in my undies, eating a sandwich. (I was going to say 'eating a sandwich in my undies' but that conjures pictures. Hairy, salty pictures.) Usually I sleep with just a sheet over me, but sometimes I like to use a blanket, but leave the fan on low. I use mouthwash even though I don't like the taste. One time, on the weekend, I got a call from a market researcher and I happily provided her all the information she required.
What a confession. I feel like I should present myself to a police station for chemical castration. Or just whack one of my nuts flat on the counter with a rolling pin. Just one. I want the other one to watch - make him squirm for a while, eventually he'll talk. Then I'd have a talking nut. That'd be something, wouldn't it? Alas, my gormless existence.
Don't fret for me. This listlessness will pass, like my future so far has already. I guess I just wish I had married that girl when I was 18. She was funny. I like that. There's no laughing about a smashed nut.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Permission
The day has come. It almost took me by surprise. I had forgotten about the wondrous possibilities of life. A new world has opened to me. It is a day for smelling the roses, shaking hands with babies, and self-congratulatory flagellation. I am now the proud owner of a Maningrida Alcohol Permit.
Each fortnight I am now entitled to have shipped in to the community a dozen bottles of wine or 2 slabs of mid-strength beer. It doesn't sound like much, but I've done the math. It's about five cans a night. Apparently having more than six on any given night of the week is considered unhealthy consumption, but those kind of statistics are put out by the government and they've been wrong before. Like the war. If a tree falls in the forest, let it fucking lie, boys. Let it lie. Mixing metaphors there. That'll throw a spanner at the bird in the bush... I wonder if Kath and Kim are looking for writers. I'm unimaginative and trite.
Permits are only allocated to people who have been here three months or more. Even then you have to spend another three months relegated to reduced-alcohol beer to prove you're not going to be a menace to society - more importantly, to society's road signs and witches hats; irresistible to the intoxicated collector. If had been given 10 bucks in place of every piece of traffic paraphernalia I'd picked up drunk, the roads would be a much safer place.
The odd thing is I'm not really sure if I want an alcohol permit. I'm not taking any moral highground, saying that I'll deny my access to booze on account of the many Aboriginal people who aren't allowed the same privilege. Phil took that route. Gave up after a month. Then his application got lost in the processes. He's been dry for six months. Bless his well-intentioned heart. Luckily I have no such valor.
I'm just not sure if I want all that beer in my house - have no doubt, I'll drink it whether I want it or not. I've always said that I'm not an alcoholic, just extremely susceptible to suggestion. While I've always thought strippers a little sleazy and a bit of a turn-off, if a mate walked me in to a strip club and said 'this one's on me' I can not be held responsible for what ever solicited acts that may occur in my lap. I mean, what good is a beer in the fridge?
I'll take it though. It's mid-strength - what damage could I possibly do with it? There'll only be three deliveries before I head back to Melbourne anyway. Six slabs - a drop in the ocean. The ocean of slabs. *salivates heavily*
The real issue is this place - this lifestyle - lends itself heavily to addictive behavior. Plenty of fuck-all to do and beer in the fridge - doesn't take a genius to work that out. A simple abacus would suffice. Substance abuse is a big issue in the community (and kinda the entire reason I'm getting paid to be here). It's like any community - this size, this remote - it's all about drugs, grog, teen pregnancy, poor education, boredom and suicide. The six stalwarts of rural living. Chuck in some country music and you've got yourself a fucking B and S ball!
There's only one option. I'll buy a cowboy hat, grow a moustache, pull on a wifebeater and get the fuck on with it. Luckily, after a dozen mid-strengths I'll probably still be sober enough to stay on the mechanical bull at the barn dance. The chicks'll be all over me... now where do I stick the $20?
Each fortnight I am now entitled to have shipped in to the community a dozen bottles of wine or 2 slabs of mid-strength beer. It doesn't sound like much, but I've done the math. It's about five cans a night. Apparently having more than six on any given night of the week is considered unhealthy consumption, but those kind of statistics are put out by the government and they've been wrong before. Like the war. If a tree falls in the forest, let it fucking lie, boys. Let it lie. Mixing metaphors there. That'll throw a spanner at the bird in the bush... I wonder if Kath and Kim are looking for writers. I'm unimaginative and trite.
Permits are only allocated to people who have been here three months or more. Even then you have to spend another three months relegated to reduced-alcohol beer to prove you're not going to be a menace to society - more importantly, to society's road signs and witches hats; irresistible to the intoxicated collector. If had been given 10 bucks in place of every piece of traffic paraphernalia I'd picked up drunk, the roads would be a much safer place.
The odd thing is I'm not really sure if I want an alcohol permit. I'm not taking any moral highground, saying that I'll deny my access to booze on account of the many Aboriginal people who aren't allowed the same privilege. Phil took that route. Gave up after a month. Then his application got lost in the processes. He's been dry for six months. Bless his well-intentioned heart. Luckily I have no such valor.
I'm just not sure if I want all that beer in my house - have no doubt, I'll drink it whether I want it or not. I've always said that I'm not an alcoholic, just extremely susceptible to suggestion. While I've always thought strippers a little sleazy and a bit of a turn-off, if a mate walked me in to a strip club and said 'this one's on me' I can not be held responsible for what ever solicited acts that may occur in my lap. I mean, what good is a beer in the fridge?
I'll take it though. It's mid-strength - what damage could I possibly do with it? There'll only be three deliveries before I head back to Melbourne anyway. Six slabs - a drop in the ocean. The ocean of slabs. *salivates heavily*
The real issue is this place - this lifestyle - lends itself heavily to addictive behavior. Plenty of fuck-all to do and beer in the fridge - doesn't take a genius to work that out. A simple abacus would suffice. Substance abuse is a big issue in the community (and kinda the entire reason I'm getting paid to be here). It's like any community - this size, this remote - it's all about drugs, grog, teen pregnancy, poor education, boredom and suicide. The six stalwarts of rural living. Chuck in some country music and you've got yourself a fucking B and S ball!
There's only one option. I'll buy a cowboy hat, grow a moustache, pull on a wifebeater and get the fuck on with it. Luckily, after a dozen mid-strengths I'll probably still be sober enough to stay on the mechanical bull at the barn dance. The chicks'll be all over me... now where do I stick the $20?
Monday, October 23, 2006
Tower
It's the classic story...
... boy finds tower...
...boy climbs tower...
...boy takes photo of road into town...
(see those two anntenae? That's town.)
(bare patch on far right is airport)
...and of the space between Maningrida and Darwin...
(a whole lot of fuck all out there... unles you like trees and shit)
...boy gets bored... takes photo of himself...
(unwittingly making his blog no better than any other dipshit)
... boy watches sunset...
...commits NT photographic cliche...
... tale as old as time...
... boy finds tower...
...boy climbs tower...
...boy takes photo of road into town...
(see those two anntenae? That's town.)
(bare patch on far right is airport)
...and of the space between Maningrida and Darwin...
(a whole lot of fuck all out there... unles you like trees and shit)
...boy gets bored... takes photo of himself...
(unwittingly making his blog no better than any other dipshit)
... boy watches sunset...
...commits NT photographic cliche...
... tale as old as time...
Chlamydia
Suddenly I'm back in London. The crowded basement dining-room of a cheap hostel - stuffy and fluorescently lit - is seething with foreign languages and sexual tension. I'm feeling lethargic from my diet of carbohydrates and cigarettes. I don't really remember the last time I took a shit.
Someone tries to talk to me. I try subversively to make it obvious I'm not a fun person to talk to - I'm either too subtle or irrepressibly charismatic. One can't help but suspect the latter. The conversation reads like a bad play that gives away all its plot twists in the first act. A group has formed. A plan is made. We all end up drunk and I realise my first impressions were uncharacteristically shortsighted - these people are bigger dicks than my paltry imagination ventured. I wonder, for the fourth time today, 'what the fuck am I doing here?'
Maningrida is still hot and the evenings are still long. Never being one to shy away from new things the laptop has made its maiden voyage to the toilet with me. It's a test of endurance - butt vs. batteries. The light is awful, the fan is too loud and the unmistakable yet mystifying odour of catfood hangs thick in the air. Still, its an opportunity to take advantage of time spent sitting down, and it was too much trouble to drag the piano in. Some might have hygienic concerns - I don't. It's not my laptop.
On hygiene, the dirt up here is really dirty - who'da thunk? It's said, if you get enough of it in your blood stream it can give you all kinds of diseases... and dirty blood. I'm not a doctor - technically my qualifications are not recognised in this country - and I'm not sure if you can actually contract anything from eating dirt, but Chlamydia was a sand-garnish I've heard mentioned that caught my attention. Chlamydia is a bitch. Half the time you'll never know you have it and it almost always leaves you completely sterile. Not that I'll have to worry, my plums will shrivel up and drop off from neglect long before then. 'Call it; time of death, October 06...'
Chlamydia has always been battling with Gonorrhoea for the title of 'Coolest Name' of all STDs. It's a tough match up. They're equally fun to say and hard to spell. And the idea that you can get this little 'thumb-twister' (what's a better epithet for things that are hard to spell?) just from walking on the ground is kinda scary. There's dirt on everything. It's dusty as a dead woman's diaphragm around here. The slightest breeze leaves a layer of silt on every surface. I heard a story of a cat curling up for a nap one windy day - 3 hours later it was a fossil. A lesser writer would have used an exclamation mark.
Filth is an inescapable reality of community life. Dust gets in everything. The sand is so fine you can actually use it to lubricate a car engine - a very cool sounding yet inexplicable falsehood. Pertinently, every spare foot of earth is also covered in rubbish. Wrappers, paper, cigarette butts, broken toys and shattered dreams. *stares into the middle-distance as a single tear rolls down cheek*
I've heard Balandas lament, 'I always thought that Aboriginals were more connected to the land than us, but then you see them just throw rubbish on the ground.' I'd argue that even the most diligent environmentalists would struggle to compete with the roaming packs of dogs that scavenge through the bins on a nightly basis. Besides - without wanting to offer this as an 'excuse' - I'm not exactly sure that the streets of Maningrida are the 'land' that any traditional owners feel connected to.
The Council here is working on the issue. I'm sure they have initiatives or some such bureaucratic bullshit in 'action'. It'd be nice to get the place cleaned up, but that's far from the root of the community's problems. Overcrowding seems to be a central issue. Maningrida has a housing backlog that would take up an entire year's Aboriginal Housing budget to fulfill.
An average of 17 people (average! - who's the lesser writer now?) live in the sheds that pass for houses here. That produces a lot of rubbish, which causes sickness, which causes crowding as families are called on to care for each other, which spreads sickness, which cause more crowding, which causes more rubbish, which keeps those fucking dogs alive. I've oversimplified to the point of stupidity here, but you can see how so many well-intentioned people can arrive at a community and stumble - 'Where the fuck can you start?'
I like Maningrida. Though it's dirty, stuff and fluorescently lit, it's a place where life happens. People just go about whateverthefuck it is they do. Happiness, sadness, grief, laughter, worry, hope - all the problems and politics of just being a person. Not half of the bullshit that reality is often buried under elsewhere. I've never once asked myself, 'what the fuck am I doing here?' Nor should I. I probably had more chance of contracting chlamydia in a hostel in London.
Someone tries to talk to me. I try subversively to make it obvious I'm not a fun person to talk to - I'm either too subtle or irrepressibly charismatic. One can't help but suspect the latter. The conversation reads like a bad play that gives away all its plot twists in the first act. A group has formed. A plan is made. We all end up drunk and I realise my first impressions were uncharacteristically shortsighted - these people are bigger dicks than my paltry imagination ventured. I wonder, for the fourth time today, 'what the fuck am I doing here?'
Maningrida is still hot and the evenings are still long. Never being one to shy away from new things the laptop has made its maiden voyage to the toilet with me. It's a test of endurance - butt vs. batteries. The light is awful, the fan is too loud and the unmistakable yet mystifying odour of catfood hangs thick in the air. Still, its an opportunity to take advantage of time spent sitting down, and it was too much trouble to drag the piano in. Some might have hygienic concerns - I don't. It's not my laptop.
On hygiene, the dirt up here is really dirty - who'da thunk? It's said, if you get enough of it in your blood stream it can give you all kinds of diseases... and dirty blood. I'm not a doctor - technically my qualifications are not recognised in this country - and I'm not sure if you can actually contract anything from eating dirt, but Chlamydia was a sand-garnish I've heard mentioned that caught my attention. Chlamydia is a bitch. Half the time you'll never know you have it and it almost always leaves you completely sterile. Not that I'll have to worry, my plums will shrivel up and drop off from neglect long before then. 'Call it; time of death, October 06...'
Chlamydia has always been battling with Gonorrhoea for the title of 'Coolest Name' of all STDs. It's a tough match up. They're equally fun to say and hard to spell. And the idea that you can get this little 'thumb-twister' (what's a better epithet for things that are hard to spell?) just from walking on the ground is kinda scary. There's dirt on everything. It's dusty as a dead woman's diaphragm around here. The slightest breeze leaves a layer of silt on every surface. I heard a story of a cat curling up for a nap one windy day - 3 hours later it was a fossil. A lesser writer would have used an exclamation mark.
Filth is an inescapable reality of community life. Dust gets in everything. The sand is so fine you can actually use it to lubricate a car engine - a very cool sounding yet inexplicable falsehood. Pertinently, every spare foot of earth is also covered in rubbish. Wrappers, paper, cigarette butts, broken toys and shattered dreams. *stares into the middle-distance as a single tear rolls down cheek*
I've heard Balandas lament, 'I always thought that Aboriginals were more connected to the land than us, but then you see them just throw rubbish on the ground.' I'd argue that even the most diligent environmentalists would struggle to compete with the roaming packs of dogs that scavenge through the bins on a nightly basis. Besides - without wanting to offer this as an 'excuse' - I'm not exactly sure that the streets of Maningrida are the 'land' that any traditional owners feel connected to.
The Council here is working on the issue. I'm sure they have initiatives or some such bureaucratic bullshit in 'action'. It'd be nice to get the place cleaned up, but that's far from the root of the community's problems. Overcrowding seems to be a central issue. Maningrida has a housing backlog that would take up an entire year's Aboriginal Housing budget to fulfill.
An average of 17 people (average! - who's the lesser writer now?) live in the sheds that pass for houses here. That produces a lot of rubbish, which causes sickness, which causes crowding as families are called on to care for each other, which spreads sickness, which cause more crowding, which causes more rubbish, which keeps those fucking dogs alive. I've oversimplified to the point of stupidity here, but you can see how so many well-intentioned people can arrive at a community and stumble - 'Where the fuck can you start?'
I like Maningrida. Though it's dirty, stuff and fluorescently lit, it's a place where life happens. People just go about whateverthefuck it is they do. Happiness, sadness, grief, laughter, worry, hope - all the problems and politics of just being a person. Not half of the bullshit that reality is often buried under elsewhere. I've never once asked myself, 'what the fuck am I doing here?' Nor should I. I probably had more chance of contracting chlamydia in a hostel in London.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Here Now, There Then
Cameras don't show you what you see - they show you what's actually there. The amount of light, the sense of space, the colours. Everything is interpreted by your brain like a Rorschach inkblot - it sees what it wants to see. That's why practically no one likes to see themselves in photos. Pictures hold the truth, and the truth is we're all uglier, fatter and more drunk than we believe ourselves to be.
I looked at the photos I sent out only to realise that I don't actually identify with that place at all. That isn't where I live. That place looks bleak and barren. Remote and inescapable. Dirty and boring. Ok, it is a little dirty, but no dirtier than your average Japanese school-girl. And, yes, it can be boring, but no more boring than your garden-variety stripper. "I must say, racy they may be, those gnomes really brighten up the yard - all the time raising the value of our property!"
I wake up to the kiss of a slow orange sunrise. The air is still cool and wet from the star smattered night. Red, green, blue - the colours of the dirt, trees and sky are painted on deep and thick in the long light of morning. And every single day as I climb aboard that crusty 4WD, or feel the first film of sand between my toes as I drag my dawdling thongs to work, a smile breaks involuntarily across my face. Broad and bemused. "Faaark. I'm really living here!"
There's barely a spot in Maningrida where you can’t see the ocean if you stick your head around the nearest house. It's a brilliant and tantilising turquoise. Distant shores whisper words of untouched beaches and tropical plantlife through a shimmering chiffon of rising heat. So flat and vast an horizon it seems you can see the curve of the earth itself. The beach planes away so subtly you could walk out in to the sea for miles before getting your shorts wet. The cruel irony being you'd much sooner lose your bird-burley to a crocodile than to shrink-dink. (You heard it here first folks - bird-burley! Orderly line, ladies. Orderly line.)
The sky. Oh, sweet fuck, the sky. Blue. Blue. A blue that goes on forever in every direction. The sun smiles out of it and warms your face in that way that makes you softly shut your eyes and tilt your head gently to it. You can feel your body rouse as it sinks into your skin, then is feathered away by cool ocean breezes. Hot sun, soft wind. The tease and the torture.
Photographs, to their lament, have borders. A shot is framed - four walls to each window. Maningrida doesn't have that. I don't walk to work through a viewfinder. This town, this land, this life is all around me. Infinite space in all directions, and with it opportunity, adventure and freedom. I hear they're also building an Ikea here next Autumn... so that should be good too... if you like, um... if you like Ikeas...
In a big city you can get ahead of yourself. With walls and blocks and barriers you can very rarely see where you need to be. Oft times in your mind, you'll already be at the meeting you're running late for, making over-rehearsed excuses and apologies. With space comes perspective. Of all the many places you can see, by miles or meters, you are only in one place. Here. Right here. Even if you can see where you need to be - it's over there. You're here. Leave there 'til then. There's here now. Only here now... so when will then be now?
Soon...
I looked at the photos I sent out only to realise that I don't actually identify with that place at all. That isn't where I live. That place looks bleak and barren. Remote and inescapable. Dirty and boring. Ok, it is a little dirty, but no dirtier than your average Japanese school-girl. And, yes, it can be boring, but no more boring than your garden-variety stripper. "I must say, racy they may be, those gnomes really brighten up the yard - all the time raising the value of our property!"
I wake up to the kiss of a slow orange sunrise. The air is still cool and wet from the star smattered night. Red, green, blue - the colours of the dirt, trees and sky are painted on deep and thick in the long light of morning. And every single day as I climb aboard that crusty 4WD, or feel the first film of sand between my toes as I drag my dawdling thongs to work, a smile breaks involuntarily across my face. Broad and bemused. "Faaark. I'm really living here!"
There's barely a spot in Maningrida where you can’t see the ocean if you stick your head around the nearest house. It's a brilliant and tantilising turquoise. Distant shores whisper words of untouched beaches and tropical plantlife through a shimmering chiffon of rising heat. So flat and vast an horizon it seems you can see the curve of the earth itself. The beach planes away so subtly you could walk out in to the sea for miles before getting your shorts wet. The cruel irony being you'd much sooner lose your bird-burley to a crocodile than to shrink-dink. (You heard it here first folks - bird-burley! Orderly line, ladies. Orderly line.)
The sky. Oh, sweet fuck, the sky. Blue. Blue. A blue that goes on forever in every direction. The sun smiles out of it and warms your face in that way that makes you softly shut your eyes and tilt your head gently to it. You can feel your body rouse as it sinks into your skin, then is feathered away by cool ocean breezes. Hot sun, soft wind. The tease and the torture.
Photographs, to their lament, have borders. A shot is framed - four walls to each window. Maningrida doesn't have that. I don't walk to work through a viewfinder. This town, this land, this life is all around me. Infinite space in all directions, and with it opportunity, adventure and freedom. I hear they're also building an Ikea here next Autumn... so that should be good too... if you like, um... if you like Ikeas...
In a big city you can get ahead of yourself. With walls and blocks and barriers you can very rarely see where you need to be. Oft times in your mind, you'll already be at the meeting you're running late for, making over-rehearsed excuses and apologies. With space comes perspective. Of all the many places you can see, by miles or meters, you are only in one place. Here. Right here. Even if you can see where you need to be - it's over there. You're here. Leave there 'til then. There's here now. Only here now... so when will then be now?
Soon...
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Cyborgs
A friend wrote -
"...my head seems to be spinning like a 18th century carouselle as i approach the end of yet another degree in something.
"I'm charging up and down corridors, hefting large boards inscribed with ritualistic markings up numerous flights of stairs, asserting my masculinity as i bang large nails into clean freshly painted white walls.
"Im even writing an extensive essay on humans manufacturing their own bodies to become more compatible with our now highly sophisticated machinery ("posthuman development"). In effect we will all be semi-organic cyborgs by 2100.
"This seems so far removed from the images you sent the other day, and i almost envy that. All that uncluttered space to think outside the heavily mediated simulation of the city machine..."
I replied -
You write so colourfully. To think that you're such a dullard in conversation. Ha.
Maningrida is a strange town. It's one of the biggest Aboriginal communities in all Arnhem Land. While there may be vastness and quiet beyond it's limits, every being and thing within its walls strives for the machismo of the city machine. Bureaucracy, broadband and bottom lines. That's what it's all about...
Growth. It's what we're selling here. Everyone is buying it in massive quanitites. If posthuman development was available it would be on the cards. It's a desperate game of catch-up... Catch-up to what? The claustrophbic clutter you've described? Must we all ride this donkey to the darkest depths of democracy?
These places are not so different, you know - Maningrida and Melbourne. The cogs of commotion are always turning. You can choose to get caught up in them as much or as little as you like. The machine is only ever a distraction.
Look at us. You long for pause, I long for perks. At the end of the day, doesn't everybody just want to take the time to plonk down on their arse, ungarded, and be allowed a beer?
"...my head seems to be spinning like a 18th century carouselle as i approach the end of yet another degree in something.
"I'm charging up and down corridors, hefting large boards inscribed with ritualistic markings up numerous flights of stairs, asserting my masculinity as i bang large nails into clean freshly painted white walls.
"Im even writing an extensive essay on humans manufacturing their own bodies to become more compatible with our now highly sophisticated machinery ("posthuman development"). In effect we will all be semi-organic cyborgs by 2100.
"This seems so far removed from the images you sent the other day, and i almost envy that. All that uncluttered space to think outside the heavily mediated simulation of the city machine..."
I replied -
You write so colourfully. To think that you're such a dullard in conversation. Ha.
Maningrida is a strange town. It's one of the biggest Aboriginal communities in all Arnhem Land. While there may be vastness and quiet beyond it's limits, every being and thing within its walls strives for the machismo of the city machine. Bureaucracy, broadband and bottom lines. That's what it's all about...
Growth. It's what we're selling here. Everyone is buying it in massive quanitites. If posthuman development was available it would be on the cards. It's a desperate game of catch-up... Catch-up to what? The claustrophbic clutter you've described? Must we all ride this donkey to the darkest depths of democracy?
These places are not so different, you know - Maningrida and Melbourne. The cogs of commotion are always turning. You can choose to get caught up in them as much or as little as you like. The machine is only ever a distraction.
Look at us. You long for pause, I long for perks. At the end of the day, doesn't everybody just want to take the time to plonk down on their arse, ungarded, and be allowed a beer?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
My Street
"... I love the smell of lipbalm in the morning..."
I just discovered that the camera I'm using also takes tiny, low resolution stills. Bonus.
I took these test shots on my street...
The houses you can see are all nice ones built for white people...
I'll try to get a few shots that capture the real colour, movement, rubbish, dogs, dirt, ash, smiles and waterwastage that are Maningrida...
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Historylessness
I was going to say anonymity but that’s not exactly it. People know my name they just don’t have an assumption about what goes with it. People judge me by what I’ve done in the last month – and only that. They’re not expecting me to procrastinate, get drunk and break shit. It’s this kind of historylessness that we white folk go and spend a year ‘overseas’ to discover. But it’s difficult to ‘find yourself’ when the purpose of your travel is procrastination, getting drunk and breaking shit.
Moving day. I was in charge of clearing out all the accumulated shit in the old house. Disused entertainment units, rusted bikes and painful memories. The metaphoric shit was easy to move, but the other stuff would take a few trips to the tip. The tip is a few Ks out of town. Not so much a landfill, as it is the place where they pile shit up and set it on fire – like a Nazi book-burning, only less anti-Semitic. And without books and Nazis.
It’s been a month now I’ve been up here and a lot has changed. The walls of a small community are closing in on me – in good ways and bad. The initial feeling of being alien and isolated has dissipated. I rarely walk from one place to the next now without someone calling my name and waving. I know all the streets now, where every one lives, having added ‘taxi driver’ to my many-feathered hat. People have even stopped pointing and laughing when I wear that ridiculous hat to work.
The shop is just the shop now, not a cultural experience. Locals are no longer delicate toadstools to tiptoe around, just another thing to push past on the way to the merchants of that sweet sweet tobacco. Dogs have stopped smelling my fear – I’ve masked it in urine. And the heat is just the norm – it’s the gusts of the 24-25’s that really make me shiver.
It was from the back of my Hilux, hurling shit on to an even bigger pile of shit - the flies in my eyes, sweat on my brow, sun on my back – that it really hit me. This is where I am. I live in a place where the sky is always blue, the dirt is red, and the sun is round and yellowish. And this person – a man (note: MAN) in a wifebeater and aviators, 7 day growth and a tan-line from his thongs, labouring on the back of a ute – is the person that I am when I’m here.
I’m the guy to be left with the heavy lifting. I’m the guy who’s handy with tools. The guy to strap the cargo to the top of the troop-carrier. I’m the guy who can assemble a barbeque. I’m the guy who carries a knife and is good with knots. A guy who knows how things work and how to fix them. An energetic and enthusiastic guy. A competent and creative chef. A helpful, attentive and well-organised guy. A problem solver. An exerciser. One extremely good looking guy… but that, you already knew.
With the tray cleared I fish-tailed all the way back down the dirt road home (thinking of you Brocky, thinking of you). It’s not often you get a chance to fang about in really light, but very powerful vehicles on roads that don’t have speed restrictions. Boys will be boys… and for once I felt like that adage actually applied to me. I wondered why I had to wait for historylessness to feel it.
I’ve often felt trapped by people’s expectations. Trying to break free, in this way and that – a trip here, a change there, the predictability of being unpredictable. It never works. I’d always end up falling back into old habits. Sometimes just to live up to the expectations I was trying to shirk.
Albert was right. Here, on this land, you can see a long way. I can already see my historylessness receding into the distance, as I take on new expectations from brand spanking ‘others’. It’s a vicious cycle. So what do I do about it? Just amble on into the future and hope that, one day, the expectations of those around you will catch up? Frankly; this day, with this sun, this dirt, and this sweat – I couldn’t give a shit.
Moving day. I was in charge of clearing out all the accumulated shit in the old house. Disused entertainment units, rusted bikes and painful memories. The metaphoric shit was easy to move, but the other stuff would take a few trips to the tip. The tip is a few Ks out of town. Not so much a landfill, as it is the place where they pile shit up and set it on fire – like a Nazi book-burning, only less anti-Semitic. And without books and Nazis.
It’s been a month now I’ve been up here and a lot has changed. The walls of a small community are closing in on me – in good ways and bad. The initial feeling of being alien and isolated has dissipated. I rarely walk from one place to the next now without someone calling my name and waving. I know all the streets now, where every one lives, having added ‘taxi driver’ to my many-feathered hat. People have even stopped pointing and laughing when I wear that ridiculous hat to work.
The shop is just the shop now, not a cultural experience. Locals are no longer delicate toadstools to tiptoe around, just another thing to push past on the way to the merchants of that sweet sweet tobacco. Dogs have stopped smelling my fear – I’ve masked it in urine. And the heat is just the norm – it’s the gusts of the 24-25’s that really make me shiver.
It was from the back of my Hilux, hurling shit on to an even bigger pile of shit - the flies in my eyes, sweat on my brow, sun on my back – that it really hit me. This is where I am. I live in a place where the sky is always blue, the dirt is red, and the sun is round and yellowish. And this person – a man (note: MAN) in a wifebeater and aviators, 7 day growth and a tan-line from his thongs, labouring on the back of a ute – is the person that I am when I’m here.
I’m the guy to be left with the heavy lifting. I’m the guy who’s handy with tools. The guy to strap the cargo to the top of the troop-carrier. I’m the guy who can assemble a barbeque. I’m the guy who carries a knife and is good with knots. A guy who knows how things work and how to fix them. An energetic and enthusiastic guy. A competent and creative chef. A helpful, attentive and well-organised guy. A problem solver. An exerciser. One extremely good looking guy… but that, you already knew.
With the tray cleared I fish-tailed all the way back down the dirt road home (thinking of you Brocky, thinking of you). It’s not often you get a chance to fang about in really light, but very powerful vehicles on roads that don’t have speed restrictions. Boys will be boys… and for once I felt like that adage actually applied to me. I wondered why I had to wait for historylessness to feel it.
I’ve often felt trapped by people’s expectations. Trying to break free, in this way and that – a trip here, a change there, the predictability of being unpredictable. It never works. I’d always end up falling back into old habits. Sometimes just to live up to the expectations I was trying to shirk.
Albert was right. Here, on this land, you can see a long way. I can already see my historylessness receding into the distance, as I take on new expectations from brand spanking ‘others’. It’s a vicious cycle. So what do I do about it? Just amble on into the future and hope that, one day, the expectations of those around you will catch up? Frankly; this day, with this sun, this dirt, and this sweat – I couldn’t give a shit.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Madness
Under the desk I was deftly remedying the problems with the server. An age old process of rebooting, beating the casing repeatedly and administering terse profanities. Midway through a cluster of ‘mutherfuckers’ a woman snagged the corner of my eye. ‘Hello.’ I offered in polite passing, assuming she’d just go on with whateverthefuck it was she’d come to do. She nearly did. Then she stopped suddenly and turned back to me, muttering something completely unintelligible. ‘I’m sorry?’ I pulled my head out from under the desk. Her eyes widened and her gaze intensified. She spoke. Softly and assuredly, “I’m not the mad one.”
‘Umm… ok!?’
If ever there was a litmus test for insanity she’d just gone from red to blue so fast that the paper caught fire, igniting the vapours from a leaky Bunsen burner valve, creating an explosion that took out an entire wing of a research facility, including a group of Nobel Laureate scientists trying to decide on which subjects to test a cure for Mouse Cancer – the quiet, squeaky killer.
Overly long analogy short – she was a nutbag. The very real and obvious kind. One that wouldn’t look out of place singing to an empty packet of crisps and stringing another pigeon ear to her necklace. I started to wonder what kind of help she was actually getting. This place has councillors and social workers flitting about but is there anyone with the capacity to prescribe some serious anti-psychotics… I could really use a fix.
I never know quite how to respond to nutters, and the treatment thereof. Sure, they seem to be odd, unbalanced and smell slightly of urine, but really they’re just exploring their minds in different ways. What’s more, everything cool that you read about quantum physics, enlightenment and spiritual ascension seem to pivot on that exact kind of exploration. The fruitcakes of the world attempt to dip their toes in this exciting Psychotopia in a way that psychotropic drugs can only faintly imitate. Yet we hold them back – sedating them with pharmaceuticals, rehabilitative therapy and American television.
What gets me is that I never actually feel that far removed from the shores of La La Land. Pretty much everyone I’ve ever admired has been insane. Practically every great thinker, writer, leader and musician has been completely bonkers – even if it was just the syphilis talking. Be that schizophrenia, bi-polar or a little good old fashioned depression – madness is the muse of genius.
Even my close friends. Those who haven’t been clinically diagnosed with something at some stage easily could have been. Even I’ve been at the point where I’ve toyed with the idea of getting professional help. But, like most people, I’ve largely self-diagnosed and prescribed heavy bouts of drinking, bitterness and pharmaceuticals *cough*. It’s the way it’s been done for centuries.
Staring into the eyes of that crazy lady this morning, I kinda smiled on the inside and thought to myself, ‘Thank (insert deity), I’m not the mad one’. Then wondered, if I had have said the same thing out loud, would she be thinking all these same thoughts about me? I figured she wouldn’t, and went about beating and swearing at the computer.
‘Umm… ok!?’
If ever there was a litmus test for insanity she’d just gone from red to blue so fast that the paper caught fire, igniting the vapours from a leaky Bunsen burner valve, creating an explosion that took out an entire wing of a research facility, including a group of Nobel Laureate scientists trying to decide on which subjects to test a cure for Mouse Cancer – the quiet, squeaky killer.
Overly long analogy short – she was a nutbag. The very real and obvious kind. One that wouldn’t look out of place singing to an empty packet of crisps and stringing another pigeon ear to her necklace. I started to wonder what kind of help she was actually getting. This place has councillors and social workers flitting about but is there anyone with the capacity to prescribe some serious anti-psychotics… I could really use a fix.
I never know quite how to respond to nutters, and the treatment thereof. Sure, they seem to be odd, unbalanced and smell slightly of urine, but really they’re just exploring their minds in different ways. What’s more, everything cool that you read about quantum physics, enlightenment and spiritual ascension seem to pivot on that exact kind of exploration. The fruitcakes of the world attempt to dip their toes in this exciting Psychotopia in a way that psychotropic drugs can only faintly imitate. Yet we hold them back – sedating them with pharmaceuticals, rehabilitative therapy and American television.
What gets me is that I never actually feel that far removed from the shores of La La Land. Pretty much everyone I’ve ever admired has been insane. Practically every great thinker, writer, leader and musician has been completely bonkers – even if it was just the syphilis talking. Be that schizophrenia, bi-polar or a little good old fashioned depression – madness is the muse of genius.
Even my close friends. Those who haven’t been clinically diagnosed with something at some stage easily could have been. Even I’ve been at the point where I’ve toyed with the idea of getting professional help. But, like most people, I’ve largely self-diagnosed and prescribed heavy bouts of drinking, bitterness and pharmaceuticals *cough*. It’s the way it’s been done for centuries.
Staring into the eyes of that crazy lady this morning, I kinda smiled on the inside and thought to myself, ‘Thank (insert deity), I’m not the mad one’. Then wondered, if I had have said the same thing out loud, would she be thinking all these same thoughts about me? I figured she wouldn’t, and went about beating and swearing at the computer.
Green/Red
I’ve spent the morning walking back and forth to the fridge, waiting for something manifest – food, entertainment, death, whatever. The results have been disappointing. For relevant quotes Google the Rolling Stones and their work on the topic of feeling satiated. There’s no one in town. Some ceremony thing has drawn them out in droves. Or drove them out in their drawers. Hard to tell.
The peace and quiet seemed like a perfect opportunity for my neighbour to take another run at his Peal Jam albums – relive that ear-ringing period of his life when he thought he was still young enough to listen to cool music. In support, a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos have sidled up to the palm trees in the house opposite. Ahh, the stamped cats of the sky. I’ve never had one, but I’m pretty sure I know what an aneurism feels like.
Everyone was trying to get in on the act. So much so that I heard something that I hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Woop!’ the police siren blasted through the thick hot air. There was no emergency or crime in progress. I think they just like to break it out once a month to see if it still works. They’re more like family court mediators than police officers. ‘Sort it out amongst yourselves. I’m just here to make sure no one gets stabbed.’
I’ve been trying to spend as much time as possible in the sun. I’m trying to get a tan or skin cancer, because let’s face it; I’d rather be dead than pallid and pasty like some godforsaken ginger. I’m having difficulty at present trying to tan the skin on my legs between my knees and my balls. Luckily that area is only about an inch and an half. Skin elasticity is a fragile thing, kids. Preserve it. One or two more party tricks and I’ll be kicking my man-marbles along the sidewalk like a tin can. A tin can with my balls in it.
But it’s embarrassing to be so pale while all these Aboriginals prance about with their beautiful, velvety black skin. The kids that float around my office have become fascinated with me. ‘Look! Green! Green!’ they squeal, pointing and prodding at my arm veins. I’m the translucent man to them. A sideshow freak. A bearded lady. An openly gay Republican. So I took my pocket knife and pinned one kids hand to the table. ‘Look!’ Red! Red!’ … the office has been quieter ever since…
It gives you some perspective… you know… stabbing a child. It proves that, no matter what your skin colour, the police are never there when you need them.
The peace and quiet seemed like a perfect opportunity for my neighbour to take another run at his Peal Jam albums – relive that ear-ringing period of his life when he thought he was still young enough to listen to cool music. In support, a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos have sidled up to the palm trees in the house opposite. Ahh, the stamped cats of the sky. I’ve never had one, but I’m pretty sure I know what an aneurism feels like.
Everyone was trying to get in on the act. So much so that I heard something that I hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Woop!’ the police siren blasted through the thick hot air. There was no emergency or crime in progress. I think they just like to break it out once a month to see if it still works. They’re more like family court mediators than police officers. ‘Sort it out amongst yourselves. I’m just here to make sure no one gets stabbed.’
I’ve been trying to spend as much time as possible in the sun. I’m trying to get a tan or skin cancer, because let’s face it; I’d rather be dead than pallid and pasty like some godforsaken ginger. I’m having difficulty at present trying to tan the skin on my legs between my knees and my balls. Luckily that area is only about an inch and an half. Skin elasticity is a fragile thing, kids. Preserve it. One or two more party tricks and I’ll be kicking my man-marbles along the sidewalk like a tin can. A tin can with my balls in it.
But it’s embarrassing to be so pale while all these Aboriginals prance about with their beautiful, velvety black skin. The kids that float around my office have become fascinated with me. ‘Look! Green! Green!’ they squeal, pointing and prodding at my arm veins. I’m the translucent man to them. A sideshow freak. A bearded lady. An openly gay Republican. So I took my pocket knife and pinned one kids hand to the table. ‘Look!’ Red! Red!’ … the office has been quieter ever since…
It gives you some perspective… you know… stabbing a child. It proves that, no matter what your skin colour, the police are never there when you need them.
Condoms
Rummaging around in the hospital, looking for something interesting to swallow, I discovered that all of the condoms that are dished out around Maningrida are black. Until that moment it had never occurred to me that the condoms I’d been using all these years (alright, I admit it – this year) were that colour because the dicks they get used on are largely white (oxymoronic?). I just figured that they were that colour because that’s the colour that the-stuff-you-make-condoms-out-of is. And so I must rethink…
What colour of condom would I be most comfortable putting my dick in? I’m not afraid to ask the big questions, folks. Are Asians more comfortable in yellow hues? Are Russians donning red for their one-armed salute? Do Eskimos roll on a tiny blue one after a hard day of eating snow or whateverthefuck it is they do?
White, pink, red, yellow, brown, black and blue – depending on weather conditions and incidents of domestic violence. That’s your gamut. What happens if you get yourself a tan, worse yet, a sunburn? Poor circulation? Syphilis, gangrene, leprosy? What then, I ask you?
What if you don’t identify with a race, but with a nation? Can you storm a Bastille in red, white and blue? Run a Union Jack up your pole? Or fuck someone in the arse with the fitting stars and stripes? It’s starting to get all politically and complicated-like.
Does the colour you use have an effect on your sexual appetites? If you roll on a black one do you wanna go tap that ass of some big booty bitch? Pull on a pinky and plough your pecker through a pride parade? Wax white and wish for women with blonde hair, an unattainable chest and an arse like a ten year old boy… or the way it’s increasingly going, just the arse of a ten year old boy. Say what you will, when it comes to paedophiles, white people have the market cornered.
Is this going to change the way we buy condoms? Will ribbed condoms only be available to anorexics? Extra sensitive only to albinos? Will they be doing the glow-in-the-dark-dong-dance in Chernobyl alone?
Your choice of condom is like the flavour of ice cream you might choose (in some professions VERY MUCH like it). At the end of the day, you’re still getting some ice cream – who cares what cone it comes in? Not I, sir. Not I. As long as the tie-dying is done before I put my dick in…
What colour of condom would I be most comfortable putting my dick in? I’m not afraid to ask the big questions, folks. Are Asians more comfortable in yellow hues? Are Russians donning red for their one-armed salute? Do Eskimos roll on a tiny blue one after a hard day of eating snow or whateverthefuck it is they do?
White, pink, red, yellow, brown, black and blue – depending on weather conditions and incidents of domestic violence. That’s your gamut. What happens if you get yourself a tan, worse yet, a sunburn? Poor circulation? Syphilis, gangrene, leprosy? What then, I ask you?
What if you don’t identify with a race, but with a nation? Can you storm a Bastille in red, white and blue? Run a Union Jack up your pole? Or fuck someone in the arse with the fitting stars and stripes? It’s starting to get all politically and complicated-like.
Does the colour you use have an effect on your sexual appetites? If you roll on a black one do you wanna go tap that ass of some big booty bitch? Pull on a pinky and plough your pecker through a pride parade? Wax white and wish for women with blonde hair, an unattainable chest and an arse like a ten year old boy… or the way it’s increasingly going, just the arse of a ten year old boy. Say what you will, when it comes to paedophiles, white people have the market cornered.
Is this going to change the way we buy condoms? Will ribbed condoms only be available to anorexics? Extra sensitive only to albinos? Will they be doing the glow-in-the-dark-dong-dance in Chernobyl alone?
Your choice of condom is like the flavour of ice cream you might choose (in some professions VERY MUCH like it). At the end of the day, you’re still getting some ice cream – who cares what cone it comes in? Not I, sir. Not I. As long as the tie-dying is done before I put my dick in…
Law
While tailing someone suspected of smuggling drugs into Maningrida, a female police officer drove past the area where the Aboriginal men were performing a ceremony. It then had to be decided whether she was speared, raped or killed as a punishment for seeing ‘what she should not see’ – Men’s Business. I had my hopes pinned on ‘speared’, call me old fashioned.
Three days later everything had cooled down and it was decided that the officer in question would have become cursed after seeing what she saw, and that aforementioned curse would be punishment enough. Cop out, if you ask me. However, days later said officer was reported to have fumbled with her words and embarrassed herself in public. The curse was seen to be taking effect and all parties were satisfied. Bar me.
All this may sound a little drastic, and yeah… perhaps it is. Punishment has to fit the crime. Death for trespassing is like bringing a knife to a thumb-wrestle. *…clutching his ribs and quickly growing pale, he dropped to the floor, ‘…but I hadn’t even declared yet… I hadn’t even declared…’ *
Granted, ceremony is far more important to the Aboriginal people than any ritual we abide by. For us the policewoman’s intrusion on Men’s Business might be equated to someone streaking at the football. You wouldn’t spear them, you’d idolise them as ‘Play of the Day’, buy them a beer and encourage them to fuck your sister. Or cat. Whatever.
There’s just nothing in our culture that we take that seriously – except you religious zealots, and I’m not talking to you. You’ve already bastardised spirituality and ruined it for everyone. I don’t care if you’re wearing a white shortsleeve shirt and a nametag, or stringing up prayerflags out front of your Fitzroy townhouse – it’s safe to say you’ve all missed the point.
Ceremony still dictates many lives around here. If there is ceremony that you need to attend, you don’t go to work. And it can last days, weeks – who knows. This is a problem for employers, and for people planning a brunchfast at the yacht club. They call it ‘Business’ because it has to be done - like ‘doing your business’ or having brunchfast at the yacht club.
They are protective of ceremony. Quite rightly, they are protective of everything. One of the Cultural Health workers here has been working in petrol-sniffing and suicide for 20 years. He’s written about his method and experience but refuses to share those details with people outside the community. In case they steal them. Trust is the number one issue here. Brunchfast a close second.
Justice is a lot like sex. All well and good unless you’re not getting any. Though I know many who take vigilante action occasionally – hell, we’ve all been there. Sorry, this analogy is going nowhere. Sex is like driving a car – you want your nuts firmly fastened and the occasional lube job. Wait… what was I talking about?
A good legal system should be like good driving. You don’t really notice that you’re moving, and everyone gets safely to their destination. It’s only when the driving gets erratic that people start to get thrown around the car and people start getting pissed off. Darren! DARREN!!
For a comfortable ride in Maningrida a balance must be struck between what the law in the Northern Territory actually is and what is required by Cultural Law to make everyone happy. Even though Cultural Law is not recognised by the State… or is it? I don’t know, I should really get a researcher. I just hear people say shit and write it down – I’m like New Idea.
Long story short, I think I’m going to try to get myself speared. In doing so may have to subvert the Territory laws to make people adhere to the Cultural ones. I mean, how cool a journal entry would that be!? Anyway, they always spear in the leg, and what the fuck was I going to do with my legs anyway? All they’re good for is hanging over the edge of a barstool.
Wait. No. Scratch that. Change of plan. I have to end this entry. Time to walk myself over to the yacht club. Brunchfast awaits.
Three days later everything had cooled down and it was decided that the officer in question would have become cursed after seeing what she saw, and that aforementioned curse would be punishment enough. Cop out, if you ask me. However, days later said officer was reported to have fumbled with her words and embarrassed herself in public. The curse was seen to be taking effect and all parties were satisfied. Bar me.
All this may sound a little drastic, and yeah… perhaps it is. Punishment has to fit the crime. Death for trespassing is like bringing a knife to a thumb-wrestle. *…clutching his ribs and quickly growing pale, he dropped to the floor, ‘…but I hadn’t even declared yet… I hadn’t even declared…’ *
Granted, ceremony is far more important to the Aboriginal people than any ritual we abide by. For us the policewoman’s intrusion on Men’s Business might be equated to someone streaking at the football. You wouldn’t spear them, you’d idolise them as ‘Play of the Day’, buy them a beer and encourage them to fuck your sister. Or cat. Whatever.
There’s just nothing in our culture that we take that seriously – except you religious zealots, and I’m not talking to you. You’ve already bastardised spirituality and ruined it for everyone. I don’t care if you’re wearing a white shortsleeve shirt and a nametag, or stringing up prayerflags out front of your Fitzroy townhouse – it’s safe to say you’ve all missed the point.
Ceremony still dictates many lives around here. If there is ceremony that you need to attend, you don’t go to work. And it can last days, weeks – who knows. This is a problem for employers, and for people planning a brunchfast at the yacht club. They call it ‘Business’ because it has to be done - like ‘doing your business’ or having brunchfast at the yacht club.
They are protective of ceremony. Quite rightly, they are protective of everything. One of the Cultural Health workers here has been working in petrol-sniffing and suicide for 20 years. He’s written about his method and experience but refuses to share those details with people outside the community. In case they steal them. Trust is the number one issue here. Brunchfast a close second.
Justice is a lot like sex. All well and good unless you’re not getting any. Though I know many who take vigilante action occasionally – hell, we’ve all been there. Sorry, this analogy is going nowhere. Sex is like driving a car – you want your nuts firmly fastened and the occasional lube job. Wait… what was I talking about?
A good legal system should be like good driving. You don’t really notice that you’re moving, and everyone gets safely to their destination. It’s only when the driving gets erratic that people start to get thrown around the car and people start getting pissed off. Darren! DARREN!!
For a comfortable ride in Maningrida a balance must be struck between what the law in the Northern Territory actually is and what is required by Cultural Law to make everyone happy. Even though Cultural Law is not recognised by the State… or is it? I don’t know, I should really get a researcher. I just hear people say shit and write it down – I’m like New Idea.
Long story short, I think I’m going to try to get myself speared. In doing so may have to subvert the Territory laws to make people adhere to the Cultural ones. I mean, how cool a journal entry would that be!? Anyway, they always spear in the leg, and what the fuck was I going to do with my legs anyway? All they’re good for is hanging over the edge of a barstool.
Wait. No. Scratch that. Change of plan. I have to end this entry. Time to walk myself over to the yacht club. Brunchfast awaits.
Home
People often say that something is ‘like coming home’. I know the feeling they’re talking about - I’ve got the mental pictures, I just don’t see it anymore. Your family house has changed dynamic, and just holds the memory of that feeling. The place you’re renting doesn’t have it either – it’s basically just a place you sleep and keep some of your shit.
Even your hometown seems more and more alien every time you come back to it. Nothing is ever exactly as you remember it… like how what you see in the viewfinder of your camera is never what ends up on the film – do cameras even have viewfinders these days? Or film? Places aren’t pictures. They’re living, breathing things. A lot of the time I’m fooled into thinking they’re not.
Albert, an elder from Maningrida, went on a conference thing to some other community – good storytelling is all about details. The town was in a valley, much unlike the flat surrounds of Maningrida. He was confused. ‘How do people live here? You can’t see?’
“I’m sure they do alright.” Offered someone.
‘Hmm. But we’re so lucky. In our land, we can see!’
I immediately saw the parallel with my own blinkered approach to foreign places. ‘How do these people live?’ I was exasperated on the darkened streets of Brisbane. ‘There’s not a single fucking Coles open after 10? That’s fucking ridiculous!’ Then I vomited into my own shoes with rage.
Conversely, my reaction to Maningrida – a far more jarring change of scene – was much less severe. Tolerance is a strange thing – you’ll embrace the person with a completely different culture and lifestyle, yet be livid and annoyed at the person sipping their tea too loudly in your café.
It’s taken me nearly three days to finish this entry – short though it may be. I’ve spent the weekend in Darwin. We drove the 500 kilometres each way from Maningrida. Spending a night in Jabiru on the way back – deep in Kakadu National Park. I saw so much that I can’t seem to say anything at all. It’s hard to know where to start.
Some 7 hours driving, crammed in the back to a troop-carrying four-wheel drive with bodies and baggage. The landscape changes so quickly. A world after world winds by the window. Nothing stays the same for more than a minute, except for the roar of hot air in your ear. And none of it – none of it – felt familiar. Or even welcoming.
Stretching the legs somewhere along the way I climbed up a hill of squarish red rock. From there you could see out over the wetlands, thick with birds and green and the threat of crocodiles. Seething with life, like the heat from the lazy sun. There were paintings on the rocks. Fish, birds, men. Dimples in the stony floor where people had ground their paints. And I noticed I was still. I felt filled up. No questions came. No conversation. This had been someone’s home. I could tell. I’d felt it.
Back in Maningrida a few days later I was happy to be rid of Darwin. I’d spent Grand Final day in Art Galleries, cafes and shops. My head was still buzzing with futility, excess and stupidity. Darwin is very like the homes that I have known.... I guess that’s part of going back to your own land – you can see.
Even your hometown seems more and more alien every time you come back to it. Nothing is ever exactly as you remember it… like how what you see in the viewfinder of your camera is never what ends up on the film – do cameras even have viewfinders these days? Or film? Places aren’t pictures. They’re living, breathing things. A lot of the time I’m fooled into thinking they’re not.
Albert, an elder from Maningrida, went on a conference thing to some other community – good storytelling is all about details. The town was in a valley, much unlike the flat surrounds of Maningrida. He was confused. ‘How do people live here? You can’t see?’
“I’m sure they do alright.” Offered someone.
‘Hmm. But we’re so lucky. In our land, we can see!’
I immediately saw the parallel with my own blinkered approach to foreign places. ‘How do these people live?’ I was exasperated on the darkened streets of Brisbane. ‘There’s not a single fucking Coles open after 10? That’s fucking ridiculous!’ Then I vomited into my own shoes with rage.
Conversely, my reaction to Maningrida – a far more jarring change of scene – was much less severe. Tolerance is a strange thing – you’ll embrace the person with a completely different culture and lifestyle, yet be livid and annoyed at the person sipping their tea too loudly in your café.
It’s taken me nearly three days to finish this entry – short though it may be. I’ve spent the weekend in Darwin. We drove the 500 kilometres each way from Maningrida. Spending a night in Jabiru on the way back – deep in Kakadu National Park. I saw so much that I can’t seem to say anything at all. It’s hard to know where to start.
Some 7 hours driving, crammed in the back to a troop-carrying four-wheel drive with bodies and baggage. The landscape changes so quickly. A world after world winds by the window. Nothing stays the same for more than a minute, except for the roar of hot air in your ear. And none of it – none of it – felt familiar. Or even welcoming.
Stretching the legs somewhere along the way I climbed up a hill of squarish red rock. From there you could see out over the wetlands, thick with birds and green and the threat of crocodiles. Seething with life, like the heat from the lazy sun. There were paintings on the rocks. Fish, birds, men. Dimples in the stony floor where people had ground their paints. And I noticed I was still. I felt filled up. No questions came. No conversation. This had been someone’s home. I could tell. I’d felt it.
Back in Maningrida a few days later I was happy to be rid of Darwin. I’d spent Grand Final day in Art Galleries, cafes and shops. My head was still buzzing with futility, excess and stupidity. Darwin is very like the homes that I have known.... I guess that’s part of going back to your own land – you can see.
Four Fingers
Listening to Tom Waits traipse through his gravely vocals while I watch a ceiling fan lurch slowly ‘round in circles. I imagined myself in a dirty bar – four fingers of Scotch old enough to sleep with, an ashtray overflowing with bent whitepaper butts and a person beside me, hunched over a pint. An artist.
We spend the night talking about how disillusioned we’ve become. We bitterly bemoan that Art is dead. That all media – brushes, beats and broadcasts - are just another barricade between us and real emotional connections. That life is painful and futile and hard. I order another drink and light the cigarette I’ve been rolling. Fuck this is fun! This is living!
It’s funny what you miss when you stumble out of your life, into the broad light of reality. All those things that you knew were bad for you (but were really good at). What is it about drunken conversations – somehow the world makes more sense when you make less? The world is simpler then. Safety in numbness.
We spend the night talking about how disillusioned we’ve become. We bitterly bemoan that Art is dead. That all media – brushes, beats and broadcasts - are just another barricade between us and real emotional connections. That life is painful and futile and hard. I order another drink and light the cigarette I’ve been rolling. Fuck this is fun! This is living!
It’s funny what you miss when you stumble out of your life, into the broad light of reality. All those things that you knew were bad for you (but were really good at). What is it about drunken conversations – somehow the world makes more sense when you make less? The world is simpler then. Safety in numbness.
Madonna
If Madonna reinvents herself one more time she’ll actually be back where she started off - I’ve done the math. She’ll even be Italian again. Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone, growing up in Bay City, Michigan with the Rollers. And the whole adventure starts again. She might just go on forever.
Actually, that was one of three possibilities my Mathematica Problematica (patent pending) predicted. The data also suggests that the energy used in another reinvention will produce so much heat that Ms. Ciccone will spontaneously combust, or that mad Mads might actually perish before reinventing herself, having accidentally suffocated in her own arse while trying to perform yoga moves and pass them off as choreographed dance. Less likely, but far more entertaining potentialities. The world holds it’s breath – and the blue planet turns slowly bluer.
Four days after I walked away from the scrub-fire licking at my property, fallen trees at my back door were still smoldering away like Orlando Bloom - only more smoldering and less wooden (ba dūm ching! Hands up who saw that coming!? Zaap!!). I’m was impressed. That fire really knew how to hang on. Stupid really - all my experience with fire revolves around trying to keep the fuckers going. In reality they’re like sea monkeys – leave them alone and they’ll look after themselves.
My computer became infested with ants the other day. They were crawling up the lead, wandering through those vents in the back and reappearing out of the speakers at the front. Either something sweet or dead was imbedded in my computer screen or the millennium bug had arrived in swarms, six and an half years late. I reached for the flyspray in the full knowledge that they were actually ants – I’m resourceful like that. I said a quick prayer and gave them a Baygon bath.
A full 48 hours later the army was still on my desk squirming. They were incapacitated, surely – each curled in a little ball, reaching out their little anty legs and writing in agony. Perhaps flyspray really isn’t good at killing ants, and I’m a daemonic prick for using it. Or perhaps ants are just tough little bastards. Two foodless days of choking on poison, and they’re still going strong. Still fighting for life. I respect that. I don’t fully understand it, but I respect it.
Take any of the above stories and interpret it as symbolic of the plight of Aboriginal people – except perhaps the bit about Madonna suffocating in her own arse. They all say a lot about what is happening, what has happened, and what may still happen. They’re all relevant in their own way. Each is used by people to debate the ‘issues’, from either side. I can see it all from where I stand, but I can’t see how it all fits together.
Two hundred years of choking on poison, trying to keep a flame burning, all the time under pressure to be constantly reinventing yourself. Aboriginals and their culture are a commodity. I guess that’s true of all of us. Life is a market. Values are often arbitrary. The question at the end of all of this has to be ‘What have you got to lose?’ Well, little Maddy C from Bay City… which one’s it going to be?
Actually, that was one of three possibilities my Mathematica Problematica (patent pending) predicted. The data also suggests that the energy used in another reinvention will produce so much heat that Ms. Ciccone will spontaneously combust, or that mad Mads might actually perish before reinventing herself, having accidentally suffocated in her own arse while trying to perform yoga moves and pass them off as choreographed dance. Less likely, but far more entertaining potentialities. The world holds it’s breath – and the blue planet turns slowly bluer.
Four days after I walked away from the scrub-fire licking at my property, fallen trees at my back door were still smoldering away like Orlando Bloom - only more smoldering and less wooden (ba dūm ching! Hands up who saw that coming!? Zaap!!). I’m was impressed. That fire really knew how to hang on. Stupid really - all my experience with fire revolves around trying to keep the fuckers going. In reality they’re like sea monkeys – leave them alone and they’ll look after themselves.
My computer became infested with ants the other day. They were crawling up the lead, wandering through those vents in the back and reappearing out of the speakers at the front. Either something sweet or dead was imbedded in my computer screen or the millennium bug had arrived in swarms, six and an half years late. I reached for the flyspray in the full knowledge that they were actually ants – I’m resourceful like that. I said a quick prayer and gave them a Baygon bath.
A full 48 hours later the army was still on my desk squirming. They were incapacitated, surely – each curled in a little ball, reaching out their little anty legs and writing in agony. Perhaps flyspray really isn’t good at killing ants, and I’m a daemonic prick for using it. Or perhaps ants are just tough little bastards. Two foodless days of choking on poison, and they’re still going strong. Still fighting for life. I respect that. I don’t fully understand it, but I respect it.
Take any of the above stories and interpret it as symbolic of the plight of Aboriginal people – except perhaps the bit about Madonna suffocating in her own arse. They all say a lot about what is happening, what has happened, and what may still happen. They’re all relevant in their own way. Each is used by people to debate the ‘issues’, from either side. I can see it all from where I stand, but I can’t see how it all fits together.
Two hundred years of choking on poison, trying to keep a flame burning, all the time under pressure to be constantly reinventing yourself. Aboriginals and their culture are a commodity. I guess that’s true of all of us. Life is a market. Values are often arbitrary. The question at the end of all of this has to be ‘What have you got to lose?’ Well, little Maddy C from Bay City… which one’s it going to be?
Language
I learnt Japanese at high school which has so far proved to be completely fucking useless. Japanese chicks are sometimes impressed that I can regurgitate a few words – sadly none of them meaning ‘let’s make more Asians’ (because if there’s one race at risk of dying out…) - but for the large part I have trouble ordering at Sushi Train. In hindsight it was a poor investment of my time.
People keep asking me if I’ve learnt any of the language up here. I have, I have. I’ve learnt ‘Ha’lo’ which means - fucking wait for it - ‘Hello’. I’ve also learnt the everuseful ‘Bho bho’ – or ‘Bye Bye’. Brilliant. So my command of ‘language’ – as all languages up here are referred – is moronic and insulting to multiculturalism. I’m like an American in Paris. My Aboriginal vocabulary is only useful if I’m cataloguing a single song on The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour album.
But it’s hard. The last time I researched there were 15 languages (including English) that are spoken here – though that number varies from source to source. Discrepancy is not uncommon. I’ve been putting together a film about the Cyclone Monica Recovery Festival. Local law pegs her at a category 5. The Bureau of Meteorology reckons it never got above a category 3 – but they’re a bunch of fucking clowns, everyone knows that. So 15 languages, give or take… and let’s call it category 6 – whatever the fuck that is.
“In per capita terms, Maningrida is perhaps the most multilingual community in the world” – true or not, it’s written on every piece of information about Maningrida you’ll ever pick up. Even this one. Apparently everyone has a solid hold on 3 or 4 languages. Smug pricks. Where do they think they are? Belgium?
I always end up talking to little kids because they’re up on my level. Problem being, there’s only so many times you can ask a 3 year old ‘what did you say?’ before you start giving them long-lasting psychological problems – you know, the good kind. ‘What?... What did you say?... No, that’s lost on me… Sorry, I can’t understand a word you’re saying… you want to learn how to speak properly, that’s your problem… take it somewhere else you mumbling fuck, you’re getting nothing from me.’ Still, she seemed to take it pretty well.
There is one word that seems to bridge the gap between all 15 languages. That word is, unsurprisingly, ‘fuck’ – you know, it’s the one I’da picked. I spend a lot of time listening to conversations in languages I don’t understand (so it’s not really eavesdropping). It’s amazing. Not like Spanish or Cherokee or Taxi Driver where I can pick up words and get the idea of what’s going on. Completely alien. The sounds, the intonation, the sentence arcs. And then a great big ‘fuck’ smack bang in the middle. Makes me smile every time.
I like being the outsider to everything. It’s grounding. Humbling. But just to get my own back I’ve started speaking Japanese to everyone. I can’t actually speak Japanese but what so they know? Everybody seems to smile in the right places – every time I slap in an unnecessary ‘fuck’. It seems Tourette’s is universal.
People keep asking me if I’ve learnt any of the language up here. I have, I have. I’ve learnt ‘Ha’lo’ which means - fucking wait for it - ‘Hello’. I’ve also learnt the everuseful ‘Bho bho’ – or ‘Bye Bye’. Brilliant. So my command of ‘language’ – as all languages up here are referred – is moronic and insulting to multiculturalism. I’m like an American in Paris. My Aboriginal vocabulary is only useful if I’m cataloguing a single song on The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour album.
But it’s hard. The last time I researched there were 15 languages (including English) that are spoken here – though that number varies from source to source. Discrepancy is not uncommon. I’ve been putting together a film about the Cyclone Monica Recovery Festival. Local law pegs her at a category 5. The Bureau of Meteorology reckons it never got above a category 3 – but they’re a bunch of fucking clowns, everyone knows that. So 15 languages, give or take… and let’s call it category 6 – whatever the fuck that is.
“In per capita terms, Maningrida is perhaps the most multilingual community in the world” – true or not, it’s written on every piece of information about Maningrida you’ll ever pick up. Even this one. Apparently everyone has a solid hold on 3 or 4 languages. Smug pricks. Where do they think they are? Belgium?
I always end up talking to little kids because they’re up on my level. Problem being, there’s only so many times you can ask a 3 year old ‘what did you say?’ before you start giving them long-lasting psychological problems – you know, the good kind. ‘What?... What did you say?... No, that’s lost on me… Sorry, I can’t understand a word you’re saying… you want to learn how to speak properly, that’s your problem… take it somewhere else you mumbling fuck, you’re getting nothing from me.’ Still, she seemed to take it pretty well.
There is one word that seems to bridge the gap between all 15 languages. That word is, unsurprisingly, ‘fuck’ – you know, it’s the one I’da picked. I spend a lot of time listening to conversations in languages I don’t understand (so it’s not really eavesdropping). It’s amazing. Not like Spanish or Cherokee or Taxi Driver where I can pick up words and get the idea of what’s going on. Completely alien. The sounds, the intonation, the sentence arcs. And then a great big ‘fuck’ smack bang in the middle. Makes me smile every time.
I like being the outsider to everything. It’s grounding. Humbling. But just to get my own back I’ve started speaking Japanese to everyone. I can’t actually speak Japanese but what so they know? Everybody seems to smile in the right places – every time I slap in an unnecessary ‘fuck’. It seems Tourette’s is universal.
Rid
The bottle suggests that Rid (insect repellent) may make you blind, cause you to become involuntarily bulimic, and burn the flesh of your infant’s chubby little hands – though not in that order. It doesn’t say so but I’m pretty sure it causes cancer, or should I say it ‘tastes’ carcinogenic. I resisted putting in on my skin at first – if it’s not fit to drink, why imbibe it any other way? But I have had to give in. The mosquitos have moved in for the wet season and the ravenous little bastards forgot to pack a lunch.
I had a strategy at first. It’s like my theory of tanning – build up a good base tan and then you don’t have to worry about burning. And my theory about personal hygiene – work up a serious stink daily and eventually everyone will believe you’re oozing pure evil, not simply lazy. I think it all stems back to the Princess Bride where that guy built up an immunity to the poison, iocane powder (or as it’s known, ‘what you do not smell…’). I’ve been trying to build up an immunity to everything ever since – alcohol, cigarettes, masturbation.
Thus I tried to build up an immunity to mosquito bites. I just let them bite me, ignored the itching hoping that, in time, being a bumpy, scabby, itchy mess would become the norm and I’d be free of having to worry about them. It’s not working – I’m not afraid of being the first to give up. And so I must turn to Rid. By my calculations I’ll be sterile by Christmas… that’s one less thing, I guess…
I’ve seen ads on telly for those new ‘mosquito’ ringtones that can only be heard by under 22 year olds. Interesting concept. I must have super-sonic hearing because I’m almost 25 and I can hear EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MOSQUITO flying around my bedroom when I’m trying to get to sleep.
I can hear exactly how far away they are, roughly what size they are, and how many times the fucker has bitten me already tonight. I find myself plotting the vectors of each flight path – anticipating which part of my practically naked body I’m going to have to slap at in the dark. When I woke up this morning I thought I was sunburnt… in a motif of strange red handshapes.
There are good things about the Territory. It only takes 40 minutes to defrost frozen chicken breasts on the kitchen counter. Dishes drip dry before you can find a place to squeeze them into the overcrowded rack. And your washing is dry before you even put it in the machine… yeah… hang on…
I’m getting old – the things that excite me these days are all domestic pleasantries. When I first arrived in this house I had a look around and found myself saying, ‘Wow, look at all this cupboard space!’ Saddening yes, but it’s alright. I’ve got plenty of time. I’ll spend the next few months building up an immunity to domesticity… by eating Nigella Lawson.
I had a strategy at first. It’s like my theory of tanning – build up a good base tan and then you don’t have to worry about burning. And my theory about personal hygiene – work up a serious stink daily and eventually everyone will believe you’re oozing pure evil, not simply lazy. I think it all stems back to the Princess Bride where that guy built up an immunity to the poison, iocane powder (or as it’s known, ‘what you do not smell…’). I’ve been trying to build up an immunity to everything ever since – alcohol, cigarettes, masturbation.
Thus I tried to build up an immunity to mosquito bites. I just let them bite me, ignored the itching hoping that, in time, being a bumpy, scabby, itchy mess would become the norm and I’d be free of having to worry about them. It’s not working – I’m not afraid of being the first to give up. And so I must turn to Rid. By my calculations I’ll be sterile by Christmas… that’s one less thing, I guess…
I’ve seen ads on telly for those new ‘mosquito’ ringtones that can only be heard by under 22 year olds. Interesting concept. I must have super-sonic hearing because I’m almost 25 and I can hear EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MOSQUITO flying around my bedroom when I’m trying to get to sleep.
I can hear exactly how far away they are, roughly what size they are, and how many times the fucker has bitten me already tonight. I find myself plotting the vectors of each flight path – anticipating which part of my practically naked body I’m going to have to slap at in the dark. When I woke up this morning I thought I was sunburnt… in a motif of strange red handshapes.
There are good things about the Territory. It only takes 40 minutes to defrost frozen chicken breasts on the kitchen counter. Dishes drip dry before you can find a place to squeeze them into the overcrowded rack. And your washing is dry before you even put it in the machine… yeah… hang on…
I’m getting old – the things that excite me these days are all domestic pleasantries. When I first arrived in this house I had a look around and found myself saying, ‘Wow, look at all this cupboard space!’ Saddening yes, but it’s alright. I’ve got plenty of time. I’ll spend the next few months building up an immunity to domesticity… by eating Nigella Lawson.
Contradictions
‘You wanna pop around and see if Jenny has any chicken?’ John seemed to think that Jenny had a little of extra of everything at her place. Perhaps he knows her well enough to count on her good planning. Well enough to know it’ll cover his shithouse planning. The day I arrived the milk in his fridge was already ten days out of date – as yet unopened. Still, milk bottles are largely cheaper than airfares.
Lo and behold Jenny did have chicken. I was heading back from her place. A two minute walk usually, but I thought I could do it without my shoes. I could evidently, but hobbling takes twice as long – my feet haven’t toughened to Aboriginal standards. They have the uncanny ability to stay as soft and wet as if I’d just removed a pair of shoes after a fun run (like I know what that’s like).
Along the way there was a couple of kids playing. An 11 year old girl pulling her 9 year old rollerblade-wearing brother behind her – deliberately fast and dangerously. They were conscious of my approach. There’s always those awkward moments as you approach anyone on foot – are we or are we not going to acknowledge each other? It’s not cut and dry. Whities will usually give you that ‘I’m-a-white-guy-you’re-a-white-guy’ nod. Aboriginal is groups of more than two will usually ignore you. Two might say ‘hi’. One almost always will – though it always seems reluctant, even fearful.
They’d been looking at me so long that I felt obliged to say something. ‘That’s going to end in tears,’ I started. ‘Keep it up!’ The girl smiled – pleased to have been given adult permission to injure her brother (I’m only adult to them, and only for the purposes of this story - not in real life, sorry Mum). I, on the other hand, felt a little odd about the exchange. Dirty. Like I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Like I shouldn’t be seen talking to kids of that age. Why? Because they were white.
Today I spent the day entertaining two little Aboriginal girls – 7 and 6. Martha and Kara. Actually, they spent the day entertaining themselves – I was just the source of said entertainment. The Health Board always has a couple of kids that couldn’t be bothered going to school hanging about. They’re all really excited that I’ve stared working here. My office is the most interesting in the building – movies to watch, music to listen to, someone to sneak up on and tickle his neck like a spider.
They’re all over me. Hugging me as I work, tickling me, offering me pictures of snails. It’s genuine Aboriginal art, I just wonder if there’s a market. And it’s all Ok. If I was in Melbourne I wouldn’t even be allowed to be alone in the room with these kids. Still, that’s not the double standard I want to draw attention to.
The discrimination is in ME. I’m comfortable talking and playing with Aboriginal kids. They make it so easy – they’ve been approaching me all week. ‘What’s your name (complete stranger)?’ “Excuse me, can we come and sit next to you (lone, hairy, twentysomething white male)?” But I’m not comfortable talking to white kids, unless I’m related to them or I’m sleeping with their mother. It’s not right.
What kind of world is it to grow up in, as a white kid in Melbourne these days. I like kids, and even I’m wary of communicating with them for fear of feaking out some highly-strung soccer mum with mace in her faux Louis Vitton. Parents complain about the lack of decent male role models in their children’s lives, not realising that it was they who eliminated them all in the first paranoid place.
My brain is racist. Dead set. I have a physical reaction to the situation. Aboriginal kids make me feel welcome. White kids make me think I’m a predatory paedophile. Aboriginals should be sending volunteer workers to white communities. Hey, we’ve all got problems but we are much further away from sorting our shit out – it’s deep seated.
Lo and behold Jenny did have chicken. I was heading back from her place. A two minute walk usually, but I thought I could do it without my shoes. I could evidently, but hobbling takes twice as long – my feet haven’t toughened to Aboriginal standards. They have the uncanny ability to stay as soft and wet as if I’d just removed a pair of shoes after a fun run (like I know what that’s like).
Along the way there was a couple of kids playing. An 11 year old girl pulling her 9 year old rollerblade-wearing brother behind her – deliberately fast and dangerously. They were conscious of my approach. There’s always those awkward moments as you approach anyone on foot – are we or are we not going to acknowledge each other? It’s not cut and dry. Whities will usually give you that ‘I’m-a-white-guy-you’re-a-white-guy’ nod. Aboriginal is groups of more than two will usually ignore you. Two might say ‘hi’. One almost always will – though it always seems reluctant, even fearful.
They’d been looking at me so long that I felt obliged to say something. ‘That’s going to end in tears,’ I started. ‘Keep it up!’ The girl smiled – pleased to have been given adult permission to injure her brother (I’m only adult to them, and only for the purposes of this story - not in real life, sorry Mum). I, on the other hand, felt a little odd about the exchange. Dirty. Like I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Like I shouldn’t be seen talking to kids of that age. Why? Because they were white.
Today I spent the day entertaining two little Aboriginal girls – 7 and 6. Martha and Kara. Actually, they spent the day entertaining themselves – I was just the source of said entertainment. The Health Board always has a couple of kids that couldn’t be bothered going to school hanging about. They’re all really excited that I’ve stared working here. My office is the most interesting in the building – movies to watch, music to listen to, someone to sneak up on and tickle his neck like a spider.
They’re all over me. Hugging me as I work, tickling me, offering me pictures of snails. It’s genuine Aboriginal art, I just wonder if there’s a market. And it’s all Ok. If I was in Melbourne I wouldn’t even be allowed to be alone in the room with these kids. Still, that’s not the double standard I want to draw attention to.
The discrimination is in ME. I’m comfortable talking and playing with Aboriginal kids. They make it so easy – they’ve been approaching me all week. ‘What’s your name (complete stranger)?’ “Excuse me, can we come and sit next to you (lone, hairy, twentysomething white male)?” But I’m not comfortable talking to white kids, unless I’m related to them or I’m sleeping with their mother. It’s not right.
What kind of world is it to grow up in, as a white kid in Melbourne these days. I like kids, and even I’m wary of communicating with them for fear of feaking out some highly-strung soccer mum with mace in her faux Louis Vitton. Parents complain about the lack of decent male role models in their children’s lives, not realising that it was they who eliminated them all in the first paranoid place.
My brain is racist. Dead set. I have a physical reaction to the situation. Aboriginal kids make me feel welcome. White kids make me think I’m a predatory paedophile. Aboriginals should be sending volunteer workers to white communities. Hey, we’ve all got problems but we are much further away from sorting our shit out – it’s deep seated.
Waxing Shit
My office has a desk, a computer and an empty bookshelf. It is similar to every office in the world - in that it is hated. This one, peculiarly, by me. I’d rather be outside. While we’re at it, I’d rather be drunk – splitting hairs, I guess. Still, it seems all the interesting things are going on outside.
When I left the house for work this morning there was a scrub fire burning in the bushland out the back of my house. I say ‘my’ house because John’s away in Darwin for the week. That’s a treat. Not that me and John don’t get along. Quite the opposite. We’re like any pair of people sharing a living space. He doesn’t like me hogging his TV but doesn’t say anything, and I don’t like him messing up my kitchen but I don’t clean up after him. I’d say we were the original odd couple, but we clearly aren’t. That title has long since been taken - by the Original Odd Couple.
As I watched how quickly the fire was spreading I began to think about how I like having a house to myself. I get to pee with the door open, sing loudly in the shower, and pee out the open shower door – singing loudly. My bathroom is a mess, though no fault of mine. The daddylonglegs rules Maningrida. A less offensive spider you’re unlikely to find, but they are the creators of cobwebs – I guess ‘daddylonglegswebs’ was just a little hard to get your tongue around, like an Albanian’s ankle.
There are cobwebs above me in the shower. I have to duck my head under some more to spit out my toothpaste in the sink. They’ve pretty much taken over the bathtub. And only yesterday I found out that what I’ve been using as a towel rack was not a towel rack. Seems a shame to bother them. I wonder where all the spiders would go if the house burnt down. That scrub fire did seem to be moving towards me pretty quickly.
And where are all the ants going as this fire sweeps the ground? There isn’t a square foot of land up here that doesn’t have an ant on it. I took a new roll of paper to wipe my ass the other day and by the time I folded – yes, the truth is out, I’m a folder – it had ants on it. I’m still not sure if they were in the toilet roll holder, or if I’m shitting ants. How am I to tell? I’m not a doctor.
On the subject of the toilet, let’s talk about the toilet. It’s probably actually maybe the hottest room in the house. It has no real ventilation. It’s like a fucking sauna in there. I can’t tell if I’m losing more weight pooing or perspiring. I’m thinking of putting out a new fitness book, it’s called “Shit Yourself Thin”.
And while we’re on about shit, let’s talk about that too. The thing about Maningrida and shit is that there isn’t any. Dogs, dogs everywhere but not a nugget to be seen. I guess it makes sense really – don’t eat, cant shit. That should go in my book too. I’m sensing a chapter coming on. The only thing I’ve seen take a shit in the community was a seven year old kid, who came out of the general store, turned the corner and popped a squat. I’ve heard the saying that babies are poop-factories, but this kid was perhaps our country’s greatest faecal resource. If only we can find a way to sell it to the Japanese.
Enough shit. There’s a fire heading for my house. What does one do in a situation like this? Well… what any Australian would do. Turn on the sprinkler and go to work. What were you going to suggest? Panic?
When I left the house for work this morning there was a scrub fire burning in the bushland out the back of my house. I say ‘my’ house because John’s away in Darwin for the week. That’s a treat. Not that me and John don’t get along. Quite the opposite. We’re like any pair of people sharing a living space. He doesn’t like me hogging his TV but doesn’t say anything, and I don’t like him messing up my kitchen but I don’t clean up after him. I’d say we were the original odd couple, but we clearly aren’t. That title has long since been taken - by the Original Odd Couple.
As I watched how quickly the fire was spreading I began to think about how I like having a house to myself. I get to pee with the door open, sing loudly in the shower, and pee out the open shower door – singing loudly. My bathroom is a mess, though no fault of mine. The daddylonglegs rules Maningrida. A less offensive spider you’re unlikely to find, but they are the creators of cobwebs – I guess ‘daddylonglegswebs’ was just a little hard to get your tongue around, like an Albanian’s ankle.
There are cobwebs above me in the shower. I have to duck my head under some more to spit out my toothpaste in the sink. They’ve pretty much taken over the bathtub. And only yesterday I found out that what I’ve been using as a towel rack was not a towel rack. Seems a shame to bother them. I wonder where all the spiders would go if the house burnt down. That scrub fire did seem to be moving towards me pretty quickly.
And where are all the ants going as this fire sweeps the ground? There isn’t a square foot of land up here that doesn’t have an ant on it. I took a new roll of paper to wipe my ass the other day and by the time I folded – yes, the truth is out, I’m a folder – it had ants on it. I’m still not sure if they were in the toilet roll holder, or if I’m shitting ants. How am I to tell? I’m not a doctor.
On the subject of the toilet, let’s talk about the toilet. It’s probably actually maybe the hottest room in the house. It has no real ventilation. It’s like a fucking sauna in there. I can’t tell if I’m losing more weight pooing or perspiring. I’m thinking of putting out a new fitness book, it’s called “Shit Yourself Thin”.
And while we’re on about shit, let’s talk about that too. The thing about Maningrida and shit is that there isn’t any. Dogs, dogs everywhere but not a nugget to be seen. I guess it makes sense really – don’t eat, cant shit. That should go in my book too. I’m sensing a chapter coming on. The only thing I’ve seen take a shit in the community was a seven year old kid, who came out of the general store, turned the corner and popped a squat. I’ve heard the saying that babies are poop-factories, but this kid was perhaps our country’s greatest faecal resource. If only we can find a way to sell it to the Japanese.
Enough shit. There’s a fire heading for my house. What does one do in a situation like this? Well… what any Australian would do. Turn on the sprinkler and go to work. What were you going to suggest? Panic?
Cocktail Cherry
The sun sets like a cocktail cherry - red and tantilisingly slow. Almost made you want to follow it right over the horizon. Off the end of the earth. It reminds me of a girl I know.
I've spent the afternoon in silence. Guitar in my hands, nothing worth playing. My head fills with the sensations of the early evening. A musty yellowwax-wood burning - the fuel of Aboriginal frontyard kitchens. Kids whistling and squealing in ever adventurous games. The hazy sky, fading to black. A metallic tang of a coldbeer can kissing my lips. I am still. My heart beats slowly in my chest and my mind leafs through ideas as if through pages in a large and beautifully illustrated book.
It feels as though I have been here for ages. Forever. And Melbourne feels far far away. It's hard to believe that the same cocktail cherry went down over my cafes, my family, my friends in just half a short hour earlier. To believe that my feet weren't always stained with red dirt. That anything couldn't possibly wait until tomorrow.
The darkness brings a comfortable cool. I'll pass the evening in ambling inactivity - constantly conscious of how happy the scene makes me. And how much I miss you. You've coloured my life - made it as rich as I feel. And I could pay it all back to you - all that I am grateful for - if I could share this one moment with you. This is how all life should be – only in the company of fine friends.
I've spent the afternoon in silence. Guitar in my hands, nothing worth playing. My head fills with the sensations of the early evening. A musty yellowwax-wood burning - the fuel of Aboriginal frontyard kitchens. Kids whistling and squealing in ever adventurous games. The hazy sky, fading to black. A metallic tang of a coldbeer can kissing my lips. I am still. My heart beats slowly in my chest and my mind leafs through ideas as if through pages in a large and beautifully illustrated book.
It feels as though I have been here for ages. Forever. And Melbourne feels far far away. It's hard to believe that the same cocktail cherry went down over my cafes, my family, my friends in just half a short hour earlier. To believe that my feet weren't always stained with red dirt. That anything couldn't possibly wait until tomorrow.
The darkness brings a comfortable cool. I'll pass the evening in ambling inactivity - constantly conscious of how happy the scene makes me. And how much I miss you. You've coloured my life - made it as rich as I feel. And I could pay it all back to you - all that I am grateful for - if I could share this one moment with you. This is how all life should be – only in the company of fine friends.
Femininity
Maningrida - the word - is a complete anglo bastardisation of the Kunibidji name Manayingkarirra meaning 'the place where the dreaming changed shape'. A beautiful notion, but at the same time perhaps sad and ironic. I know very little about the dreaming. Perhaps it did change here. I couldn't tell you. In my (narrow and sheltered) experience I can only offer this; Maningrida, 'the place where femininity changed shape'.
I noticed it last night. Scanning the crowd I stumbled across a stunner. If I was in Melbourne I would have assumed she was of Middle Eastern descent, but here I choose to assume nothing. I was gobsmacked for a second. Not because she was all that much chop, but because she stood out like like an erection on a nudist beach. She was all decked out in eastcoast swank - make-up, fitted singlet, tight black jeans, hoop earings. You just don't get that here. Black, white or A-rab.
Maningrida ladies dress code; Aboriginals over 25s - flowing sarong-y type printed dresses or skirts and old T-shirts. Aboriginals under 25 - square-shouldered basketball type singlets and shorts. Balandas over 40 - what over 40 white women always wear to the beach. Balandas over 20 - singlets, sensible shorts and those fucking plasticy Birkenstocks. Sure, let's face it, fashion doesn't matter up here. That's fine - load off my bank balance (which, for the record, is still zero) - but that shouldn't necessarily mean that what-it-means-to-be-womanly instantly becomes "dripping with kids, tits to your knees, and sensible footwear".
I'm picking on whitechicks here. Two things - why are they all pregnant and/or fucking gingers!? Ok, most Balandas working here are married, 'giving up' time in their perfect lives to go and do some work in an Aboriginal community - why not pop out a couple of tots while the rent is cheap!? Sure. In actual fact it's a great place to bring up kids. Great sense of community, everyone looking out for eachother, heaps of kids for your little ones to play with - out of 2000 people, 700 of Maningrida's population are under 10. But the fact that there is not a single white person here between the ages of 8 and 20 say a lot. Balandas pack up their lives and head back to the cities to give their little albinos the chance at life they deserve. Pulling out the photos in adolescence, 'Remember when you used to play with black kids? They're just like us, aren't they, and not criminals at all!?'
And why is it only a certain type of white person makes it to communities in the first place. They're all fair-skinned and freckled - oddly the exact opposite type of person suited to the climate. Is it that they were the ranks of the middle-class who didn't ever entertain the illusion that they were good-looking enough to be an actor, hence relegated to the jobs less self-obsessed? It was either that or slit their freckled wrists. No no, they would never do that - they're all so darn enthusiastic. They say most fear comes from what you don't understand - I'm not afraid of algebra, or the French, but I'm afraid of white people.
Anyway, I'm straying here. Long story short - for Balandas the standard of femininity has become being independant, strong, teacherly/maternal (take your pick). Which brings me to Aborginals. I feel obliged to tread lightly here, but I'm too afraid of becoming just another bloody Balanda. Aboriginals have always had the rough end of the stick, They are, perhaps, the most desexualised race on earth. No, fuck it, it's true. We're all taught to admire the elgant beauty of the African Queen, the Bollywood Princess, and saucy Latin Diva. Asian has hotties all over from Japanese schoolgirls to Thai Trannies. Even the Native Americans had the steamy Pocahontis. Think about it. If (ever) we are offered an Aboriginal woman to be admired as beautiful, she is half-caste to the point of homogeny. It's the same with the men but Aboriginal male identity is a massive issue that is going to need more time for me to bake. Another day.
Some folks, at this point, would argue with me. They'd probably offer up a portrait and get me to see the beauty in the character of each crevis. But by that logic everyone in the world is beautiful, even if they've been disfigured in a fire and forced to appear on Maury Povich. The curse of modern art - beauty in everything from the tragic to mundane. I'm not saying Aboriginal women are unattractive - quite the opposite. I'm trying to point out what we're up against - a dominant world culture that has marinalised them as sexual beings. It's true though. Aboriginals always seem to somehow have kids, while white people are fucking freely in front of a camera.
As if puberty wasn't hard enough. The conflict is clear when girls break out in a fit of wild Carribean dancing ("Bam Bam"). It's charged with huge sexual energy - it's like their hips are a bucking bronco and their torso hangs on for dear life. The dance always stops abruptly after a few moments as they dive in to a pile of thier friends, hiding their face, giggling and blushing. They are experimenting with 'sexy', even if a little self-consciously.
Truth is there's plenty of sex going on in Maningrida - like I said 700 kids under 10 - and the kids are starting to have sex young, but in perspective that's pretty normal for any small town. Especially living at such close quarters. That's not the issue. The issue is indenity, confidence, pride. I don't know how they're delaing with it. I've been working with the health board for a (working) week. I see smoking, alcohol abuse, petrol sniffing, mental illness, molestation, pot, karva, runny noses and poor diets plastered everywhere. Not once have I read the words 'body image', 'self esteem' or 'sexual health'. I just wonder, what is being created here?
'The place where femininity changed place'. Sounds like a nice spot. Really, don't we WANT independant, strong, teacherly/maternal women? If Maningrida existed in a vaccuum, you might even get them. Sadly western culture is all-invasive and freckle-legged enthusiastics are not the only rolemodels girls are exposed to here. And, as time rolls on, the Aboriginal communities are forced increasingly to aglo-cise the problem grows. I'm not afraid of algebra, or the French, but I'm afraid of the West - my inheritance.
I noticed it last night. Scanning the crowd I stumbled across a stunner. If I was in Melbourne I would have assumed she was of Middle Eastern descent, but here I choose to assume nothing. I was gobsmacked for a second. Not because she was all that much chop, but because she stood out like like an erection on a nudist beach. She was all decked out in eastcoast swank - make-up, fitted singlet, tight black jeans, hoop earings. You just don't get that here. Black, white or A-rab.
Maningrida ladies dress code; Aboriginals over 25s - flowing sarong-y type printed dresses or skirts and old T-shirts. Aboriginals under 25 - square-shouldered basketball type singlets and shorts. Balandas over 40 - what over 40 white women always wear to the beach. Balandas over 20 - singlets, sensible shorts and those fucking plasticy Birkenstocks. Sure, let's face it, fashion doesn't matter up here. That's fine - load off my bank balance (which, for the record, is still zero) - but that shouldn't necessarily mean that what-it-means-to-be-womanly instantly becomes "dripping with kids, tits to your knees, and sensible footwear".
I'm picking on whitechicks here. Two things - why are they all pregnant and/or fucking gingers!? Ok, most Balandas working here are married, 'giving up' time in their perfect lives to go and do some work in an Aboriginal community - why not pop out a couple of tots while the rent is cheap!? Sure. In actual fact it's a great place to bring up kids. Great sense of community, everyone looking out for eachother, heaps of kids for your little ones to play with - out of 2000 people, 700 of Maningrida's population are under 10. But the fact that there is not a single white person here between the ages of 8 and 20 say a lot. Balandas pack up their lives and head back to the cities to give their little albinos the chance at life they deserve. Pulling out the photos in adolescence, 'Remember when you used to play with black kids? They're just like us, aren't they, and not criminals at all!?'
And why is it only a certain type of white person makes it to communities in the first place. They're all fair-skinned and freckled - oddly the exact opposite type of person suited to the climate. Is it that they were the ranks of the middle-class who didn't ever entertain the illusion that they were good-looking enough to be an actor, hence relegated to the jobs less self-obsessed? It was either that or slit their freckled wrists. No no, they would never do that - they're all so darn enthusiastic. They say most fear comes from what you don't understand - I'm not afraid of algebra, or the French, but I'm afraid of white people.
Anyway, I'm straying here. Long story short - for Balandas the standard of femininity has become being independant, strong, teacherly/maternal (take your pick). Which brings me to Aborginals. I feel obliged to tread lightly here, but I'm too afraid of becoming just another bloody Balanda. Aboriginals have always had the rough end of the stick, They are, perhaps, the most desexualised race on earth. No, fuck it, it's true. We're all taught to admire the elgant beauty of the African Queen, the Bollywood Princess, and saucy Latin Diva. Asian has hotties all over from Japanese schoolgirls to Thai Trannies. Even the Native Americans had the steamy Pocahontis. Think about it. If (ever) we are offered an Aboriginal woman to be admired as beautiful, she is half-caste to the point of homogeny. It's the same with the men but Aboriginal male identity is a massive issue that is going to need more time for me to bake. Another day.
Some folks, at this point, would argue with me. They'd probably offer up a portrait and get me to see the beauty in the character of each crevis. But by that logic everyone in the world is beautiful, even if they've been disfigured in a fire and forced to appear on Maury Povich. The curse of modern art - beauty in everything from the tragic to mundane. I'm not saying Aboriginal women are unattractive - quite the opposite. I'm trying to point out what we're up against - a dominant world culture that has marinalised them as sexual beings. It's true though. Aboriginals always seem to somehow have kids, while white people are fucking freely in front of a camera.
As if puberty wasn't hard enough. The conflict is clear when girls break out in a fit of wild Carribean dancing ("Bam Bam"). It's charged with huge sexual energy - it's like their hips are a bucking bronco and their torso hangs on for dear life. The dance always stops abruptly after a few moments as they dive in to a pile of thier friends, hiding their face, giggling and blushing. They are experimenting with 'sexy', even if a little self-consciously.
Truth is there's plenty of sex going on in Maningrida - like I said 700 kids under 10 - and the kids are starting to have sex young, but in perspective that's pretty normal for any small town. Especially living at such close quarters. That's not the issue. The issue is indenity, confidence, pride. I don't know how they're delaing with it. I've been working with the health board for a (working) week. I see smoking, alcohol abuse, petrol sniffing, mental illness, molestation, pot, karva, runny noses and poor diets plastered everywhere. Not once have I read the words 'body image', 'self esteem' or 'sexual health'. I just wonder, what is being created here?
'The place where femininity changed place'. Sounds like a nice spot. Really, don't we WANT independant, strong, teacherly/maternal women? If Maningrida existed in a vaccuum, you might even get them. Sadly western culture is all-invasive and freckle-legged enthusiastics are not the only rolemodels girls are exposed to here. And, as time rolls on, the Aboriginal communities are forced increasingly to aglo-cise the problem grows. I'm not afraid of algebra, or the French, but I'm afraid of the West - my inheritance.
Mission
Mr. Coffey. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to go to the town disco and flim a bunch of black people dancing in the dark. Look I'm not being racist or anything, I'm just looking at the world through the lens of crappy video camera. It's a matter of science - dark skin in low light makes for very little contrast. All that shit about seeing them smile in the dark is cruel myth that imposes unrealistic standards of dental hygiene on young Aboriginals. They need more attainable dental rolemodels - like the English.
Last night was the opening ceremony of the Maningrida Cyclone Recovery Festival. It was supposed to start at 4, which in Maningrida really meant 6. All the white people arrived on time and waited patiently - all with cameras ready, not wanting to miss the traditional dancing. I don't want to be cruel here - many Balandas (whities) had a large hand in organising the event (fat handed twats) - but I got the sense that there's no greater social faux pas among Balandas than to NOT be moved by and interested in Aboriginal culture. You hear them fighting amongst themselves about who understands them better, who patronises them more, and who is closer to which families. I fret from altuism.
Slowly a crowd gathered in the school playground - everyone sitting neatly in family arcs, legs crossed, like a row of anthills. Some families with 30 plus people, few with less than ten. A few celebrities. My mate Marion, Olympian Nova Peris-Kneebone, and that guy from 10 Canoes - no, I'm not being racist, it was actually the guy. He was one of the traditional dancers. At the end they invited everyone up to dance - balck and white. The Balandas waited cautiously for the literal invitation from an Aboriginal to get their 'cultural experience'. They got it. It was a little sad. More white dancers than black. Balandas are so enthusiastic about Aboriginal culture, Aboriginals are so unenthusiastic about their enthusiasm. Proud people, but perhaps a little reluctant to share with us of what we have already taken so much.
By the time the battle of the fist ever Arhnem School Bands started there was quite a crowd - seething with dogs and children. Everyone watched crosslegged. Nobody danced. The crowd, it seemed, was controlled by one man who stood by the stage. If the kids edged too close he would ward them off with a swing of his hand. The kids moved like a shoal of frightened fish - squeeling and trampling eachother. I was filming. Kids love the camera and followed me around and sat on top of me to see what I was looking at. I had the camera off for the better part - the sound was shit, the footage would be mostly useless. Moreover, I didn't want to put an obstacle - a window - between me and this fairly surreal experience. Was I really still in Australia?
Next to the town hall - an average hall built with every second brick in every second row missing to let the air flow through - for the dance off. The scene was crazy. Kids covered the floor - still all neatly crosslegged - playing, fighting, laughing, eating chips and drinking coke. Others ran - RAN - over, through and around the mass. The noise was deafeningly high-pitched, but that's kids.
While the music at the battle of the bands was mainly reggae or ska influenced, all the dancing was R'n'B. Moves were busted, booties shook. All these kids were so shy, so self-conscious - same as at the battle - but they so wanted to be up there. Maningrida hadn't seen anything like this for a long time. And neither will I again... oh, except tonight, there's another concert on for the festival. Ha. So much for varied and unique cultural experiences.
Last night was the opening ceremony of the Maningrida Cyclone Recovery Festival. It was supposed to start at 4, which in Maningrida really meant 6. All the white people arrived on time and waited patiently - all with cameras ready, not wanting to miss the traditional dancing. I don't want to be cruel here - many Balandas (whities) had a large hand in organising the event (fat handed twats) - but I got the sense that there's no greater social faux pas among Balandas than to NOT be moved by and interested in Aboriginal culture. You hear them fighting amongst themselves about who understands them better, who patronises them more, and who is closer to which families. I fret from altuism.
Slowly a crowd gathered in the school playground - everyone sitting neatly in family arcs, legs crossed, like a row of anthills. Some families with 30 plus people, few with less than ten. A few celebrities. My mate Marion, Olympian Nova Peris-Kneebone, and that guy from 10 Canoes - no, I'm not being racist, it was actually the guy. He was one of the traditional dancers. At the end they invited everyone up to dance - balck and white. The Balandas waited cautiously for the literal invitation from an Aboriginal to get their 'cultural experience'. They got it. It was a little sad. More white dancers than black. Balandas are so enthusiastic about Aboriginal culture, Aboriginals are so unenthusiastic about their enthusiasm. Proud people, but perhaps a little reluctant to share with us of what we have already taken so much.
By the time the battle of the fist ever Arhnem School Bands started there was quite a crowd - seething with dogs and children. Everyone watched crosslegged. Nobody danced. The crowd, it seemed, was controlled by one man who stood by the stage. If the kids edged too close he would ward them off with a swing of his hand. The kids moved like a shoal of frightened fish - squeeling and trampling eachother. I was filming. Kids love the camera and followed me around and sat on top of me to see what I was looking at. I had the camera off for the better part - the sound was shit, the footage would be mostly useless. Moreover, I didn't want to put an obstacle - a window - between me and this fairly surreal experience. Was I really still in Australia?
Next to the town hall - an average hall built with every second brick in every second row missing to let the air flow through - for the dance off. The scene was crazy. Kids covered the floor - still all neatly crosslegged - playing, fighting, laughing, eating chips and drinking coke. Others ran - RAN - over, through and around the mass. The noise was deafeningly high-pitched, but that's kids.
While the music at the battle of the bands was mainly reggae or ska influenced, all the dancing was R'n'B. Moves were busted, booties shook. All these kids were so shy, so self-conscious - same as at the battle - but they so wanted to be up there. Maningrida hadn't seen anything like this for a long time. And neither will I again... oh, except tonight, there's another concert on for the festival. Ha. So much for varied and unique cultural experiences.
Yes Minister
It was 2 in the afternoon. Rather than take lunch I said, 'Look John, I'm about as far along as I can be here. Is there anything else I can do?' Secretly hoping for the afternoon off.
"Oh, you can clean up the outside area at our place. We're having the Minister to tea." Fair enough. This'll be a first.
I began to think back to my experience with members of Parliament to date. I remember Simon Crean coming to primary school one day and giving out some awards. Lauren got one. That means handshake-and-a-photo-by-assosication for me. Then I rememeber being part of an angry mob that harrassed Inga Peulic when the Kennett government was shutting down schools for sport. Lauren's fault again. I never realised just how politically active Lauren was. All before the age of 14.
So Dad worked for Kennett for a while. I saw Steve Bracks once. I even went to Canberra - learnt that lesson the hard way. But as far as my own members of Parliament go, I wouldn't know them if they threw their chardonnay in my breakfast. (Note for later - have chardonnay for breakfast) So having a federal member of parliament and her ministerial advisor over for a casual barbeque seemed odd at first - like sushi, short pants and drinking your own urine to avoid dehydration... at once.
Come nightfall I was sitting outside with a glass of wine, struggling to make conversation with our guest for the weekend, Vincent the French backpacker. John met him in Darwin somewhere. Conflicted, as always, with my detest of backpackers, my love of France, intolerence of hospitality workers that take themselves too serious, and deep-seated need to be loved by everyone I plodded through pleasantries and tried to figure out what, other than John (and perhaps an aeroplane), brought him to Maningrida. Marion and 'Chips' arrived before I got anywhere and for the rest of the night France would make like Marcel Marceau and shut the fuck up. I felt sorry for him. He was right to feel a little intimidated - even though his English was flawless.
Marion Scrymgour is the federal member for somewhere (Google it yourself - this isn't fucking Wikipedia). An Aboriginal lady from the Tiwi Islands - somewhere around the Gulf - she started off slowly. Her advisor 'Chips' - real name uncertain, possibilities; Crispen, Smith, or Samboy - really got the ball rolling and dropped the C-bomb very early in the dinner converstation. I relaxed. I was at home. These people spoke my fucking language.
The conversation quickly moved to politics and they told us stories about people - hundreds of people - who's names I've never heard before. Still it was strangely engaging - the inside scoop. Chips is a white guy who seems to have grown up in communities one way or another. There's hardly a job in the media or ministery he hasn't kept down at one stage or another. Straight forwawrd guy. You can tell he and Marion have been working together a while - and working together well - because they talk over eachother. ('No darling, it's not disrespect, it's love!')
There are accusations and an awaiting trial in Maningrida. A sexual assult of a 12 year old boy by 10 men (some only 13 or 14 themselves) in the community. I don't know anything about it. Only that the national media have caught wind of it and it promises hasty, reactionary response from the MPs that count. Chips gave us the low down on spin-doctoring - the Health Board would be dealing with most of the media attention. I pondered a career in politics. Then I pondered eating my own body weight in bocconcini.
I make the whole evening sound heavier than it was. Most of it was fun and games, laughter and slander. John and Jenny kept it on the high-brow in respect for our guests, but I was on fire. 'I met Amanda Vanstone's Husband.' told Marion. 'He is a lovely man. Really delightful. And brilliant too. He just thinks she's the bees knees. I can't imagine why he spends his time following her around!?'
"He probably just enjoys the shade."
The evening over I retired. Marion and Chips will probably always be that - just Marion and Chips. Two folks at dinner. It's one thing I lament that you don't get in a big ctiy - who knows what my representative is like? But I guess up here, when you represent 4000 people, in a four year term you probably WILL meet everyone eventually... even a few people who you don't represent who are just happy that you're doing an admirable job. Vote Samboy.
"Oh, you can clean up the outside area at our place. We're having the Minister to tea." Fair enough. This'll be a first.
I began to think back to my experience with members of Parliament to date. I remember Simon Crean coming to primary school one day and giving out some awards. Lauren got one. That means handshake-and-a-photo-by-assosication for me. Then I rememeber being part of an angry mob that harrassed Inga Peulic when the Kennett government was shutting down schools for sport. Lauren's fault again. I never realised just how politically active Lauren was. All before the age of 14.
So Dad worked for Kennett for a while. I saw Steve Bracks once. I even went to Canberra - learnt that lesson the hard way. But as far as my own members of Parliament go, I wouldn't know them if they threw their chardonnay in my breakfast. (Note for later - have chardonnay for breakfast) So having a federal member of parliament and her ministerial advisor over for a casual barbeque seemed odd at first - like sushi, short pants and drinking your own urine to avoid dehydration... at once.
Come nightfall I was sitting outside with a glass of wine, struggling to make conversation with our guest for the weekend, Vincent the French backpacker. John met him in Darwin somewhere. Conflicted, as always, with my detest of backpackers, my love of France, intolerence of hospitality workers that take themselves too serious, and deep-seated need to be loved by everyone I plodded through pleasantries and tried to figure out what, other than John (and perhaps an aeroplane), brought him to Maningrida. Marion and 'Chips' arrived before I got anywhere and for the rest of the night France would make like Marcel Marceau and shut the fuck up. I felt sorry for him. He was right to feel a little intimidated - even though his English was flawless.
Marion Scrymgour is the federal member for somewhere (Google it yourself - this isn't fucking Wikipedia). An Aboriginal lady from the Tiwi Islands - somewhere around the Gulf - she started off slowly. Her advisor 'Chips' - real name uncertain, possibilities; Crispen, Smith, or Samboy - really got the ball rolling and dropped the C-bomb very early in the dinner converstation. I relaxed. I was at home. These people spoke my fucking language.
The conversation quickly moved to politics and they told us stories about people - hundreds of people - who's names I've never heard before. Still it was strangely engaging - the inside scoop. Chips is a white guy who seems to have grown up in communities one way or another. There's hardly a job in the media or ministery he hasn't kept down at one stage or another. Straight forwawrd guy. You can tell he and Marion have been working together a while - and working together well - because they talk over eachother. ('No darling, it's not disrespect, it's love!')
There are accusations and an awaiting trial in Maningrida. A sexual assult of a 12 year old boy by 10 men (some only 13 or 14 themselves) in the community. I don't know anything about it. Only that the national media have caught wind of it and it promises hasty, reactionary response from the MPs that count. Chips gave us the low down on spin-doctoring - the Health Board would be dealing with most of the media attention. I pondered a career in politics. Then I pondered eating my own body weight in bocconcini.
I make the whole evening sound heavier than it was. Most of it was fun and games, laughter and slander. John and Jenny kept it on the high-brow in respect for our guests, but I was on fire. 'I met Amanda Vanstone's Husband.' told Marion. 'He is a lovely man. Really delightful. And brilliant too. He just thinks she's the bees knees. I can't imagine why he spends his time following her around!?'
"He probably just enjoys the shade."
The evening over I retired. Marion and Chips will probably always be that - just Marion and Chips. Two folks at dinner. It's one thing I lament that you don't get in a big ctiy - who knows what my representative is like? But I guess up here, when you represent 4000 people, in a four year term you probably WILL meet everyone eventually... even a few people who you don't represent who are just happy that you're doing an admirable job. Vote Samboy.
Pencils
I'm struggling to get out of depressed mode. I'm in the habit of rolling over in bed of a morning, still believing that whatever I'm dreaming about is more interesting than what I've got on for the day. That may still be true, but dreaming is like being pissed. No matter how good a time you are having, once you wake up you only have vague memories of what went on. A face, the jist of a converstaion, a St. Bernard whistling showtunes as you ride him through the KFC drive-thru. It's all the same these days. It's hardly worth it. But it's hard to change habits. Goodbye Lucky, I'll miss you, old boy.
My energy levels are way down. I think it comes from cutting booze, cigarettes, and just about all sugar and fat from my diet in one fell swoop. I'm not saying it's bleak up here, but I'll be living-it-up on anual leave in Rawanda - thank you, Mr. Dangerfield. Pay day is the furthest point of a fortnightly cycle away. A single box of groceries costs $43 dollars to ship-in on the barge - or is that 'barge-in' on the ship? We're in no dire position, just on rations. The big carrot looks like it might hold out until October.
I've begun a morning routine to center my energy, increase my strength and flexibility, all the time stripping fat from my knees, elbows and ears. Energy is a funny thing like that - the more you expend the more you actually have (to a point, obviously). I was actually surprised at how many sit-ups I can do, and equally surprised by how few push-ups can follow. It can only improve - one of the few perks of being shit at everything.
Routine, it seems, is what gets most people through the day up here. I've found myself taking on a lot of menial tasks and taking great pleasure in them. Because they needed to be done. I emptied seven boxes of apples into a fridge today, stacking them procariously, six at a time, knowing that they'll have to be unpacked back into the boxes on the weekend. By me. But that was good. I'm part of a process. And those apples are going to make a lot of kids happy on the weekend. And I was part of it.
I was peeling bananas the night before. If monkeys ever joined the workforce, that's the kind of job we'd handball to them. I peeled so many bananas that at one point I thought I had accidentally turned gay. But it needed to be done. And I was glad to be helping.
Even today, just making calls, ordering stationary, that kind of shit, made me feel good. Because once that stuff arrives, things will happen. Shit'll get done... eventually. We're still on Territory time here, people. Let's not get too excited.
There's a flim that Katie put me onto - Before Sunset. One 90 minute-long unbroken conversation. An interesting experiement in film. In it a women laments (and I'm paraphrasing here) - 'A friend of mine works in an organisation in Mexico. The sole purpose of this organisation is to get pencils to children at schools in disadvanted areas of the country. She's a brilliant mind, she could save the world, but she never thinks that big. She thinks about individual pencils going to individual school children.'
These are the beautiful people - the true humans. I am not one of them, but i enjoy walking in their shoes... because the ground up here gets really hot.
My energy levels are way down. I think it comes from cutting booze, cigarettes, and just about all sugar and fat from my diet in one fell swoop. I'm not saying it's bleak up here, but I'll be living-it-up on anual leave in Rawanda - thank you, Mr. Dangerfield. Pay day is the furthest point of a fortnightly cycle away. A single box of groceries costs $43 dollars to ship-in on the barge - or is that 'barge-in' on the ship? We're in no dire position, just on rations. The big carrot looks like it might hold out until October.
I've begun a morning routine to center my energy, increase my strength and flexibility, all the time stripping fat from my knees, elbows and ears. Energy is a funny thing like that - the more you expend the more you actually have (to a point, obviously). I was actually surprised at how many sit-ups I can do, and equally surprised by how few push-ups can follow. It can only improve - one of the few perks of being shit at everything.
Routine, it seems, is what gets most people through the day up here. I've found myself taking on a lot of menial tasks and taking great pleasure in them. Because they needed to be done. I emptied seven boxes of apples into a fridge today, stacking them procariously, six at a time, knowing that they'll have to be unpacked back into the boxes on the weekend. By me. But that was good. I'm part of a process. And those apples are going to make a lot of kids happy on the weekend. And I was part of it.
I was peeling bananas the night before. If monkeys ever joined the workforce, that's the kind of job we'd handball to them. I peeled so many bananas that at one point I thought I had accidentally turned gay. But it needed to be done. And I was glad to be helping.
Even today, just making calls, ordering stationary, that kind of shit, made me feel good. Because once that stuff arrives, things will happen. Shit'll get done... eventually. We're still on Territory time here, people. Let's not get too excited.
There's a flim that Katie put me onto - Before Sunset. One 90 minute-long unbroken conversation. An interesting experiement in film. In it a women laments (and I'm paraphrasing here) - 'A friend of mine works in an organisation in Mexico. The sole purpose of this organisation is to get pencils to children at schools in disadvanted areas of the country. She's a brilliant mind, she could save the world, but she never thinks that big. She thinks about individual pencils going to individual school children.'
These are the beautiful people - the true humans. I am not one of them, but i enjoy walking in their shoes... because the ground up here gets really hot.
Banana Karma
People complain about the price of petrol. Fair enough - it's steep. Running out at about $1.65 in Maningrida today. But take bananas. Today it cost nearly $1000 to get two boxes of bananas out of Darwin. Now that's steep. I blame the government. We should be investing all available resources into generating banana alternatives. If they can make tofu bacon can a solution really be that far away?
I've deceided I hate Jetstar. Nothing really personal - they're just my least favourite airline. They're so brightly lit. It's like flying to Darwin in a 7/11. The seats are uncomfortable and don't really tilt back, and I didn't talk to single attendant the whole time I was flying. Not that I particularly wanted to - I just didn't see one. Generally shit - but they flew in on time. That'd be the last thing that happened on time for the next 24 hours...
John met me at the airport and we picked up where we left off - chatting away. So much has happened, yet so little has changed. Small town life is like that a lot. Different things are important. I could feel myself consciously shifting focus. Your center of attention comes down from your head and settles somewhere closer to your center of gravity. It's easier to do things from there. Everything seems to gather a momentum of its own. This is where people are leading from when they truly 'go with the flow' - that said, most 'flow-ers' are just lazy or stoned.
I mentioned focus. I must say, it's not easy to maintain mine while I type this. During dinner two buffalo walked into the yard. They're the Asian kind that pull ploughs in rice paddies. I was stoked - I mean, that's pretty fucking cool. They've been brought up in the community like pets. Placid as hell - still in no hurry to ride one. Anyway, just now a pack of camp-dogs have followed them into the backyard and are trying to kill them. Yep. Kill them. Snarling, barking, ripping, tearing. Charming. Camp-dogs are mangey, scabby, ravernous mutts that live around the community. They're everywhere. Travel in packs, like to intimidate people and chew the fleas on their arse - like police, really. Anyway, I'll ignore them. They'll probably be doing it all night anyway...
John and I arrived at the apartment only to meet a friend of his. Kamal, John would later explain to me, had a bit of an 'I'm-the-best-chuck-out-the-rest' attitude. I was just delighted that schoolyard inferences are slowly coming back in to vogue. He and Kamal sat up drinking. I bailed when I realised we'd be back on a plane in 3 hours or so. I slept under a sheet - I'm already loving the weather.
We got up on time and everything. Packed the taxi and swung by Woolworths to pick up a couple of boxes of bananas. There's a festival on in Maningrida this weekend. The health board thought it would be nice to get some bananas - expensive though they may be - and freeze them as a treat for the kids on the day. Great idea. And at $370 for the two boxes it was a lovely and generous gesture - like giving your seat up for a pregnant, disabled midget. But that was to be just the first of the unexpected expenses.
The cab was about $30 but the second we got to the airport we were told that the flight was closed and, though there was no lines or people waiting, half an hour was not time enough to make it on to our flight. Both being cheapskates, our tickets were not transferable. We'd have to book more for the afternoon... $500 later. So straight back in a cab ($20) to pick up the Kombi and out to breakfast ($25). Spend a few hours on the beach - tanning to perfection (priceless) and shortening our lives by decades (more of a blessing than anything). Back to the apartment, bananas in a cab to the airport ($20). Airlinecharges for excess baggage (i.e. bananas, additional $70), add lunch and a newspaper in the airport lounge ($25).
I peeled every one of those $1000 bananas this evening - pausing only breifly to shit my pants when i found a massive huntsman in the box. It reminded me what a big part of my life bananas had played in my life - before the cyclone, before the shortage, before the war on tropical fruit. I remember the smoothies, the splits, the loafs. I remember using bananas as replica side-arms in play with my siblings. I remember trying to sell a banana on e-bay as a replica side-arm and being dissappointed at the bidding war that ensued. I miss bananas... I'd buy a frozen one this weekend at the festival but they're going for about $8 a pop.
*The above is a made-up story about a made-up person called Ryan Coffey in a made-up place called the Northern Territory. Any resemblence to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. Even if it did actually happen, and it really really sounds true. Coincidence. I say this to ensure the ensure the integrity of all made-up persons and places therein.
I've deceided I hate Jetstar. Nothing really personal - they're just my least favourite airline. They're so brightly lit. It's like flying to Darwin in a 7/11. The seats are uncomfortable and don't really tilt back, and I didn't talk to single attendant the whole time I was flying. Not that I particularly wanted to - I just didn't see one. Generally shit - but they flew in on time. That'd be the last thing that happened on time for the next 24 hours...
John met me at the airport and we picked up where we left off - chatting away. So much has happened, yet so little has changed. Small town life is like that a lot. Different things are important. I could feel myself consciously shifting focus. Your center of attention comes down from your head and settles somewhere closer to your center of gravity. It's easier to do things from there. Everything seems to gather a momentum of its own. This is where people are leading from when they truly 'go with the flow' - that said, most 'flow-ers' are just lazy or stoned.
I mentioned focus. I must say, it's not easy to maintain mine while I type this. During dinner two buffalo walked into the yard. They're the Asian kind that pull ploughs in rice paddies. I was stoked - I mean, that's pretty fucking cool. They've been brought up in the community like pets. Placid as hell - still in no hurry to ride one. Anyway, just now a pack of camp-dogs have followed them into the backyard and are trying to kill them. Yep. Kill them. Snarling, barking, ripping, tearing. Charming. Camp-dogs are mangey, scabby, ravernous mutts that live around the community. They're everywhere. Travel in packs, like to intimidate people and chew the fleas on their arse - like police, really. Anyway, I'll ignore them. They'll probably be doing it all night anyway...
John and I arrived at the apartment only to meet a friend of his. Kamal, John would later explain to me, had a bit of an 'I'm-the-best-chuck-out-the-rest' attitude. I was just delighted that schoolyard inferences are slowly coming back in to vogue. He and Kamal sat up drinking. I bailed when I realised we'd be back on a plane in 3 hours or so. I slept under a sheet - I'm already loving the weather.
We got up on time and everything. Packed the taxi and swung by Woolworths to pick up a couple of boxes of bananas. There's a festival on in Maningrida this weekend. The health board thought it would be nice to get some bananas - expensive though they may be - and freeze them as a treat for the kids on the day. Great idea. And at $370 for the two boxes it was a lovely and generous gesture - like giving your seat up for a pregnant, disabled midget. But that was to be just the first of the unexpected expenses.
The cab was about $30 but the second we got to the airport we were told that the flight was closed and, though there was no lines or people waiting, half an hour was not time enough to make it on to our flight. Both being cheapskates, our tickets were not transferable. We'd have to book more for the afternoon... $500 later. So straight back in a cab ($20) to pick up the Kombi and out to breakfast ($25). Spend a few hours on the beach - tanning to perfection (priceless) and shortening our lives by decades (more of a blessing than anything). Back to the apartment, bananas in a cab to the airport ($20). Airlinecharges for excess baggage (i.e. bananas, additional $70), add lunch and a newspaper in the airport lounge ($25).
I peeled every one of those $1000 bananas this evening - pausing only breifly to shit my pants when i found a massive huntsman in the box. It reminded me what a big part of my life bananas had played in my life - before the cyclone, before the shortage, before the war on tropical fruit. I remember the smoothies, the splits, the loafs. I remember using bananas as replica side-arms in play with my siblings. I remember trying to sell a banana on e-bay as a replica side-arm and being dissappointed at the bidding war that ensued. I miss bananas... I'd buy a frozen one this weekend at the festival but they're going for about $8 a pop.
*The above is a made-up story about a made-up person called Ryan Coffey in a made-up place called the Northern Territory. Any resemblence to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. Even if it did actually happen, and it really really sounds true. Coincidence. I say this to ensure the ensure the integrity of all made-up persons and places therein.
Armless
There’s something about waking up at midday and watching Dr. Phil at someone else’s house that makes it feel much less like you’re a slovenly, procrastinating dog and more like a you’re wealthy man of leisure - pottering around your airy holiday estate. Then along comes Oprah to ruin everything - some smarmy American shit born without arms and legs has risen above it all and become a champion college wrestler. Great! Now I’m the bad guy. Congenital amputation once again ruins what was otherwise a perfectly good day.
Café di Moda offers alfresco dining with slow, inept service and enormous, steaming steins of brown-and-milk masquerading as café lattes. I know, I know, you’re thinking when can I go?! Well, I’m keeping it my own little secret. Emily and I were settling down do a birthday breakfast of bacon, eggs and loudly repeated orders. It didn’t seem like we’d spent any time apart.
We jumped straight in to some conversation about how, if faced with cancer, we’d ‘ideologically’ die from it, rather than seek treatment. Me and Em have a way of agreeing that somehow always feels like arguing. A battle for clearer explanation, subtler semantic nuance, more poetic maxim. One day I hope me and Emily will converse entirely in haiku.
Rehashing some old ground, it was odd to hear a few of my own aphorisms coming back at me. Endearing – I wonder if she realised she was doing it… or if I’d been quoting her all these years… it’s been harder and harder to tell over the decade…
My cappuccino arrived. I let it gently warm my hands through my asbestos gloves and spoke, ‘I say all this knowing that I’ll probably change my mind the second I actually get cancer…’ Emily paused and squinted in that tilty-headed way.
“You never know how you’ll feel” she started. “…it’s like, I spent all this time studying to be a physio. That was the goal. That was going to be… it. And now I am one… and I’m left feeling… like, now what?!” The mantra of my generation.
Grateful people – like dolphins - are smug. Always kind of grinning, responding to rudimentary hand-signals, and communicating in squeaks and clicks. Luckily, I don’ really know any of them – grateful people or dolphins. Sure, when pushed, everyone will say that they are thankful for all they have. You have to. It’s the rule. Otherwise you’re an arrogant fuck in the eyes of others, and you’re only ever likely to pick up shallow, self-interested, extremely attractive women. Regrets? I’ve had a few…
Yes, we do love our family and friends. And of course, we like that we’ve got money, food, health and aren’t bothered by poor people or retaliatory bombings. Hey, we’ve got it easy. And yes, we are grateful, I guess. So, why is everyone I know wanting for something?
A quip and a joke and a slight distracted tangent and we’re talking about something completely different – the preferred condiment of dinosaurs – such is the nature of our conversations. My coffee had even cooled. We must have been talking for hours. Finally, she drops the bombshell. Emily has this talent of entering a conversation with one thing on her mind, then avoid talking about it until the last possible moment.
She’s found a boy. She’s faced a fear and told him that she liked him. She’s entered into a long-distance relationship, the type she’d said ‘she’d never do’. She‘s enamoured. When she talks about him her mind is still and giddy at the same time. She glows. And for a little while, our conversation isn’t about wanting anything. And I wonder what I’m wanting. And I wonder why I’m here…
Post Script: The day after breakfast I was picked up from my sister’s house to go for a night out. I’d be gone four days. In that time I’d find myself on a beach on the Sunshine Coast. Time had slowed to clichéd crawl, the sun browning my back as I wrote, absent-minded, in the sand. The constant crashing of waves was so soothing it had become silence itself. My gaze happened upon what I’d been writing. You are not what you are looking for. I hadn’t changed my shorts in days. Why would I want to? Why would I want anything? …from across the sand, a girl with curlybrown hair smiled and waved…
Café di Moda offers alfresco dining with slow, inept service and enormous, steaming steins of brown-and-milk masquerading as café lattes. I know, I know, you’re thinking when can I go?! Well, I’m keeping it my own little secret. Emily and I were settling down do a birthday breakfast of bacon, eggs and loudly repeated orders. It didn’t seem like we’d spent any time apart.
We jumped straight in to some conversation about how, if faced with cancer, we’d ‘ideologically’ die from it, rather than seek treatment. Me and Em have a way of agreeing that somehow always feels like arguing. A battle for clearer explanation, subtler semantic nuance, more poetic maxim. One day I hope me and Emily will converse entirely in haiku.
Rehashing some old ground, it was odd to hear a few of my own aphorisms coming back at me. Endearing – I wonder if she realised she was doing it… or if I’d been quoting her all these years… it’s been harder and harder to tell over the decade…
My cappuccino arrived. I let it gently warm my hands through my asbestos gloves and spoke, ‘I say all this knowing that I’ll probably change my mind the second I actually get cancer…’ Emily paused and squinted in that tilty-headed way.
“You never know how you’ll feel” she started. “…it’s like, I spent all this time studying to be a physio. That was the goal. That was going to be… it. And now I am one… and I’m left feeling… like, now what?!” The mantra of my generation.
Grateful people – like dolphins - are smug. Always kind of grinning, responding to rudimentary hand-signals, and communicating in squeaks and clicks. Luckily, I don’ really know any of them – grateful people or dolphins. Sure, when pushed, everyone will say that they are thankful for all they have. You have to. It’s the rule. Otherwise you’re an arrogant fuck in the eyes of others, and you’re only ever likely to pick up shallow, self-interested, extremely attractive women. Regrets? I’ve had a few…
Yes, we do love our family and friends. And of course, we like that we’ve got money, food, health and aren’t bothered by poor people or retaliatory bombings. Hey, we’ve got it easy. And yes, we are grateful, I guess. So, why is everyone I know wanting for something?
A quip and a joke and a slight distracted tangent and we’re talking about something completely different – the preferred condiment of dinosaurs – such is the nature of our conversations. My coffee had even cooled. We must have been talking for hours. Finally, she drops the bombshell. Emily has this talent of entering a conversation with one thing on her mind, then avoid talking about it until the last possible moment.
She’s found a boy. She’s faced a fear and told him that she liked him. She’s entered into a long-distance relationship, the type she’d said ‘she’d never do’. She‘s enamoured. When she talks about him her mind is still and giddy at the same time. She glows. And for a little while, our conversation isn’t about wanting anything. And I wonder what I’m wanting. And I wonder why I’m here…
Post Script: The day after breakfast I was picked up from my sister’s house to go for a night out. I’d be gone four days. In that time I’d find myself on a beach on the Sunshine Coast. Time had slowed to clichéd crawl, the sun browning my back as I wrote, absent-minded, in the sand. The constant crashing of waves was so soothing it had become silence itself. My gaze happened upon what I’d been writing. You are not what you are looking for. I hadn’t changed my shorts in days. Why would I want to? Why would I want anything? …from across the sand, a girl with curlybrown hair smiled and waved…
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