Another bar, another beer, and another cry for help offered up to my friends as a conveniently digestible aphorism – the only times one ever feels like a normal person are when one is working or drinking. The rest is scary and confusing. I think most of my drinking buddies like it when I tie things up in neat little packages like that. It makes it seem less like I’m making pleading personal confessions and more like I’m making some insightful commentary on the human condition in general. It’s less confronting. Who likes ‘confronting’?
People are always at their most sincere when being flippant. The truth always comes quickest as it’s at the top of the web of lies. It’s both a defence mechanism and a cathartic necessity. Get it off your chest, then palm it off as being a joke. Ha ha, aren’t I clever and naughty. *dusts off hands* Scott free.
It doesn’t help that cruelty is so entertaining. The truth is so often cruel and, so slightly more often, hilarious. A cheap shot’s a good shot. Perhaps that’s why people get so uncomfortable when you openly offer up your own truth. Why would one do that to oneself? What am I walking into here? What manner of cruelty are they trying to draw out of me? Perhaps that’s why I find it expedient to make my personal misgivings into a complaint of a generation.
The only times people ever feel normal are when they’re working or drinking. Tidy as it may be, it’s also largely true. These are the times when we… fuck it… when I’m sufficiently busied or blinded by the activity at hand that I don’t need or feel or want – I just do. The time spent always passes quickly and is usually unremarkable, but it is quiet and untroubled. I appreciate it.
I would wish it more often, or in other facets of life, if I didn’t fear the whole thing might just pass by in an unremarkable quickness. But isn’t that always the way – he says, drawing yet another leaf from his Mammoth Book of Maxims – when life is busied, passing quickly, we always wish it to slow down, yet when life slows down we wish it to hasten. I’m getting good at these self-reflexive adages – one might say good in the worst possible way.
I like work. And I like drinking. They are genuinely the times I feel most at home these days. Perhaps because those are the times I’m surrounded by friends. Maybe I’m an alcoholic. That’s possible. Maybe I’m a work-a-holic. Yeah, that’s pretty fucking unlikely. I guess I’ll just have to continue my research. Which is lucky – there’s a lot of working and drinking in my immediate future. At least I know I’ll be safe and happy and normal. That’s the truth.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Stars
Every Saturday starts the same way. I lurch from my bed at the sound of my phone’s alarm, vibrating its way across my hardwood floor. Vrrrrtt Vrrrrtt Vrrrrrtt. I bash through the shower, and try not to freeze my nuts off as I chuck on my work clothes. Jeans and a t-shirt – a classic combo as old as whichever item was invented last. Pat-check my pockets. Wallet. Smokes. Keys. Phone. I’m ready to leave the house. I swing the door shut behind me and light a dirty morning cigarette. My eyes squint against the light and my wet hair sticks cold against my head. I start begrudgingly in the direction of Greville Street.
At a particular point about two houses down the street, where I’m feeling at my most apathetic about the day, someone has taken the liberty of a small street-installation artwork. Sprayed-white stencil, on the asphalt: “there are stars beneath your feet”. At first I thought it marked the site of some sort of sacred celebrity burial ground. But no. How facetiously tainted and trained my brain has become. Thankyou, E! News.
The words must have been put there by some tiresome hippy, still brimming with the wonder found in the everyday. I hate those people – more than most. Their Zenless content in nothingness makes me uncomfortable. It’s condescending. But something about this particular phrase captures my imagination. Stars beneath my feet. All the way through the asphalt, through the dirt, the rock, the magma, and the core, the magma, the rock, the dirt, and the asphalt are the stars above the heads of the people on the other side of the world. And for that minute I’m washed with a perspective of my exact place in the universe – the vastness, the 3-dimentionality, the insignificance, the circularity, the minuteness, the importance, the gravity. It never fails to steal a smile across my face. Tired, wet and smoking, I feel like a full and proper person.
It is all shattered when I realise that in that moment, I’m no better than that tiresome, condescending hippy.
At a particular point about two houses down the street, where I’m feeling at my most apathetic about the day, someone has taken the liberty of a small street-installation artwork. Sprayed-white stencil, on the asphalt: “there are stars beneath your feet”. At first I thought it marked the site of some sort of sacred celebrity burial ground. But no. How facetiously tainted and trained my brain has become. Thankyou, E! News.
The words must have been put there by some tiresome hippy, still brimming with the wonder found in the everyday. I hate those people – more than most. Their Zenless content in nothingness makes me uncomfortable. It’s condescending. But something about this particular phrase captures my imagination. Stars beneath my feet. All the way through the asphalt, through the dirt, the rock, the magma, and the core, the magma, the rock, the dirt, and the asphalt are the stars above the heads of the people on the other side of the world. And for that minute I’m washed with a perspective of my exact place in the universe – the vastness, the 3-dimentionality, the insignificance, the circularity, the minuteness, the importance, the gravity. It never fails to steal a smile across my face. Tired, wet and smoking, I feel like a full and proper person.
It is all shattered when I realise that in that moment, I’m no better than that tiresome, condescending hippy.
Bookstores
Bookstores are great places. You look seem like a better person just for walking in the door. People think you're a smarter, more sensitive person just for being there. You can’t help but play up to that. I like to make sure I'm catching the eye of the cute girls - 'yeah, that's right, baby. I'm in the philosophy section. No sci-fi for me. I'm a real man. I don't even wear glasses or anything. I'm not even a virgin... technically.'
The best part about bookstores is they're like libraries - except they're well stocked, adequately staffed and don't smell of children and old people. You can saunter in, read a bunch of blurbs and leave with a whole canon of fodder (see what I did there?) for dinner parties. Who am I kidding? My friends don't have dinner parties. They have souvlakis at three in the morning in an attempt to cork the inevitable geyser of frothy, yeasty vomit fermenting below. There are, of course, many opportunities for sterling intellectual repartee before the great greasy lamb-damming, but the satisfaction of passing-off someone else's great idea as your own lacks a little lustre when no one can remember your brilliance the next day. More's the pity.
One such great concept I recently flogged came from a book about habit, ritual and addiction. I think it was called "Habit, Ritual & Addiction" - these academics bore the shit out of people for a living, the title is nothing if not fitting. The work riffed on this idea of 'mythicised participation' which particularly tickled my nuts. It was a critique on how modern man, stripped of religion and his affinity with the land, has no ritual in his life. Listless and without community, he turns to the drink. The only solace left to seek is that in this "mythical" perception that when he drinks, he is actually part of something - a socially acceptable pastime. A way of life.
There's no activity so ambivalently righteous and wretched as drinking. A night slamming cans can make or break a man. Make or break. Sometimes the difference is only a pint in either direction. I've seen it. I've been it. But, for the most part, we drinking men who are neither great nor garish live comfortably cushioned in the ether of the inbetween. Our boozy buffer from the world of 'real human moments' is only ever as alienating as the particular stool we choose at that evening's bar. Thankfully now we have the endearing exile of outdoor smoking to draw us closer together - the mythical is practically tangible.
Bars are great places. You seem like a better person just for walking in the door. People think you're a cooler, more interesting person just for being there. You can't help but play up to that. I like to make sure I'm catching the ey of the cute girls - 'yeah, that's right baby. I'm having casual conversation with the bartender. He totally knows me. And look at the size of the beer I'm drinking! It's like a fucking fish bowl! Oh, yeah I'm a real man. If I could see you across the room without closing one eye, I might even try to talk to you. Maybe I need glasses... maybe then I wouldn't be a virgin... technically.'
The best part about bookstores is they're like libraries - except they're well stocked, adequately staffed and don't smell of children and old people. You can saunter in, read a bunch of blurbs and leave with a whole canon of fodder (see what I did there?) for dinner parties. Who am I kidding? My friends don't have dinner parties. They have souvlakis at three in the morning in an attempt to cork the inevitable geyser of frothy, yeasty vomit fermenting below. There are, of course, many opportunities for sterling intellectual repartee before the great greasy lamb-damming, but the satisfaction of passing-off someone else's great idea as your own lacks a little lustre when no one can remember your brilliance the next day. More's the pity.
One such great concept I recently flogged came from a book about habit, ritual and addiction. I think it was called "Habit, Ritual & Addiction" - these academics bore the shit out of people for a living, the title is nothing if not fitting. The work riffed on this idea of 'mythicised participation' which particularly tickled my nuts. It was a critique on how modern man, stripped of religion and his affinity with the land, has no ritual in his life. Listless and without community, he turns to the drink. The only solace left to seek is that in this "mythical" perception that when he drinks, he is actually part of something - a socially acceptable pastime. A way of life.
There's no activity so ambivalently righteous and wretched as drinking. A night slamming cans can make or break a man. Make or break. Sometimes the difference is only a pint in either direction. I've seen it. I've been it. But, for the most part, we drinking men who are neither great nor garish live comfortably cushioned in the ether of the inbetween. Our boozy buffer from the world of 'real human moments' is only ever as alienating as the particular stool we choose at that evening's bar. Thankfully now we have the endearing exile of outdoor smoking to draw us closer together - the mythical is practically tangible.
Bars are great places. You seem like a better person just for walking in the door. People think you're a cooler, more interesting person just for being there. You can't help but play up to that. I like to make sure I'm catching the ey of the cute girls - 'yeah, that's right baby. I'm having casual conversation with the bartender. He totally knows me. And look at the size of the beer I'm drinking! It's like a fucking fish bowl! Oh, yeah I'm a real man. If I could see you across the room without closing one eye, I might even try to talk to you. Maybe I need glasses... maybe then I wouldn't be a virgin... technically.'
Friday, June 22, 2007
Solstice
I was writing to a friend last night...
"There’s one thing that everyone seems to forget about the shortest day of the year – it directly precedes the longest night. It is the last nail in the coffin of my dark, lonely, listless winter depression. Each minute is a painstakingly long reminder of the pointlessness and disorganisation of my life. I’d drink it away, but my hands are still shaking from last night’s efforts. I’d smoke cigarettes but they just make me feel sicker – though they do offer a slender solace, reminding you that each sweet stick is bringing the end just that little bit closer.
"It’s wrong to will this away. These have been good days, filled with friends baring broad honest smiles. I should be pleased and proud, but I’ve told the stories of the last six months so many times now they’ve lost all meaning. I’m not sure if what I’m saying is what I actually believe/what actually happened, or if it’s just ‘what I say’ when people ask that kind of question. I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a fleshy container that carries around anecdotes about distant places and far away concepts. I feel hollow and disengaged.
"I’ve figured it out. The key to happiness is your capacity to generate anecdotes. If you don’t have any stories to tell about what you’ve been doing, your life has essentially stopped. The last few weeks have been dead air - a blank slate. A completely fresh life in an all too familiar town. I’ve tricked myself into believing that the city itself created my life’s stories – not true. Melbourne is just a bunch of buildings and roads and thirsty lawns. If I want a story to tell, I’ve gotta go out there and make it myself.
"Let’s let this one be the first. Next week is looking better already"
"There’s one thing that everyone seems to forget about the shortest day of the year – it directly precedes the longest night. It is the last nail in the coffin of my dark, lonely, listless winter depression. Each minute is a painstakingly long reminder of the pointlessness and disorganisation of my life. I’d drink it away, but my hands are still shaking from last night’s efforts. I’d smoke cigarettes but they just make me feel sicker – though they do offer a slender solace, reminding you that each sweet stick is bringing the end just that little bit closer.
"It’s wrong to will this away. These have been good days, filled with friends baring broad honest smiles. I should be pleased and proud, but I’ve told the stories of the last six months so many times now they’ve lost all meaning. I’m not sure if what I’m saying is what I actually believe/what actually happened, or if it’s just ‘what I say’ when people ask that kind of question. I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a fleshy container that carries around anecdotes about distant places and far away concepts. I feel hollow and disengaged.
"I’ve figured it out. The key to happiness is your capacity to generate anecdotes. If you don’t have any stories to tell about what you’ve been doing, your life has essentially stopped. The last few weeks have been dead air - a blank slate. A completely fresh life in an all too familiar town. I’ve tricked myself into believing that the city itself created my life’s stories – not true. Melbourne is just a bunch of buildings and roads and thirsty lawns. If I want a story to tell, I’ve gotta go out there and make it myself.
"Let’s let this one be the first. Next week is looking better already"
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Buoyed
Today could have been a fucking disaster but the Gods are smiling on me. That’s a nice change. Last I’d heard they were running a sweep, trying to guess the exact adjective that would describe the way I’d fuck my life up. Thor had his money on ‘monumentally’ while Ganesh had his hopes pinned on ‘irreparably’. If I had any money I would have sunk the wad on ‘inevitably’. Safe as houses… in Gaza.
I managed to put off filming to the very last minute. What, with a hole in my face I could hardly face my public all bloodied and swollen. I’d look like a common street hood. AlTHOugh, street hood chic is making a comeback. I could ride the wave as if it were like a swell or surge of fluid or someshit. I’d do good hood.
Plus, chicks dig jerks. I’m living proof. I’m so damn amiable that no bitch will come near me. Perhaps I should stop calling them bitches... from across the street. Yeah-nah, that could be a dangerous move. If I start treating women with respect they’ll start wanting more, like rights and self esteem and a union. “Liberate yourselves girls. Burn your make-up. No, not that stuff - the stuff on your face.”
Things seem to be back to normal. Actually, better than normal. All of the depression that comes with getting your face smashed up has faded away to reveal quite a high spirited version of myself. Who’da thunk he was under there all that time? If I’da known I’d’ve bathed more often. I’ve hit my stride. I think it comes with being busy at work – even though I’m relegated to menial paperpushing. Nonetheless, stimulation is stimulation. It’s fun for a week – I couldn’t do it for a living. I’d slit wrists… not mine… someone else’s… as like a protest.
Indeed, it feels like everyone in the community is looking at life here afresh. Still, I’m a little cynical about my own sunny disposition. I booked a flight home the other day and I’ll admit, it does feel good to have an end date. A little surety and some security. But it can’t really just be that, going home doesn’t exactly overwhelm me with joy. I have no idea what I’ll do for cash when I get back there. I’ll have enough savings for a couple of months of cocaine and hookers – but what am I going to do for fun? Not knowing where your next paycheck is hiding can be a real pain in the arse… no wonder I’m going bald… in my pants.
Still, I gather that my last few weeks here will be quite an enjoyable time. I’m going to miss the people here, and the work – if you can call it that. I’ll miss the romance of the adventure – and there really still is some. But if there’s one thing that community life has taught me, it’s that I have my own culture, my own mob, and my own responsibilities. And while the culture may not be at risk of dying out, the people in it still need support getting through their lives. I’m better suited to helping them. I’m one of them. That used to make me feel guilty. Now, at least for this moment, it has me buoyed.
I managed to put off filming to the very last minute. What, with a hole in my face I could hardly face my public all bloodied and swollen. I’d look like a common street hood. AlTHOugh, street hood chic is making a comeback. I could ride the wave as if it were like a swell or surge of fluid or someshit. I’d do good hood.
Plus, chicks dig jerks. I’m living proof. I’m so damn amiable that no bitch will come near me. Perhaps I should stop calling them bitches... from across the street. Yeah-nah, that could be a dangerous move. If I start treating women with respect they’ll start wanting more, like rights and self esteem and a union. “Liberate yourselves girls. Burn your make-up. No, not that stuff - the stuff on your face.”
Things seem to be back to normal. Actually, better than normal. All of the depression that comes with getting your face smashed up has faded away to reveal quite a high spirited version of myself. Who’da thunk he was under there all that time? If I’da known I’d’ve bathed more often. I’ve hit my stride. I think it comes with being busy at work – even though I’m relegated to menial paperpushing. Nonetheless, stimulation is stimulation. It’s fun for a week – I couldn’t do it for a living. I’d slit wrists… not mine… someone else’s… as like a protest.
Indeed, it feels like everyone in the community is looking at life here afresh. Still, I’m a little cynical about my own sunny disposition. I booked a flight home the other day and I’ll admit, it does feel good to have an end date. A little surety and some security. But it can’t really just be that, going home doesn’t exactly overwhelm me with joy. I have no idea what I’ll do for cash when I get back there. I’ll have enough savings for a couple of months of cocaine and hookers – but what am I going to do for fun? Not knowing where your next paycheck is hiding can be a real pain in the arse… no wonder I’m going bald… in my pants.
Still, I gather that my last few weeks here will be quite an enjoyable time. I’m going to miss the people here, and the work – if you can call it that. I’ll miss the romance of the adventure – and there really still is some. But if there’s one thing that community life has taught me, it’s that I have my own culture, my own mob, and my own responsibilities. And while the culture may not be at risk of dying out, the people in it still need support getting through their lives. I’m better suited to helping them. I’m one of them. That used to make me feel guilty. Now, at least for this moment, it has me buoyed.
Torment
I am going to vomit my own sick until I puke if I ever – EVER - hear one more Aboriginal person scream. I am completely fucking jack of it. If I said that to any of my friends in Melbourne they’d probably choke to death on their own indignation. “What?!? You can’t say THAT! It’s racist! Besides, under what circumstances would you ever vomit someone else’s sick?!” Well, walk on over and take a big old bite, because I’m standing by it. I’m at my wits end. I not blaming Aboriginals. It’s just that the incessant screaming, yelling and crying in this community that happens to come from Aboriginal people.
Sometimes it’s just the irritating wailing of children in the office or the screeching discipline of a helpless parent. During the day it is questions and instructions barked at one another across the way – nobody bothers crossing a street to entertain conversation. Why would you? Having a screamed conversation in public is the low-tech equivalent of laying your social-life bare on a MySpace message board.
But the torture doesn’t alight with the fall of the night. The black of evening is lashed with a cacophony of catcalls and wolfwhistles. The distressed wailing of jilted lovers. The vicious threats of violent and angry drunks. All topped off with an unabating undercurrent of hateful, territorial dogs bickering and barking. The yelps of the losers ringing out into the ether like bitter bells. The sickening symphony is an exercise in pure torment. It eats away at you from the inside. It is a form of psychological warfare. It’s enough to make you sick with helplessness. And I am. Pity is pointless… but what else do I have to offer?
Sometimes it’s just the irritating wailing of children in the office or the screeching discipline of a helpless parent. During the day it is questions and instructions barked at one another across the way – nobody bothers crossing a street to entertain conversation. Why would you? Having a screamed conversation in public is the low-tech equivalent of laying your social-life bare on a MySpace message board.
But the torture doesn’t alight with the fall of the night. The black of evening is lashed with a cacophony of catcalls and wolfwhistles. The distressed wailing of jilted lovers. The vicious threats of violent and angry drunks. All topped off with an unabating undercurrent of hateful, territorial dogs bickering and barking. The yelps of the losers ringing out into the ether like bitter bells. The sickening symphony is an exercise in pure torment. It eats away at you from the inside. It is a form of psychological warfare. It’s enough to make you sick with helplessness. And I am. Pity is pointless… but what else do I have to offer?
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Stitches
I am now the proud owner of seven new stitches in my face.
I wish I had a cool heroic story to go with the stiches. I got it when I saved a baby from a falling piano by stopping it with my face. I was attacked by the Mexican pissfish on an expedition in Greenland. I was running a marathon with scissors, just to prove a point, only to be choked and tripped by the ribbon at the finish line.
Here are two
Finnish lines.
Truth is me and a mate got drunk and bored, and smacked our skulls together while we were wrestling in the backyard. Sheer stupidity. It was kinda funny at first until it became fairly evident that I’d need a few stitches to close it up. I did seem to be bleeding a bit. Luckily there’s a hospital in town, but I had to wait until morning to get it fixed. The only doctor in town just happened to be the other pissed idiot that I’d been wrestling with when we smacked heads. So we had to wait until he was sober enough to stitch me up again. He did a great job. I just hope not so good that I doesn’t leave me a really cool scar.
This unfortunate series of events seemed like as good an opportunity as any to talk about alcohol and boredom. It’s pretty safe to say that they are the two greatest causes of problems in the community. Maningrida is basically small town anywhere Australia, and I’m not just talking about Aboriginal communities. We have the same problems with drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness and suicide as any country town, but if anything the troubles are far more transparent here because everybody lives at such close quarters, not scattered out on farms. The average house here has about 15 people in it. I live alone – that makes me feel incredibly guilty - but my guilt is another film entirely. Think about the impact one alcoholic can have on a house of 15. Or on a house of one, for that matter.
You can’t buy grog here. You get a permit, like a license I guess, and you can get 2 slabs shipped in on the barge from Darwin once a fortnight. Doesn’t sound like much, but it with 30 can blocks its breaks down to about 5 cans a night. Any doctor will tell you that that is classified as full-blown alcoholism. Yet, everyone who has a permit – black or white - will knock over their allotment without flinching – usually in the first week. The grog is handed out by the police every second Saturday at what is patronizingly referred to by Balandas as ‘Grog Ceremony’.
A huge part of Aboriginal culture is a notion of give and take. If I ask for something you’ve got, you give it to me – pretty much no questions asked. And vice versa. It probably goes back to tribal times when stuff like that might have meant the survival of the group. Now, more often than not, it just means that people who have had their alcohol permits revoked can usually still get pissed after a grog shipment. Sadly that also means that these same men might start fights in the community or go home and beat their wives. It’s a time-honored tradition brought to Australia by the Irish around the time of the gold rush. I’m being flippant. Sometimes the whole situation here gets a bit overwhelming. That’s my way of dealing with it.
The fact is that the vast majority of the community is unemployed. Alcohol and boredom keep self-esteem way down and depression way up in a group of people that have already been massively marginalized. Nobody can honestly say they are surprised to find out there are issues” here.
But what are you going to do about it? You can’t take the grog away from them. Aboriginals aren’t children, they have to be able to make their own choices. But what can we really expect them to do? I can’t even take a drink without smacking my face into something. Maningrida is not a special place. It’s not particularly dangerous or violent. It’s desperate, but no more desperate than any big city in the world I’ve ever visited. Drugs – be they alcohol, heroin or television – are eating way at every single community in the world. And what do we do about it? …what do we do?
I wish I had a cool heroic story to go with the stiches. I got it when I saved a baby from a falling piano by stopping it with my face. I was attacked by the Mexican pissfish on an expedition in Greenland. I was running a marathon with scissors, just to prove a point, only to be choked and tripped by the ribbon at the finish line.
Here are two
Finnish lines.
Truth is me and a mate got drunk and bored, and smacked our skulls together while we were wrestling in the backyard. Sheer stupidity. It was kinda funny at first until it became fairly evident that I’d need a few stitches to close it up. I did seem to be bleeding a bit. Luckily there’s a hospital in town, but I had to wait until morning to get it fixed. The only doctor in town just happened to be the other pissed idiot that I’d been wrestling with when we smacked heads. So we had to wait until he was sober enough to stitch me up again. He did a great job. I just hope not so good that I doesn’t leave me a really cool scar.
This unfortunate series of events seemed like as good an opportunity as any to talk about alcohol and boredom. It’s pretty safe to say that they are the two greatest causes of problems in the community. Maningrida is basically small town anywhere Australia, and I’m not just talking about Aboriginal communities. We have the same problems with drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness and suicide as any country town, but if anything the troubles are far more transparent here because everybody lives at such close quarters, not scattered out on farms. The average house here has about 15 people in it. I live alone – that makes me feel incredibly guilty - but my guilt is another film entirely. Think about the impact one alcoholic can have on a house of 15. Or on a house of one, for that matter.
You can’t buy grog here. You get a permit, like a license I guess, and you can get 2 slabs shipped in on the barge from Darwin once a fortnight. Doesn’t sound like much, but it with 30 can blocks its breaks down to about 5 cans a night. Any doctor will tell you that that is classified as full-blown alcoholism. Yet, everyone who has a permit – black or white - will knock over their allotment without flinching – usually in the first week. The grog is handed out by the police every second Saturday at what is patronizingly referred to by Balandas as ‘Grog Ceremony’.
A huge part of Aboriginal culture is a notion of give and take. If I ask for something you’ve got, you give it to me – pretty much no questions asked. And vice versa. It probably goes back to tribal times when stuff like that might have meant the survival of the group. Now, more often than not, it just means that people who have had their alcohol permits revoked can usually still get pissed after a grog shipment. Sadly that also means that these same men might start fights in the community or go home and beat their wives. It’s a time-honored tradition brought to Australia by the Irish around the time of the gold rush. I’m being flippant. Sometimes the whole situation here gets a bit overwhelming. That’s my way of dealing with it.
The fact is that the vast majority of the community is unemployed. Alcohol and boredom keep self-esteem way down and depression way up in a group of people that have already been massively marginalized. Nobody can honestly say they are surprised to find out there are issues” here.
But what are you going to do about it? You can’t take the grog away from them. Aboriginals aren’t children, they have to be able to make their own choices. But what can we really expect them to do? I can’t even take a drink without smacking my face into something. Maningrida is not a special place. It’s not particularly dangerous or violent. It’s desperate, but no more desperate than any big city in the world I’ve ever visited. Drugs – be they alcohol, heroin or television – are eating way at every single community in the world. And what do we do about it? …what do we do?
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Cigar
Slinky modal Miles
Almond smoke, curl and caress
Man and moment – one
The comfortable cool of an afternoon. My senses are slowed as if slightly stoned. My head bobs involuntarily to the slow meandering groove of a muted trumpet. A soft brown cigar warms my fingers. My mouth is warm and tingly with activity– tongue toying with the trickling flavors. Roasted nuts. Chocolate. Fruit leather. Caramel. Softly spiced with the just slightest sweetness.
I imagine swirling a Speyside single malt in my free hand and the picture is complete. Maningrida is transformed into my own plush and private cigar lounge. Not even my haiku captures the satiated simplicity of the scene. Bliss. It has been far too long since I’ve used that word.
My loving relationship with cigars started some time ago - long before I ever tried a cigarette. The thing that all these anti-smoking lobbyists forget is that smoking – really, engagingly smoking – is one of the greatest pleasures available to man.
Cigarettes have long since sucked the ritual and enjoyment out of it. They have brought with them nasty words like habit and addiction. Cigarettes are evil – a slow suicide for a cataleptic public. But smoking a quality tobacco in a clear and contemplative environment is otherworldly.
It’s not for everyone, surely. Like anything else - wine, beer, scotch, coffee, caviar, cat ownership – each to his own. Even then, there is a time and a place for everything. Smoking a cigar is like masturbation – seductive, sensual and deeply satisfying yet, when done in public, obnoxious and offensive to others. It is, like every indulgence, unashamedly selfish and should be undertaken accordingly.
I have not been as content as I am now for some time. This is no special day. All it took was a moment of clarity to see that there are no things so self-serving as worry, angst and depression. A simple cigar showed me that this afternoon. Maybe others might have stopped to smell a rose or something. That’s fine, if they want to poison their bodies like that. Let them.
Almond smoke, curl and caress
Man and moment – one
The comfortable cool of an afternoon. My senses are slowed as if slightly stoned. My head bobs involuntarily to the slow meandering groove of a muted trumpet. A soft brown cigar warms my fingers. My mouth is warm and tingly with activity– tongue toying with the trickling flavors. Roasted nuts. Chocolate. Fruit leather. Caramel. Softly spiced with the just slightest sweetness.
I imagine swirling a Speyside single malt in my free hand and the picture is complete. Maningrida is transformed into my own plush and private cigar lounge. Not even my haiku captures the satiated simplicity of the scene. Bliss. It has been far too long since I’ve used that word.
My loving relationship with cigars started some time ago - long before I ever tried a cigarette. The thing that all these anti-smoking lobbyists forget is that smoking – really, engagingly smoking – is one of the greatest pleasures available to man.
Cigarettes have long since sucked the ritual and enjoyment out of it. They have brought with them nasty words like habit and addiction. Cigarettes are evil – a slow suicide for a cataleptic public. But smoking a quality tobacco in a clear and contemplative environment is otherworldly.
It’s not for everyone, surely. Like anything else - wine, beer, scotch, coffee, caviar, cat ownership – each to his own. Even then, there is a time and a place for everything. Smoking a cigar is like masturbation – seductive, sensual and deeply satisfying yet, when done in public, obnoxious and offensive to others. It is, like every indulgence, unashamedly selfish and should be undertaken accordingly.
I have not been as content as I am now for some time. This is no special day. All it took was a moment of clarity to see that there are no things so self-serving as worry, angst and depression. A simple cigar showed me that this afternoon. Maybe others might have stopped to smell a rose or something. That’s fine, if they want to poison their bodies like that. Let them.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Savior
The US Government reports to have a man, one Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who claims to be the mastermind of nearly 30 high-profile terrorist attacks including failed assassination attempts on then President Bill Clinton, the 2002 Bali bombing and the infamous attacks on the World Trade Centre towers.
That sounds pretty fucking unbelievable to me. That’s a fairly fanciful session for Lex fucking Luther. Don’t try to convince me that a single sand-eater is responsible for the complete works of 21st century terror. I’ll buy that right after I buy a cold turd salad off the McDonalds New Choice Menu.
What does that mean for the world? What does that mean for the War on Terror? Is it over? Can we call off the dogs? Is Osama (who is and always was a free, wealthy and oddly charismatic chap) now an UN-wanted man? FBI’s Most Wanted original poster-boy free to invest in Texan oil again. He’ll be on a couch with Oprah before the end of the fucking week.
“So, Osama. Where have you been all this time, girlfriend?”
‘Well, I spent most of my time in this delightful café down in the West End working on my memoirs. They have the most amazing double choc cookies there!’
“And you know what!? We’ve got cookies for everyone in our audience! COOOKIEEES!”
*crowd goes fucking nuts*
*white lady in pastel knit can’t find her cookie*
*she suspects that the black lady next to her stole it, but is reluctant to speak up*
*cries tears of joy anyway*
“That was Osama. His book is in stores now. It changed my life. I’m not just saying that. Thank you for being here.”
‘Death to infidels.’
“Of course, death to infidels.”
Can you even do that? Can you just tell prosecutors anything? Have they asked for any evidence? Corroborating witnesses? This all sounds a little like the boy who cried ‘I killed Jean-Benet’ to me. Fuck. Only in Guantanamo. Any other prison in the world and it’d get you a free ticket to some low-security nuthouse.
Why don’t they just ship these ‘suspected’ terrorists to Area 51 and treat them like the aliens they believe them to be. Have a nationally broadcast autopsy. Find the Terrorist gene and a cure for beardlessness.
By claiming to be responsible for everything good that the terrorists ever did, is effectively trying to absolve the crime and guilt (dare I say sin?) of all terrorist-kind. I’m no Qur’anic scholar but surely there has to be some modesty in martyrdom. This dude is giving Jesus a run for his money.
I can see it now. In centuries to come the books written about him by pseudo-political analysts and cash-hungry pop-academics will be collated to form the newer testament – a version true to Islam.
A great following will rise. Praise be to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who died in the chair for all our sins. People will send great sums of money of preachers of his teachings with little silver electric chairs around their necks – arguing long into the night on talkback community radio about how the miracle of 9/11 WAS that half of the 19 hi-jackers were found to have never been on the plane in the first place (resurrected) NOT THAT two unskilled pilots could hit a single building with a jumbo at 700kms an hour. Mercy on your children.
The first casualty of war is reason. The second is apparently irrelevant.
*somewhere in middle-America a black lady gives her daughter a cookie that she brought her from the Oprah show*
That sounds pretty fucking unbelievable to me. That’s a fairly fanciful session for Lex fucking Luther. Don’t try to convince me that a single sand-eater is responsible for the complete works of 21st century terror. I’ll buy that right after I buy a cold turd salad off the McDonalds New Choice Menu.
What does that mean for the world? What does that mean for the War on Terror? Is it over? Can we call off the dogs? Is Osama (who is and always was a free, wealthy and oddly charismatic chap) now an UN-wanted man? FBI’s Most Wanted original poster-boy free to invest in Texan oil again. He’ll be on a couch with Oprah before the end of the fucking week.
“So, Osama. Where have you been all this time, girlfriend?”
‘Well, I spent most of my time in this delightful café down in the West End working on my memoirs. They have the most amazing double choc cookies there!’
“And you know what!? We’ve got cookies for everyone in our audience! COOOKIEEES!”
*crowd goes fucking nuts*
*white lady in pastel knit can’t find her cookie*
*she suspects that the black lady next to her stole it, but is reluctant to speak up*
*cries tears of joy anyway*
“That was Osama. His book is in stores now. It changed my life. I’m not just saying that. Thank you for being here.”
‘Death to infidels.’
“Of course, death to infidels.”
Can you even do that? Can you just tell prosecutors anything? Have they asked for any evidence? Corroborating witnesses? This all sounds a little like the boy who cried ‘I killed Jean-Benet’ to me. Fuck. Only in Guantanamo. Any other prison in the world and it’d get you a free ticket to some low-security nuthouse.
Why don’t they just ship these ‘suspected’ terrorists to Area 51 and treat them like the aliens they believe them to be. Have a nationally broadcast autopsy. Find the Terrorist gene and a cure for beardlessness.
By claiming to be responsible for everything good that the terrorists ever did, is effectively trying to absolve the crime and guilt (dare I say sin?) of all terrorist-kind. I’m no Qur’anic scholar but surely there has to be some modesty in martyrdom. This dude is giving Jesus a run for his money.
I can see it now. In centuries to come the books written about him by pseudo-political analysts and cash-hungry pop-academics will be collated to form the newer testament – a version true to Islam.
A great following will rise. Praise be to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who died in the chair for all our sins. People will send great sums of money of preachers of his teachings with little silver electric chairs around their necks – arguing long into the night on talkback community radio about how the miracle of 9/11 WAS that half of the 19 hi-jackers were found to have never been on the plane in the first place (resurrected) NOT THAT two unskilled pilots could hit a single building with a jumbo at 700kms an hour. Mercy on your children.
The first casualty of war is reason. The second is apparently irrelevant.
*somewhere in middle-America a black lady gives her daughter a cookie that she brought her from the Oprah show*
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Boredom and Curiosity
Yesterday I shaved off all my pubic hair. Not like with a razor or anything, if that makes it any less weird. It just happened. I was lying in bed naked and the hair clippers were charging on the bedside table. Fate? I ask you.
Heaps of guys do it – I know at least three. It’s supposed to make your junk look bigger. Here’s where I make a joke about not needing to make it look bigger… but... well… I was curious. Men like me climbed Everest. Men like me claimed sovereignty to land they “discovered.” Men like me mowed their man-muff. Why? Because it was there… and fuck it, I wasn’t doing anything else that morning.
I would never usually consider giving my balls a buzz-cut. I reckon it looks freaky. The fact is, I’m right - something that big should have hair on it. Male or female. I seriously worry about people who are attracted to hairlessness. If that’s your ‘bag’, go fuck a manatee or admit you’re a paedophile. Your choice.
I don’t get my dick out in public nearly often as I used to. Still, I was worried that someone might get a look at my newly-nudes and assume that that floated my bloated. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than getting to that point with a lady – her hand sliding down the front of your pants and getting a handful of pink and pricklies.
“What is that? A baby echidna?”
‘…um, yeah… that’s what it is…’
“It really should be in a sanctuary for orphaned wildlife.”
*long pause*
‘…I guess there’s no chance of me convincing you to eat it now!?’
How-eh-vah, the gods of fate and fortune dangled a now-or-never-moment in front of my ever adventurous eyes. I’m in a remote community, quite safe in the knowledge that here is no fucking chance that I’ll have a girl’s hand in my pants for months. Bless this sexlessness. If I ever wanted to see myself pubeless, this was a genuine opportunity with no risk of embarrassment. A change is a good as a holiday – I bought my dick a pair of sunglasses and off it came.
There are so few decisions in life that you can IMMEDIATELY REGRET. This was one. My balls were cut to shit, everything itched, and that little creature from the Alien films was winking up at me – smug little prick. It’s official; my woolly mammoth needs his afro. Now, when I peer into my pants, I don’t know whether to piss or scratch it under the chin and feed it milk from a bottle.
The most difficult bits were the man-scaping decisions. Hair runs an unbroken line from my neck to my toes. I basically carved a clearing, like a pair of tiny pink budgie-smugglers, only with the parrot on the outside. I look fucking ridiculous. My penis now has no attractive qualities whatsoever. It just looks like some fleshy extendable tube used for depositing semen into dark places. Get thee to a fig leaf. Thankyou, wise serpent.
The only thing vaguely sexy about it is when I inch my hand down the front of my own pants it reminds me of the short and spikies of girls I’ve known before… that is, until I hit dick. Then it reminds me of that time in Thailand.
*starts singing and dancing to Karma Chameleon*
So the question remains – does it look any bigger? Well… yeah, I guess… a bit… but when you think about it, I was always this big whether I looked it or not. Besides, if you’ve been invited to take it out that battle is already won. It looks like a dick. It’s not about to win ‘best in show’ at Westminster.
Heaps of guys do it – I know at least three. It’s supposed to make your junk look bigger. Here’s where I make a joke about not needing to make it look bigger… but... well… I was curious. Men like me climbed Everest. Men like me claimed sovereignty to land they “discovered.” Men like me mowed their man-muff. Why? Because it was there… and fuck it, I wasn’t doing anything else that morning.
I would never usually consider giving my balls a buzz-cut. I reckon it looks freaky. The fact is, I’m right - something that big should have hair on it. Male or female. I seriously worry about people who are attracted to hairlessness. If that’s your ‘bag’, go fuck a manatee or admit you’re a paedophile. Your choice.
I don’t get my dick out in public nearly often as I used to. Still, I was worried that someone might get a look at my newly-nudes and assume that that floated my bloated. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than getting to that point with a lady – her hand sliding down the front of your pants and getting a handful of pink and pricklies.
“What is that? A baby echidna?”
‘…um, yeah… that’s what it is…’
“It really should be in a sanctuary for orphaned wildlife.”
*long pause*
‘…I guess there’s no chance of me convincing you to eat it now!?’
How-eh-vah, the gods of fate and fortune dangled a now-or-never-moment in front of my ever adventurous eyes. I’m in a remote community, quite safe in the knowledge that here is no fucking chance that I’ll have a girl’s hand in my pants for months. Bless this sexlessness. If I ever wanted to see myself pubeless, this was a genuine opportunity with no risk of embarrassment. A change is a good as a holiday – I bought my dick a pair of sunglasses and off it came.
There are so few decisions in life that you can IMMEDIATELY REGRET. This was one. My balls were cut to shit, everything itched, and that little creature from the Alien films was winking up at me – smug little prick. It’s official; my woolly mammoth needs his afro. Now, when I peer into my pants, I don’t know whether to piss or scratch it under the chin and feed it milk from a bottle.
The most difficult bits were the man-scaping decisions. Hair runs an unbroken line from my neck to my toes. I basically carved a clearing, like a pair of tiny pink budgie-smugglers, only with the parrot on the outside. I look fucking ridiculous. My penis now has no attractive qualities whatsoever. It just looks like some fleshy extendable tube used for depositing semen into dark places. Get thee to a fig leaf. Thankyou, wise serpent.
The only thing vaguely sexy about it is when I inch my hand down the front of my own pants it reminds me of the short and spikies of girls I’ve known before… that is, until I hit dick. Then it reminds me of that time in Thailand.
*starts singing and dancing to Karma Chameleon*
So the question remains – does it look any bigger? Well… yeah, I guess… a bit… but when you think about it, I was always this big whether I looked it or not. Besides, if you’ve been invited to take it out that battle is already won. It looks like a dick. It’s not about to win ‘best in show’ at Westminster.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Agenda
An old Tom Waits song comes to mind- '...everything's broken and no-one speaks English...'
It has been gloomy and raining in Maningrida for two days straight - I haven't seen the sun since Melbourne Airport... it's a bit of a shock to my system... getting very quickly depressed. The sands are shifting here - people moving, leaving and making power plays. As ever, there's no housing and it looks like I'll be the one to suffer in any serious shift of the status quo. Still that's all at least a month away...
I managed to shed my city attitudes again like taking off an itchy woolen jumper. I went straight back into my office and into the arms of my best friend - 6 year old Martha. We spent the day catching up and spelling the names of things. When we got to butterfly she couldn't remember what a 'B' looked like. I showed her if you draw two 'B' - one upside-down - right next to each other (then add a couple of feelers) they make a beautiful butterfly. B B. She wont forget again...
Later in the day I went on a trip to an outstation - 5 houses, about an hour out of town. Another little girl adopted me as her own personal booster seat for the ride. We played and pointed and bit each others hands off. The whole landscape has changed. Everything is green, and grass covers every inch of the offroad. The track is a minefield of puddles that explode over the bonnet when you hit them. Everything is alive and exciting. When we arrived at the outsation, the little girl's uncle suggested I come back and stay for a few days - spend some time with the family. There are few things more touching than people who are interested in people.
It is sad that such a wonderful and welcoming place has become a battleground for the wills of white people. Everyone has an agenda. They are well intentioned for the best part. Still, a seedy undercurrent forms as people have to resort to backroom conversations and allegiances to support their intentions.
I feel weird and young – aimless and unwanted here - like I came to a poker game without any chips. I’m not part of anyone’s agenda. My position here is a useful one – not a powerful one. My work is a good tool for communication of ideas. It wont create infrastructure or organize the people. And at the moment, the latter is more important.
I’m trying to make a film for the ABC and I can’t help wanting it to express exactly this. But I can’t – can I? How am I going to convince anyone to be in a film after that? They’d think my own agenda is just to expose everyone’s agenda… which it isn’t… that said, I don’t want to fall into the dizzy trap of bullshitting everyone on the outside world that everything is just swell and peachy.
Give me a day or so… I’ll spark up. There’s plenty of work on. That’s a good thing. It’ll keep me busy. It is good to be back – don’t misread me. It’s just also easy to remember why one might be happy to leave…
It has been gloomy and raining in Maningrida for two days straight - I haven't seen the sun since Melbourne Airport... it's a bit of a shock to my system... getting very quickly depressed. The sands are shifting here - people moving, leaving and making power plays. As ever, there's no housing and it looks like I'll be the one to suffer in any serious shift of the status quo. Still that's all at least a month away...
I managed to shed my city attitudes again like taking off an itchy woolen jumper. I went straight back into my office and into the arms of my best friend - 6 year old Martha. We spent the day catching up and spelling the names of things. When we got to butterfly she couldn't remember what a 'B' looked like. I showed her if you draw two 'B' - one upside-down - right next to each other (then add a couple of feelers) they make a beautiful butterfly. B B. She wont forget again...
Later in the day I went on a trip to an outstation - 5 houses, about an hour out of town. Another little girl adopted me as her own personal booster seat for the ride. We played and pointed and bit each others hands off. The whole landscape has changed. Everything is green, and grass covers every inch of the offroad. The track is a minefield of puddles that explode over the bonnet when you hit them. Everything is alive and exciting. When we arrived at the outsation, the little girl's uncle suggested I come back and stay for a few days - spend some time with the family. There are few things more touching than people who are interested in people.
It is sad that such a wonderful and welcoming place has become a battleground for the wills of white people. Everyone has an agenda. They are well intentioned for the best part. Still, a seedy undercurrent forms as people have to resort to backroom conversations and allegiances to support their intentions.
I feel weird and young – aimless and unwanted here - like I came to a poker game without any chips. I’m not part of anyone’s agenda. My position here is a useful one – not a powerful one. My work is a good tool for communication of ideas. It wont create infrastructure or organize the people. And at the moment, the latter is more important.
I’m trying to make a film for the ABC and I can’t help wanting it to express exactly this. But I can’t – can I? How am I going to convince anyone to be in a film after that? They’d think my own agenda is just to expose everyone’s agenda… which it isn’t… that said, I don’t want to fall into the dizzy trap of bullshitting everyone on the outside world that everything is just swell and peachy.
Give me a day or so… I’ll spark up. There’s plenty of work on. That’s a good thing. It’ll keep me busy. It is good to be back – don’t misread me. It’s just also easy to remember why one might be happy to leave…
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Melbourne
Yesterday I managed to go to a funeral, a wedding and a birthday – in that order.
I helped a mate grieve, I got a drunk friend into a taxi – once she’d finished vomiting – and then I started to make some long over due amends in a friendship that broke down years ago.
I cried when I told a mate’s mum about how this weekend will probably be the last time I see my Grandfather alive. I got misty when I watch a man welcome a new son in to his family. I laughed my arse off just talking shit with my mates.
I ribbed my friends about the responsibilities of getting old. I listened to a taxi driver solve the problems of the middle east (‘it’s all about Israel’ – just so you know). I gushed about the two girls who still haunt my thoughts to the young lady kind enough to drive me home.
I revelled in the fresh country air. I swam in the choppy waves of the bay. I drank martinis and ate a triple cheeseburger from McDonalds.
I hugged and kissed every person that I spoke to yesterday and was able to genuinely and wholeheartedly say that I was happy to see them – as innocuous as those simple words sounded.
I’m going to miss Melbourne – yesterday just made that painfully clear. Still, all days can’t be like yesterday. What would people write songs about if everyone felt safe and loved and supported all of the time?
Melbourne, thankyou and goodnight. I’ll see you in a bit… don’t go changing…
I helped a mate grieve, I got a drunk friend into a taxi – once she’d finished vomiting – and then I started to make some long over due amends in a friendship that broke down years ago.
I cried when I told a mate’s mum about how this weekend will probably be the last time I see my Grandfather alive. I got misty when I watch a man welcome a new son in to his family. I laughed my arse off just talking shit with my mates.
I ribbed my friends about the responsibilities of getting old. I listened to a taxi driver solve the problems of the middle east (‘it’s all about Israel’ – just so you know). I gushed about the two girls who still haunt my thoughts to the young lady kind enough to drive me home.
I revelled in the fresh country air. I swam in the choppy waves of the bay. I drank martinis and ate a triple cheeseburger from McDonalds.
I hugged and kissed every person that I spoke to yesterday and was able to genuinely and wholeheartedly say that I was happy to see them – as innocuous as those simple words sounded.
I’m going to miss Melbourne – yesterday just made that painfully clear. Still, all days can’t be like yesterday. What would people write songs about if everyone felt safe and loved and supported all of the time?
Melbourne, thankyou and goodnight. I’ll see you in a bit… don’t go changing…
Friday, February 09, 2007
Adult-lescence
A few weird things have been happening to me lately that have made me stop and take stock – namely the Myer Boxing Day Stocktake Sale, but I’ll get to the heavily discounted trousers in a moment.
It all started early last year when I was running on the beach in Byron – I’d seen a particularly churlish crab. As I looked back over my shoulder to see if it was still doing that thing with its leg, I had to hold my hand up to look into the sun. I suddenly noticed that the hand I front of me was not my own – it was my father’s. Those thick fingers, those wide nails, the sticky-out bluish veins. I remember tracing those calloused lines on the palm with my fingers as a kid, and pinching and posing the inelastic skin on the back of his knuckles. They’re mine now. Has it been that long? Am I that old?
I should have noticed earlier. The signs were always there, and most of those signs were sounds. I make a noise for nearly every task these days. Even stuff as simple as getting out of a chair - I give a breathy ‘hup!’, as if I’m catapulting an acrobat onto a trapeze. There’s even a noise I make after the physically challenging act, like a self-congratulatory grunt/wheeze thing.
‘Job well done, old man. You stood up. Now try to get to the bathroom without pissing yourself.’
My concentration is shot too. There was a time in high school where I could be doing maths problems, talking to my friends and listening to the teacher all at once, without any difficulty. I took great pleasure, when the teacher snapped around and said “What have I been saying?”, in regurgitating her words verbatim. Petulant little shit I shall be no longer. If I am in a room with someone having a conversation, I can’t hear that person if I am looking at the TV. Sound up, sound down – it doesn’t really matter. The amount of brain power required to decipher images is all the brain power I’ve got. Aim it wisely, you doddering old twat.
So I’m old – that’s what it boils down to. But what I can’t get my head around is what that actually means. I still treat my life as I did when I was 19. In the meantime have gone and done some really ‘adult’ things (and I don’t mean anything sexual – we’ll cross that bridge…) – these were things I really didn’t handle in an adult manner. How much more of my life will I squander away in this adult-lescence?
It has been said that life is basically the process of reconciling the lofty perception that you have of yourself with what everybody else actually thinks about you. It’s part of that whole you-are-what-you-project / you-are-but-a-reflection-of-your-surroundings debate… if there is one… I may have just made that up. I believe all three of these premises to be true. I also believe in manatees, profanities and fairy-winkles.
I AM as self-centred as everyone says I am – though it seems selfish to draw attention to it. I get stuck so far down inside myself that nothing ever gets out. I stew on petty decisions until they become irrelevant, or I take rash and abrasive action and call it ‘seizing the day’. I should probably just call it ‘rash and abrasive action’ – that’d clear up a whole bunch of shit.
I look back on all the ‘progress’ I’ve made over the year and realise I’ve been treading water. I look back on all the water treading I’ve been doing and realise that I’m very quickly running out of breath. Who wants to fish an old guy out of the pool and administer CPR? Even if he is wearing a fashionable pair of heavily discounted trousers from the Myer Stocktake Sale.
It all started early last year when I was running on the beach in Byron – I’d seen a particularly churlish crab. As I looked back over my shoulder to see if it was still doing that thing with its leg, I had to hold my hand up to look into the sun. I suddenly noticed that the hand I front of me was not my own – it was my father’s. Those thick fingers, those wide nails, the sticky-out bluish veins. I remember tracing those calloused lines on the palm with my fingers as a kid, and pinching and posing the inelastic skin on the back of his knuckles. They’re mine now. Has it been that long? Am I that old?
I should have noticed earlier. The signs were always there, and most of those signs were sounds. I make a noise for nearly every task these days. Even stuff as simple as getting out of a chair - I give a breathy ‘hup!’, as if I’m catapulting an acrobat onto a trapeze. There’s even a noise I make after the physically challenging act, like a self-congratulatory grunt/wheeze thing.
‘Job well done, old man. You stood up. Now try to get to the bathroom without pissing yourself.’
My concentration is shot too. There was a time in high school where I could be doing maths problems, talking to my friends and listening to the teacher all at once, without any difficulty. I took great pleasure, when the teacher snapped around and said “What have I been saying?”, in regurgitating her words verbatim. Petulant little shit I shall be no longer. If I am in a room with someone having a conversation, I can’t hear that person if I am looking at the TV. Sound up, sound down – it doesn’t really matter. The amount of brain power required to decipher images is all the brain power I’ve got. Aim it wisely, you doddering old twat.
So I’m old – that’s what it boils down to. But what I can’t get my head around is what that actually means. I still treat my life as I did when I was 19. In the meantime have gone and done some really ‘adult’ things (and I don’t mean anything sexual – we’ll cross that bridge…) – these were things I really didn’t handle in an adult manner. How much more of my life will I squander away in this adult-lescence?
It has been said that life is basically the process of reconciling the lofty perception that you have of yourself with what everybody else actually thinks about you. It’s part of that whole you-are-what-you-project / you-are-but-a-reflection-of-your-surroundings debate… if there is one… I may have just made that up. I believe all three of these premises to be true. I also believe in manatees, profanities and fairy-winkles.
I AM as self-centred as everyone says I am – though it seems selfish to draw attention to it. I get stuck so far down inside myself that nothing ever gets out. I stew on petty decisions until they become irrelevant, or I take rash and abrasive action and call it ‘seizing the day’. I should probably just call it ‘rash and abrasive action’ – that’d clear up a whole bunch of shit.
I look back on all the ‘progress’ I’ve made over the year and realise I’ve been treading water. I look back on all the water treading I’ve been doing and realise that I’m very quickly running out of breath. Who wants to fish an old guy out of the pool and administer CPR? Even if he is wearing a fashionable pair of heavily discounted trousers from the Myer Stocktake Sale.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Nobody and Nothing
The week started off poorly. Half hung over and suffering a bout of poison penis – that’s when you drink so much that your dick completely stops working – I wasn’t feeling all that great about myself.
I was feeling a little highly strung as it was. I hate waiting – it’s the waiting I truly cannot stand. I get bored and frustrated. I get ahead of myself – running over scenario after scenario in my head. I get edgy, antsy and irritated. I self-medicate – sedating myself with booze, weed and daytime television. Then I get all bitter and depressed because I feel like shit and I have to wait around for someone else to tell me that things are moving along and I can start to feel better.
It was at this low ebb that I had a dream that summed it all up and made sure I started today off at the most depressing possible point. It was one of those frustrating dreams. I had a simple task to complete – actually several tasks over the course of the evening but I already feel bad about boring you with the details...
‘I had a dream last night, darling!’
“Really, honey!? Oh, that’s fucking fascinating… let me just make sure this revolver is loaded before I try to eat it for breakfast!”
Anyway, I found myself going through customs, and it just so happened that my pockets were suddenly full of all sorts of illegal shit; handguns, a bag of pot – hell, we’ve all been there. So the customs lady was suspicious as hell, but it turned out that I had pretty legitimate reasons for all the crap I was carrying.
She confiscated all my stuff and gave me forty bucks worth of five dollar notes in exchange. I had no idea what was going on. I wanted my pot and my handguns – what the fuck was I going to do with forty bucks? So I asked the lady what the deal with the fivers was, ‘cause I was lost, and she starts getting all narky at me.
I tried to explain to her that I genuinely did not understand the transaction that had just taken place and she starts to think that I’m taking the piss. The more I tried to calm her down and get a straight-forward answer, the angrier she would become, the more spitefully she would respond, and the more dire my situation would get.
It got to the point where it had been going on for so long that I actually became quite lucid, and wondered; ‘Hey, this is my dream. Why am I putting myself through this?’ I had to consciously choose to wake up. I felt depressed all day.
And I was like ‘faark!’ That is exactly how all of my real-life social transactions have felt recently. It’s like, I find myself in the middle of something and I have no fucking clue how it got to that point. What’s more, I always seem to be the arsehole in the situation. I’m digging holes that I’m too detached to even realise I’m digging.
When did I get so despondent? Last week? New Year’s? High school? Perhaps it’s all just a product of being bored, poor and effectively unemployed, but right now I can’t get excited about anybody or anything…
I got a phone call today. The deadlines are set, the work can begin and the waiting stops. My mood has lifted, if only slightly… and I’m almost afraid of going back to bed, for fear of falling.
I was feeling a little highly strung as it was. I hate waiting – it’s the waiting I truly cannot stand. I get bored and frustrated. I get ahead of myself – running over scenario after scenario in my head. I get edgy, antsy and irritated. I self-medicate – sedating myself with booze, weed and daytime television. Then I get all bitter and depressed because I feel like shit and I have to wait around for someone else to tell me that things are moving along and I can start to feel better.
It was at this low ebb that I had a dream that summed it all up and made sure I started today off at the most depressing possible point. It was one of those frustrating dreams. I had a simple task to complete – actually several tasks over the course of the evening but I already feel bad about boring you with the details...
‘I had a dream last night, darling!’
“Really, honey!? Oh, that’s fucking fascinating… let me just make sure this revolver is loaded before I try to eat it for breakfast!”
Anyway, I found myself going through customs, and it just so happened that my pockets were suddenly full of all sorts of illegal shit; handguns, a bag of pot – hell, we’ve all been there. So the customs lady was suspicious as hell, but it turned out that I had pretty legitimate reasons for all the crap I was carrying.
She confiscated all my stuff and gave me forty bucks worth of five dollar notes in exchange. I had no idea what was going on. I wanted my pot and my handguns – what the fuck was I going to do with forty bucks? So I asked the lady what the deal with the fivers was, ‘cause I was lost, and she starts getting all narky at me.
I tried to explain to her that I genuinely did not understand the transaction that had just taken place and she starts to think that I’m taking the piss. The more I tried to calm her down and get a straight-forward answer, the angrier she would become, the more spitefully she would respond, and the more dire my situation would get.
It got to the point where it had been going on for so long that I actually became quite lucid, and wondered; ‘Hey, this is my dream. Why am I putting myself through this?’ I had to consciously choose to wake up. I felt depressed all day.
And I was like ‘faark!’ That is exactly how all of my real-life social transactions have felt recently. It’s like, I find myself in the middle of something and I have no fucking clue how it got to that point. What’s more, I always seem to be the arsehole in the situation. I’m digging holes that I’m too detached to even realise I’m digging.
When did I get so despondent? Last week? New Year’s? High school? Perhaps it’s all just a product of being bored, poor and effectively unemployed, but right now I can’t get excited about anybody or anything…
I got a phone call today. The deadlines are set, the work can begin and the waiting stops. My mood has lifted, if only slightly… and I’m almost afraid of going back to bed, for fear of falling.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Regrets
Regrets – yeah, so what, I’ve had a few. You ever get that sensation like you’re watching yourself when you’re doing something that you know is completely stupid? That kind of outer-body reckless social endangerment? That’s me, pretty much all the time. I look back and wonder how the hell I came to this point with any friends at all. I’ve been an inconsiderate, unsympathetic, drunken, obnoxious, uncontrollable, selfish twat. I’ve done just about everything on FHM’s list of 101 Things You’re Going To Wish You’d Never Done Afterwards – one of which was ‘purchase this issue of FHM’.
On New Years Eve I managed to blow all of my myriad regrets out of the water. I did something so heinous that it is now literally* eating me up inside (*not to be taken literally). I’ve broken hearts, bones and promises before, still I’ve never felt as sorry as I do now. It seemed harmless at the time – fuck, everyone was doing it – but now I’m left with the sickening consequences. It’s killing me, I’m just going to come out and say it - on New Years Eve 2006 I made a resolution to stop smoking.
There! It’s out now. The world knows. Somehow I still don’t see myself sleeping any easier. I’m sick to my stomach. I couldn’t work it out at first. I blamed my hangover for the first 24 hours. Then I woke up wondering why I couldn’t be fucked getting out of bed. Why, when 2007 had promised so much adventure and opportunity only days before, was I ready to crawl into a hole and shell peanuts with my face? Why does my life suddenly feel like a blackhole of pointlessness and whoredom? Perhaps, with the wisdom of another year under my belt, I’d finally seen the truth!?
We had dinner at Soul Mamma’s in St. Kilda. I was a narky, anxious bundle of unrest. Everything around me made want to vomit my own sick. The waiters, the clientele, the way the strawberry on my pannacotta left a pink mark on the cream. I was furious. Then after tea we went on a walk down St. Kilda pier. I wanted to punch every person walking on it. I wanted to rip down the sunset like an NKOTB poster, spitting and stamping on it for being uninspiring and predictable. I wanted to break something beautiful, ruin something that someone else had worked very hard on, and eat something ever-so-slightly sweet – though that often happens after a big meal.
I was practically foaming at the mouth when the penny finally dropped. It was when I reached down to pick up that penny that I finally realised that I was out of sorts. Hang on, I remembered, I like being pretentious and indulgent – forcing down vegetarian food, all the while wishing it has more types of animals in it. I like the pier and its tourists, with their accents, loose morals and their tiny, tiny shorts. I like the sunsets and their dangling orbs and spectacular spectrums. To be honest, I don’t even really have anything against NKOTB – they’ve got the right stuff. The problem was the complete lack of nicotine from my system.
Even now, hours later, all I can do is sit and cry and sweat and wait. Nicotine patches are for pussies, and only lesbians and baseball players chew gum (...interestingly a Venn diagram of lesbians and baseballers is pretty much a perfect circle). I'm doing this cold turkey - largely for bragging rights - and so help me Julio Iglesias if I don't piss and moan about how hard it is the whole fucking way. I'm the one who has to live his life knowing the rest of the world thinks he's a no good fucking quitter. Regrets - yeah, so what, I've got a few.
On New Years Eve I managed to blow all of my myriad regrets out of the water. I did something so heinous that it is now literally* eating me up inside (*not to be taken literally). I’ve broken hearts, bones and promises before, still I’ve never felt as sorry as I do now. It seemed harmless at the time – fuck, everyone was doing it – but now I’m left with the sickening consequences. It’s killing me, I’m just going to come out and say it - on New Years Eve 2006 I made a resolution to stop smoking.
There! It’s out now. The world knows. Somehow I still don’t see myself sleeping any easier. I’m sick to my stomach. I couldn’t work it out at first. I blamed my hangover for the first 24 hours. Then I woke up wondering why I couldn’t be fucked getting out of bed. Why, when 2007 had promised so much adventure and opportunity only days before, was I ready to crawl into a hole and shell peanuts with my face? Why does my life suddenly feel like a blackhole of pointlessness and whoredom? Perhaps, with the wisdom of another year under my belt, I’d finally seen the truth!?
We had dinner at Soul Mamma’s in St. Kilda. I was a narky, anxious bundle of unrest. Everything around me made want to vomit my own sick. The waiters, the clientele, the way the strawberry on my pannacotta left a pink mark on the cream. I was furious. Then after tea we went on a walk down St. Kilda pier. I wanted to punch every person walking on it. I wanted to rip down the sunset like an NKOTB poster, spitting and stamping on it for being uninspiring and predictable. I wanted to break something beautiful, ruin something that someone else had worked very hard on, and eat something ever-so-slightly sweet – though that often happens after a big meal.
I was practically foaming at the mouth when the penny finally dropped. It was when I reached down to pick up that penny that I finally realised that I was out of sorts. Hang on, I remembered, I like being pretentious and indulgent – forcing down vegetarian food, all the while wishing it has more types of animals in it. I like the pier and its tourists, with their accents, loose morals and their tiny, tiny shorts. I like the sunsets and their dangling orbs and spectacular spectrums. To be honest, I don’t even really have anything against NKOTB – they’ve got the right stuff. The problem was the complete lack of nicotine from my system.
Even now, hours later, all I can do is sit and cry and sweat and wait. Nicotine patches are for pussies, and only lesbians and baseball players chew gum (...interestingly a Venn diagram of lesbians and baseballers is pretty much a perfect circle). I'm doing this cold turkey - largely for bragging rights - and so help me Julio Iglesias if I don't piss and moan about how hard it is the whole fucking way. I'm the one who has to live his life knowing the rest of the world thinks he's a no good fucking quitter. Regrets - yeah, so what, I've got a few.
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