Futility

At Sydney airport the numbness began to wear off. The flight. The ride to Tullamarine. The over-casual goodbyes. The day previous… I don’t actually remember feeling anything. I’d watched myself pack a bag, potter around, and stand, three mornings, bleeding in the shower, all from an emotional vacuum. The last time I actually felt something was the party on Sunday night – an overwhelming feeling of drunkenness, and the interminable urge to piss. By the empty flightdesk, a new feeling came on fast...

Qantas, in their boundless charity and infinite wisdom, gave me the only available ticket to Brisbane that would allow me at least 7 hours of travel-time to fret between cities. This is how they reward their frequent fliers. Apparently, if you’re a shareholder you’re rewarded biannually when a representative makes a house-call and forces you to suck the shit out of your cat at gunpoint - a real jewel in any portfolio.

As if I needed more time to wonder why-the-fuck I was going to Brisbane in the first place, the gravity of the drunken good-byes I’d been saying all week was only just sinking in. As Dad’s van had barrelled along to the airport on an eight-lane shame train, as the plane roared an arc of disruption over a bunch of poor-people’s houses, as I sat stuffing Krispy Kreme doughnuts into my face in a gaudy transit lounge – my thoughts were on one thing: the goldmine of beautiful, genuine, engaging friends I was leaving behind.

I’d rationalised the walking-out on a perfectly good job. I’d justified the packing of bags, the storing of stuff. I’d even chalked-up a defensible excuse for choosing Brisbane of all places. But one thing had struck me on each leg of the journey so far. As I moved with the mechanised masses through the city. As I watched each insignificant household become more tiny through the airplane window. As I watched the hurried footsteps of inexpensive suits on moving walkways. The futility of human life was glaring and stark. So, what makes me special? Why am I on this mission in the first place?

I took another sip of my coffee. It was like a frothy cocktail of milk and cigarette ash – bitter and acrid, much like my mood. I hate Sydney. No, I digress. I hate airports. The beating heart of globalisation. The very gene of homogenous. I toyed with the idea of getting a drink. Booze; morphine for a man’s man. Safety in numbness. I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. After all, wasn’t that half the reason for the change of scene? The change of pace?
‘In 18 months of heavy and steady drinking,’ I boasted to my cousin on Sunday night, ‘I’ve gained only five kilos!’
“I’ll bet it’s five extra kilos of swollen liver”
‘I’ll drink to that…’ I mused, swiftly clinking glasses. Beer was never the enemy. The bar was never the trap. I drank that little bit longer each night only to spend a tiny time more with those fine folks in my phone - my friends, my family. I’ve invented a new word: fr-amily. I no longer see the need to differentiate the two.

Finally down another endless gangway to an overly air-conditioned economy-class. We taxied out to the far runway – took forever. I approached the cockpit and asked if it might not be easier just to taxi the remaining 20 minutes to Brisbane. The head-steward was not amused. But the pilot thought it was a fucking riot, offered me some of his meth-amphetamines, and kept calling me ‘Chuck’ for some reason. The generosity of strangers never ceases to amaze me… it makes me want to be a better person… to strangers and framily alike.
As we banked over Sydney city in the curve of our take-off, I watched two little lines of light and wondered – and endless line of red tail-lights going into the city, an endless line of white headlights coming out. Who were these people? What makes them happy? Does anyone ever say ‘I love you’ anymore? I’d barely finished my aeroplane sized serve of chicken bordelaise – that’s French for ‘chicken and yellow’ - and we were touching down in a blackened Brisbane.

By morning the panic had faded and surreality had set in. Parrots, palm trees, blue skies and bawling babies – we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto. (And, while we’re at it, Toto; didn’t think much of that fucking ‘Africa’ song.)

A new chapter begins. The aim – to make it count. Action over analysis – tantalisingly terrifying abandon and unknowing. This one’s for all the posturing and posing – the lies and shyness. This one’s for all the girls I never quite kissed – always very nearly, but only ever almost. Let this be for my framily – that I might return to you a more open individual. And that, in the meantime (however short), you are fully and unselfconsciously aware that I love you and revere you. You are what set me aside from the futility all around. I just wish I was better at saying it than writing it…