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.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
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.
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