I started smoking, after work. I'm simply recording this so I can look back and use it somehow to stop smoking completely.
I'm not really sure how I am going to do that, but assume more information will help somehow.
Keep trying to stop, I am guessing is the secret.
Finn asked Chris if he had been faithful. Chris left the crab ointment on the kitchen bench. Finn could see Chris was taken back. He was.
“Finn?...” Chris’ eyes glassed over, as if they had already decided. “I never...”
For the last year, since Angelo gave them to Chris, just occasionally Chris felt something crawling and he put the ointment on and change his sheets and everything is fine. He said, “I don’t even really feel them. It’s just a feeling I get sometimes.”
Angelo still lives up the street. He's just finishing uni. But Chris hasn't, not since he met Finn.
“I know. I just wondered,” said Finn. He was quiet after that.
Chris suppressed the urge to confess. Brain kicked in. It was one of those red stop-light moments. Don't say anything. Count to ten. Do not question. Don't pull a face.
“I have only been with you.”
“Me too,” said Finn. “I’ve only been with you.” I guess he felt he should add that, just for the record.
“The cream is psychosomatic,” said Chris. “It is all in my head.”
“What is?”
“The crawling on my skin,” said Chris.
“The crawling on your skin?”
“Yes, not another man,” said Chris.
Finn laughed nervously. “Is that why the cream is on the bench?”
“Yes, that’s why the cream is on the bench.”
This is it. There is nothing else. Only this. This is our shot, don't fuck it up. You don't get another shot. No. Never. No chance.
As it's over, everything is over, never to come again, done, finished. Minute by minute. Only what is coming, will come. The only thing you have control over is your positioning against the thing that comes.
You can choose what you get, to an extent, by a positive outlook. And the best way to do this is to be happy. Content. In a random world. Chose life. Chose happiness and everything else will take care of itself.
Be happy. Make a life of it, as there is no going back, there is no revision, there is no practice run.
This is it!
It is happening now.
It’s draining out of you now, draining away. Your life, even if you don’t notice, it is happening. Minute by minute, second by second, you are closer to the end, even if you don’t feel it.
“Do you think I look older?”
“Older than when?”
“Than five minutes ago?”
“Oh, darling.”
“This morning?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Than I did last year?”
“Well, if we are talking about last year?”
“Our photos from our trip to Amsterdam?”
“Five years ago?”
“Is it five years ago?”
“The last trip?”
“When you stood in the moonlight in that lime green cagoule?”
“You were smoking those long joints.”
“Do I look older now?”
“That was five years ago?
“My how the time disappears.”
“You are lovelier now…”
“That wasn’t the question?”
“What was the question?”
“Do I look older?”
“You are as beautiful now…”
“Than when we drove that Fiat around southern Europe?”
“Twenty years ago?”
“Than when Oliver was born?”
“He’s twenty one years old?”
“He got your good looks.”
“He looks so much like you that if we put a dress on him…”
“Do I look older now, than then?”
“When you were red faced and screaming as he slid out of you?”
“To think that big boy came out of me.”
“It is the only time I have ever believed in miracles.”
“Do I look older than that night on the dance floor?”
“When we met?”
“What was the song that was playing?”
“You sexy thing.”
“You sexy thing?”
“Ah yes, I remember it like yesterday.”
“Do I look older than that night?”
“You had a mass of blonde curls.”
“You had long dark hair.”
“You were lovelier than the sun and the moon and all the flowers in between.”
“We danced together until dawn.”
“I loved you from the very moment we were introduced.”
“I think I loved you from that moment too.”
“That was thirty years ago.”
“Do I look older now than then?”
“No.”
Girl's just talk, don't they. I must be getting intolerant? I went to the post office and had to stand in line for quite some time and these two girls in front of me never shut up, not for a second. There wasn't even a pause. They didn't even seem to draw breath. They just kept on yak yak yakking until I wanted to scream, "Shut up!" "Shut up!" "Shut up!"
I just have to breath instead. 1, 2, 3…
“Oh, I know. Did you see the look on her face?”
“Like a slapped arse, she was not happy.”
“It was Jeremy’s fault…”
“Oh yes, I know.”
“He was the one…”
“He was that is for sure.”
“I thought Natalie was going to lose it completely.”
“At Jeremy?”
“Oh, at everyone by that stage. Her face said it all.”
“Her face said it all.”
“I didn’t know where to look…”
“Or say. I didn’t want to be dragged into it just because I made an off the cuff comment.”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. I was keeping my mouth shut that was for sure.”
“For sure.”
“And all Simon could do was laugh.”
“Standing there in his sweaty jogging shorts and singlet.”
“Good legs though.”
“Oh yes, I have always said that about Simon.”
“He could fling his jogging shorts on the end of my bed any day.”
“Any day, I agree,”
“Could you imagine?”
“Do you think about that?”
“With Simon?”
“Yes, with Simon.”
“It has crossed my mind, I am not ashamed to say.”
“But Natalie?”
“Oh, I am not looking forward to going back to the office.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Like a bitch on wheels is Nat when she is pissed off.”
“Like a bitch…”
“Next please.”
“I’ll see you back at the office.”
“Yes, see you back at the office.”
As me old granny used to say – that's the alcoholic one, on my dad's side – “Put your arm out so I can measure the length, yes, just like that.”
Her house always had a peculiar smell, now I recognise it as booze and fags and air that was stale.
Sadly, she died youngish, sixty nine, too much booze and heart break. My grandfather died young and left her penniless and alone, before I was born, before I was even thought of. She smoked menthol cigarettes and always had a brandy on the go. She could play backgammon like a shark, she'd encourage me to bet.
“It makes life more interesting,” she’d say. “You wait and see.”
She'd sneak me puffs on her cigarette when I was a kid, (no she didn’t, I just like to romanticise it that way) when mum and dad had gone to bed. She always wanted to know if there was a girl in my life. She'd want to know the details, but I knew how far I could go.
She used to knit me jumpers, “Boys need woollens to see them through life.” She’d laugh and pat me on the head. “You’ll understand when you are older and have to travel for love.”
She’d knit jumpers only in kid’s sizes, she’d knit them all day. There was speculation that the booze rendered adult sizes out of her abilities. (I didn't hear that until I was grown up, of course)
Or she’d spend the day at the pub, bringing cream cakes home for tea.
She loved me. I miss her. She’d look after us when mum and dad were out for the night.
The same fear of being assaulted, is essentially the same fear that makes woman want to drive four wheel drives.
You can't touch me in this?
I can get you first, she thinks, as she cuts everyone off... and the persecuted become the persecutors.
That's life, I suppose.
Increasingly, we are making decisions on fear and not on logic. The commercial world's greatest asset, keep them afraid and they will spend more money to make themselves feel better, to make themselves feel safer.
Funny how self preservation is our greatest goal?
Mine is to get lovely art on the wall, a 911 in the garage, and a beach house down the coast.
Stop living in fear girls, go and get yourself a nice dress instead, a job you enjoy, and a man for your bed.
(Oh yes, I know. It’s just that this was about chicks in their 4WD, namely of the charcoal grey Volvo variety.
“Watch out, I am coming through, sitting up as high as I like. I feel invincible in my command centre on wheels. Out of my way, little man, you are in my path.”
“You won’t fit through there Esmerelda. No, you won’t.”
“COMING THOUGH!”
“Jasus Xist, you fitted through. Dear Universe! How did you do that?”
“Cackle.”
“You sound possessed when you laugh like that, Esmerelda, you really do!”
Maniacal laugh. The engine roaring.
“Did you see the look on that poor sod's face.”
“He’s lucky he had a face left now that I am done. GET OUT OF MY WAY!”
It is fear, that makes them act in such away, it has to be, as nobody is that fucked up naturally. But I digress….
It could have been just as easily said, Stop living in fear boys, go and get yourself a nice dress, in which you can feel the fresh air blow, a job you enjoy, and a man for your bed. Enjoy taking what your wife/girlfriends can’t give you, in your tiny briefs and your arse swishing in just such away being such a tease, baby.)
What happened? We look around and every thing's changed and we ask the question. What happened? Do I remember? Have I had fun? What does any of this mean?
Did I fulfil my dreams?
Or, was I too busy living my life, working my days to pay for my nights? The bills never stopped, the wants never ceased, just decreased a little each year, if you know what I mean. By the time I am very old, I am sure I will be very still.
And suddenly it's ten, twenty years later and we are left wondering, what happened? What did I do? Where did time go? And suddenly you are having trouble getting up from the couch. I used to just spring up, now it is grab hold and heave-ho.
How did I get here?
But, I feel okay. Just the same. Just the minutes slip sliding away. Oh? Now a groan, and an ache. What does that mean? What does that make? Can I remember any time before now?
I still feel the same, inside this old frame. I still feel like the young chap who ventured out into the world. I still feel like the eighteen year old, the twenty nine year old, the thirty nine year old looking out through these eyes. I still feel the same deep down in my soul, if any of us have souls at all? I still feel like the guy I have always been.
It is just my refection that doesn’t add up any more. And what I feel when I try to spring up off the floor.
I'm semi interested in people, you know, as long as they don't interfere with my life too much, do their own thing, don't whine or gossip, or bore my pants off, I’m okay with them. Humans are interesting, in a self-focused, selfish kind, poke them and see kind of way. Cats and humans are alike, it's why some humans don't like their feline friends all that much, too alike.
Maybe, they'd make good pets? You know, a couple of throw humans for the end of the bed.
"I can't sleep, entertain me." You know, the pretty ones. Go on, get on with it. Don’t be shy. Oh, don’t make me have to show you, surely your natural juices, your propensity to show of? Pheromones, hormones, just lick it and see. How else do any of you shag? It isn’t rocket science. Come on, I’m waiting.
The plain ones could still cook & clean, or take the rubbish out. Sort out your emails. I don’t know, what else did you used to get your mum to do?
I could teach them to say lines like a cocky, or stand like a statue. Or, maybe, I could just watch them wrestle on a mat, or make them sit up on their hind legs and catch chocolate in their mouths. Clap their hands and honk like a seal?
Of course, there would be a favourite, which, I guess, would get him into fights with the others. But, it can only toughen him up, which can't be a bad thing. You know, Rocky is my favourite.
The charismatic one, with big hands, who looks good on all fours.
You know how life works?
So many of them are worth a giggle and a point. And if they can take directions, all the better.
I'm an addict to the "tines" – nicotine, caffeine... Saltine, ha, ha.
I meant to give up smoking when I was thirty. Then it was forty. The next one doesn't bare thinking about, even if it is eons off yet.
Gotta put in some effort.
As for the caffeine, 6 cups a day, but I don't drink them all. Mostly, half goes cold and I go to make another.
Woo-hoo! Woop! Woop! Woop! Coffee wakes you up.
Give them a go, kids, coffee, cigarettes, crackers, you never know, you might just like them.
And on the Saltines, I suggest liverwurst.
Ah, and a sardine.
Call the world's problems what you like, but the reality is that it is over-population, the hardest problem to solve. Because you know, every bastard thinks it is their right to have a child, procreate, spit out a little Jimmy, or little Sally.
So, why do we pay a baby bonus? It's actually an anti-environment policy. It is counter to the times. Seriously, if some clod wants to have a kid, let them pay for it themselves, that’s what I say.
Why are the political parties using refugees as a political tool? When, in reality, we should be embracing the redistribution of the world’s population as an environmental issue. We now have plenty of people, we've just got to move them around, that is the reality.
Funny how there are no barriers when it comes to trade? Free Trade agreements should be used for the world’s population.
Wouldn’t it take the pressure off governments, for countries with low birth rates. You don’t have to produce them, just import them. Easy.
But people doggedly stick to the right to bear kids. It is everybody’s birth right, so those with kids say. They don’t want to consider environmental issues when they want to have a kid. If they want to contribute to the world’s over population, let them pay for it themselves, that’s what I say.
How many people don't live the lives they live in public, as they do in private? You know, those people say one thing, but act in another way in private. How common do you think this is? A conservative American politician is an anti abortion, but when his wife's life was threatened during pregnancy she, effectively, has an abortion to save her life. Homophobes? Racists. People who espouse monogamy, but have affairs on the side. People who espouse family values, but in private it’s a lie.
How many people pretend that the lives they live in public, match what they do in private. If we were all honest and admitted to our sexual proclivities, the world would be a less uptight place to live. There would be fewer scared people in the world.
If we were all honest, the world would be a happier place to live. There would be fewer scared people living in fear of being found out. So many more of us would be happy, not having to pour all of their energies into maintaining the charade.
It's funny what people think. It's weird what people think is important.
I like threesomes with my husband, with another man. He does too.
I like playing the field, the more girls the better.
I like seeing my husband with another man. Two guys are hot.
I like men when they crawl on top of me and dominate me.
I like piss. Drinking it down.
I like cum… all over me.
I hate cum on my skin.
I like being tied up.
I like being smacked… my safe word is magnolia.
I like smelly foreskins.
I like stinky cunts.
I like taking it up the arse.
I can’t orgasm unless I am punched.
I want my genitals to be stapled up my arse, after which I’m douched with my own blood.
I like dressing up in school uniforms.
I like running the city, and dressing up in a French maid’s outfit in the brothel being told I am a bad girl.
I like fucking the dead, it is the only way I can do what I want to do.
I like men to take a crap in their jocks.
I like a woman to piss her knickers.
I like construction workers.
I like nurses.
I like school teachers.
I like them young.
I can only fuck when I am off my face on drugs.
I like doing it in public.
I like being caught by a stranger.
I like old woman.
I like them to pretend that I am forcing them.
I like being raped, it is the only way I get turned on.
I want the whole football team to fuck me on the back line.
I want to fuck my son’s girlfriend.
I want to be fucked by my daughter’s guy.
I like big girls, with veins in their legs.
I like men with cocks as big as my arm.
I’m a chubby chaser, they have to be big boned.
I get turned on by anything that is taboo.
People get very nervous if you walk around with your laces untied.
I take my shoes off at work, I have naturally hot feet, but they don't smell, oddly enough. So, if I want to head down stairs, naturally, I have to put my shoes back on. Sometimes, I just slip them on and head to the lift, leaving them untied on purpose. You know, just to see.
Oh, I am just lazy, I’ve told you that before. Just slip them on. I always wear lace up shoes, never slipons. I hate the look of slipon shoes.
I don't really see what the problem is, I can walk around no problem with the laces flapping in the breeze. I don't know what neurosis is at work there, something from our dim, dark, hereditary past, but there is always someone, with a furrowed brow and a nervous look, who points and nudges and says,
"Excuse me, your laces are undone." Nervously. Often more than one person. Sometimes they line up.
Occasionally there is a chorus. "Excuse me?" "Excuse me?" "Excuse me?"
Such childhood trauma, I think as I saunter past, seemingly oblivious.
Occasionally, one will chase me, tap me on the shoulder, make me see the danger to my life and limb that I am clearly missing.
That always makes me chuckle.
Bad behaviour, drinking again,
They say it surprised, like it had never happened before.
Oh, Red wine mouth, you looked like a ghoul the last time you looked.
Red wine pooh, it makes the pooh paper look like gravely liquorice.
Who looks? I know I always do. Do you?
It makes your vomit turn pink,
your mood turn grim,
your breath stink,
get in water and you sink,
you can’t swim, you shouldn’t even try,
because as they say, it’s a good way to die.
I love that Melbourne is multicultural, but then, aren't all cities now a days? What with the immigration question and all?
I love it being a tram city, ding, ding, all aboard!
I love its eclectic lane ways, their avant garde appearance, it's maze like web across the heart of the CBD.
I love that the people unabashedly wear black to make it a very black city. Black is style, black is culture, black is assurance in our own being.
And we haven’t even talked about coffee. Best in Australia.
I was at the top of Bourke Street nearly at Spring, attempting to make my way past The Green Chilli, or The Red Pickle, through the people sat the outdoor tables on the foot path. The people and the tables were many, the spaces in between were limited.
A handsome Indian guy smiled, tilted his head, stepped sideways, and swept his hand in front of himself for me to walk through before him. He looked me in the eye and smiled when I hesitated. His beautiful eyes twinkled, his lips parted gently to show a row of pearl white teeth. My breath was taken away just for a moment. I guessed he knew it. He had the self assured smile of a man who was born handsome.
"After you," he said.
I nodded, as if to say thank you, and stepped past.
That jawline, that bone structure, that skin. I won't tell you how he filled out his jeans, I guess you can imagine, but I did notice.
"Thank you," I said.
"Oh no, it is my pleasure," he responded.
I looked back and he was still gazing at me. I nodded my head again and smiled.
Tall and strapping. He had large hands and big feet. I noticed the feet because he had those long, pointy kind of shoes on, which accentuated the length of his feet.
I wondered? You know what I wondered.
I don't know what they say about Indian guys, in particular? But, I know what they say about guys in general and from my experience it is true what they say. But, what about Indian guys, how big are they?
What would you like your last words to be?
I know what I want mine to be,
Get the lights, will ya?
As me old granny used to say, get them, dear, before they get you. Oh, she didn’t really say that at all, but she was tough and got her way.
She made a fortune out of real estate, essentially starting off with nothing. She was a milliner by trade.
There were rumours of diamond thefts back in England, nothing proven, though. They say her brother was involved. It was, allegedly, the reason a number of them immigrated to Australia quickly.
She took all of my grandfather’s wages and gave him a miserable allowance. He had to walk to the CBD from Kew every day because he had no money for the tram fare. He had a rock cake and a cup of tea every day for lunch under Flinder’s Street Station.
She had another man’s photo on her bedside table all of her married life. That is true, I’d see it there when I’d stay.
She used to brush my hair and tell me I was the most handsome boy in the world. You gotta love granny's.
She had skin like an English rose and eyes that sparkled like blue sapphires. She was a genteel English lady.
She had abortions, so my great aunt used to say, who I also adored, but it was true to say they didn’t adore each other. But, my mother said that the abortions may have been true. As a child, she used to go with her mother to the hospital for injections, or some such thing.
“I always loved geography,” she used to say to me. “You can go all over the world finding what’s good.” She’d laugh and say, “It is the most interesting thing to do.”
As old as my little finger, my tooth is a little younger, she used to say when asked her age.
She lived until she was ninety five.
Do you ever think it is weird, there we all are in our own tribes speaking in our own, peculiar dialect of language?
All of those sounds meaning different things.
All of those languages and we still can't communicate peacefully.
All of those words and we still have difficulty living together on this planet.
I think it is weird. It is as if we haven't evolved at all.
Some people get out the front door of a tram and they thank the driver as they leave.
How quaint.
I saw a woman do this today. She walked to the front door of the tram. Once the tram stopped and before she got off, she said, “Thank you driver.”
“He said, “You are welcome.” Or did he just nod? He acknowledged her, I saw that.
Thank you, driver. It made me smile, not the least for it had never occurred to me to thank them. It is kind of nice, in a weird, stuffy kind of way.
Thank you, driver.
I guess it is good. I don’t know. I’d just question how far back in history it is actually taking us?
Some of those manors came at an awful social price.
Ask the blacks, or the gays, or the poor, or ask the women in life.
Thank you, driver... for safely taking me a part of my way today. You have been. an integral part of my life.
Thank you, driver. We are all still alive.
Thank you, driver. It is on you I rely.
Thank you, driver.
Some days I feel crushed by the weight of my ordinariness.
Do you?
I guess we all feel it, at some stage. I guess?
Our self believe can be very frail. For some. And for some, not at all.
Those confident guys, with handsome faces and perfect skin. They never know what it’s like not to fit in.
But, I don’t know it so much, I’ve always had friends I could call my group. But, I do wonder some days if I am good enough.
Good enough?
It is a concept we need.
It is hard to believe, some days, when my hair looks a sight, and my self-esteem is in retreat. My face looks fat, and my pants feel tight. My teeth are yellow and my eyes are red. Okay, my teeth never, actually look yellow, and my eyes are only red when it is something I have done to myself. But you know what I mean, some days we need help.
Good enough, it is the only benchmark we have to exceed. Only for ourselves, its not normally someone else’s needs. It is what we do to ourselves, and it is only ourselves from such thinking who need to escape.
Mostly, nobody else gives a shit. They are all worrying about their own self-esteem.
A Christian fundamentalist mother stuffed a Bible in her baby's mouth killing her.
Well, there's one current use for the outdated old book.
Chuckle?
Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. But seriously?
Answer me this question, Christians. Why did God make her do it?
And don’t give me any of your bullshit. This is an entity, according to you, who created everything and everyone, and is responsible for everything that happens, so why did he make her do it?
And if you say he didn’t do it, and something else was responsible, your religion makes no sense.
I love being buttoned up in jackets in winter. I like that feeling of being snug, strapped in, protected against the cold, it's like mother's love. Something to hold you all the way through. Secure. A good fit. A great fit. Double breasted is best, a double row buttoning me in. Right up my exposed flank, you might say.
That's the one thing I like about the winter. All dressed up to play.
Oh, and the cold on my face in the mornings, it's bracing, it reminds me that I am alive. And the fresh air against my skin, giving life, and energy, and breath, blowing any the stuffiness away.
Air blowing into us. Air blowing over us. Air blowing around us. Giving life, and energy and drive, lifting us up.
Rub your hands together bracing. Heading out into the world facing. Grey skies above. All dressed up with love. Out in the world in a hug. Dressed up snug as a bug. Layers and layers. Just your face, hands and ankles, maybe, exposed to the cold day. The sky above grey. What a fabulous day.
Didn't it fucking rain over the weekend? Down it came. If Jesus had floated by nailed to a cross on the wrecked bow of the ark, I, well, me and all the Jesus Freaks wouldn't have been surprised.
As me old granny used to say, “Always live on the top of a hill.”
I told my young nephew that, "God's wife is taking a squat."
"Mary! Is that Mary?" he asked.
"No, she was just a receptacle for god's spoof on earth." Some preposterous story about a 13 year old denying who she was knocked up by?
"Whose god's wife then," Mitchell asked?
It all seemed so ridiculous and all too hard by that stage, as his innocent eyes gazed up at me. "Who indeed?"
"Don't fill his head full of that nonsense," said Mitcell's mum.
“So, who is god’s wife?”
“God’s wife?” asked Mitchell’s mum. “Asherah.”
“Who?”
“Asherah.”
“You are just making it up now?”
Mitchell's mum laughed out loud. "It is all made up, but the stories are interesting."
"Interesting from a historical point of view."
"What people believed in in history," said Mitchell's mum. "Before they understood that none of it is true."
"What they believed in," I said. "Until they didn't."
"Most people don't believe it today."
"But they still go to church," said Mitchell. "And they still read from the bible."
"Maybe, a vocal minority," said Mitchell's mum. "I think you will find is the truth."
“A vocal minority?” questioned Mitchell.
“Usually, the people who don’t know much but have a lot to say about it,” said Mitchell’s mum.
“It’s just the ones who can’t let go of what their parent’s believe in,” I said.
“Childhood is an impressionable age, and those who still persist with this nonsense are free to infect their kid’s minds with the same stuff and nonsense,” said Mitchell’s mum.
“Empty vessels,” I said.
“Clang, clang, clang,” said Mitchell’s mum.
“So, god didn’t have a wife?” asked Mitchell.
“God doesn’t exist,” said Mitchell’s mum and I at the same time.
“It’s a construct,” said Mitchell’s mum.
“That got out of hand,” I said.
Mitchell’s mum and I laughed.
“Free to infect imprisonable minds,” said Mitchell’s mum. She looked from me to Mitchell.
“It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it,” I said. I looked from her to Mitchell. We looked at each other.
Mitchell’s mum and I laughed again.
“So, who made the rain?” asked Mitchell.
“I think that is a question you should ask in your science class,” said Mitchell’s mum.
“Not your religious education class,” I said.
“You want an honest answer, after all” said Mitchell’s mum. “Not the fairy tale version.
“Do you have religious education classes?” I asked.
“No,” said Mitchell. “Just a bit in history, I guess.”
“Relegate religion to history,” said Mitchell’s mum.
“They are finally getting education right,” I said.
Mitchell’s mum and I laughed again.
“So, religion is a bad thing?” asked Mitchell.
“Oh honey,” said Mitchell’s mum. She looked at me. “Is religion a bad thing?”
“Religion itself is really just a bunch of stories made up by people a few thousand years ago to explain the things in the world happening around them that they didn’t understand, at the time” I said.
“And now we’re far more educated and we now know the scientific reasons natural phenomena happen,” said Mitchell’s mum.
“And now we don’t need religion to run our lives,” I said.
“You know how nana says wireless rather than radio.”
“Yes,” said Mitchell.
“Well, it is the same kind of thing.”
“It is just leftover from an era which really doesn’t exist anymore.”
“It just takes people time to change in their way of thinking.”
“So, religion isn’t a bad thing?” asked Mitchell.
“Oh darling.” Mitchell’s mum looked at me. We both laughed.
“It can be,” I said.
Mitchell’s mum looked at me and then looked at Mitchell. “It’s not something I want you to believe in, honey. There are so many more interesting things in the world with which to fill your mind.”
People say I have this charmed life, all the time I feel like I never really fulfilled my potential.
People think I have a wonderful thing going on, all the time I feel a bit like a failure.
I have met a new lover and my friends have said it to him, Josh's charmed life. I never know what to say, as it seems so far from my reality, so different to how I feel inside.
Everybody wants to be me. Apparently.
Funny, I always think. Why set the benchmark so low?
Looking back over this... sometime later
The irony is everyone wants to be me, but me. Oh, I don't mean in a big and scary way, but don't we always want to be someone else or, at least, have someone else's life or, at least, some aspects of someone else's life? There is always someone who looks as though they are having a better life? Huh?
Having said that, I am pretty happy with mine. No complains. Well, no one cares anyway, they are too busy worrying about their own lives.
We were talking about the WA politician chair sniffer. My friends believed it was disgusting. I thought it's just what people do, dirty secrets and all that. The only difference here was that he admitted to it.
My friends asked if I had done any such thing? I had to think and, initially, I thought that I hadn't, but, then it came to me. A hot Italian friend, who I think is really cute, was staying with me. He had a mattress on the floor next to my bed. The next morning, when he was some place else, I spotted his jocks, from the day before, lying next to his bed. I prefaced my admission with, I never thought I would ever be telling anyone this, but I picked them up and sniffed them.
All my friends laughed. And then came the admissions from each of them, one by one.
You know when that person who thinks you are pretty special wants you to jump them; wants it, needs it. You better be able to give it your best shot, go the distance, produce the goods, make their toes curl, get them to call your name out loud.
Of course, if you are with the right person, it should all cum naturally. You know, your tail should already be wagging for them. They shouldn't have to ask, you know... nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Especially boys because, you know, we evolved that way. It is in our genes, some may say DNA. We can't help it, it is beyond our control.
Big smile.
I don't always have people on my side, I mostly have to fend for myself. You know, if you want something done...
But, it doesn't matter, as I am strong enough. That's what a friend said when I question doing it alone? But you don't need people on your side, you are the strongest person I know.
Yeah, but sometimes it would be nice.
When I walk home in the winter evening at dusk, looking down watching one foot step and then the other, one step after the other, step, step, step, I never feel quite so alone.
“Hey mate, what are you doing?”
“I’m watching my feet.”
“Why are you watching your feet, mate?”
“So, I don’t feel quite so along.”
“Shouldn’t you be watching the way you are walking home?”
“Oh, I’m part bat,” I say. “So that is okay.”
“Part bat, you say?”
“Yes, that is why I can watch my feet this way?”
“That is why you can watch your feet this way?”
“Yes, I can see my feet and then I’m not walking alone.”
“You can see your feet so you aren’t walking alone?”
“And my bat senses guide me home.”
“Your bat senses guide you home?
“And all the way, I never feel alone.”
“Because you look down and watch your feet?”
“Yes, if I didn’t look down, I might just feel the defeat.”
“Watching your feet, you never feel alone?”
“That’s right, as I make the long walk home.”
The richer you are, the more likely that you are to lie and cheat to maintain your wealth. That's what capitalism encourages.
Whatever it takes to stay at the top.
Do what you have to do to remain king of the crop.
It doesn’t matter who you have to step on, or knock off the rock.
Kings of industry, conservative commentator’s gods.
And conservative politician’s reason to breath.
Right wing punter’s ability to dream,
even if they will never realise that level themselves.
That doesn’t seem to matter, as long as they have something to which to aspire, they can go on living in their own personal denial.
The rich paradox, some may say is pretty vile.
The rich get to keep their wealth, with integrity, or stealth, and those who will never have it, mysteriously, clap to their good health.
Is it a curse to be too beautiful?
Do you think you'd ever know if people liked you for who you were and not how you look in a towel?
Do you think you could live with such hardship like that?
Can you imagine the different life that the beautiful live?
People looking at you, all eyes in the room.
People hitting on you, all wanting to sleep with you.
The dates you’d have, just like that.
Can you imagine having anyone you wanted?
Never going home alone.
Sunday mornings with a different face,
someone new inhabiting your space.
Learning their names, saying the right one out loud,
never being alone in a crowd.
Never confusing a boy for a girl,
because they’d both want to get with you,
that is for sure.
Girlfriends and boyfriends galore,
never having to pay, or even the score.
It doesn’t cost the beautiful anything to stay.
The cost of inclusion is the smile on your face.
I enchant and entrance and make people’s lives better and their work experience more enjoyable and then I leave and they never hear from, or see, me again. And their lives are not as full as they were when I was around.
According to an old work buddy, I ran into. Almost his exact words. How about that? One of the few times in life that I have been speechless.
I guess it's a compliment.
I laughed and changed the subject, asked him how he was?
That is too much to live up to.
One of my best mates at school always wanted to be a dashing ambulance driver, speeding through the city saving lives. I hear that he’s been driving RACV vans for the last fifteen years.
In all the time that you worry about a task you need to get done, usually I find that the task could have been easily completed in all the time you spend worrying about it.
Funny how we don't see it.
Funny how we don't just do it and worry less.
I guess it is all about self esteem. Well, it has to be, now doesn't it, otherwise we'd simply go straight ahead with all the confidence that is required.
I saw a guy jogging, as I was heading over to a friend's place. He had an athletic build and muscular legs in dark blue shorts with white stripes down the side, which I thought looked good on him.
But, he had work boots on his feet.
WTF?, I thought.
Then I realised it was Jethro.
“Hey, Jethro, what you got on your feet, boy?”
“I gotta keep runnin’ if I want to make the team.”
“Yes, but Jethro what have you got on your feet?”
“I gotta make the grade this season, that way Inga will go with me to the end of year ‘do’.”
“That’s all well and good, Jethro, but what are you runnin’ in.”
“I like Inga and Inga likes footy players, so Arnold tells me.”
“Yes, yes, Inga the blond, very nice, but what the hell are you runnin’ in those shoes for?”
“I like Inga, so I gotta keep runnin’”
“Jethro, where are your runnin’ shoes, boy?”
“My runnin’ shoes?”
“Yes, your runnin’ shoes? Where are your runnin’ shoes?”
“Oh, you mean me Nike Airs?”
“Yes, Jethro, where are your Nike Airs?”
“Oh, Billy-Ray’s got them.”
“Billy-Ray’s got them?”
“Yes, Billy-Ray’s got them.”
“Why has Billy-Ray got your runnin’ shoes, Jethro?”
“It's all about training and Rita Row.”
“Rita Row?”
“Does the catering at the footy with Inga.”
“The dark-haired one?”
“Yep, with the pretty smile.”
“Does she like footy players too?”
“Why do you think she does the catering?”
“Is this also according to Arnold?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Oh, just a lucky guess, I, er, guess,” I said. “But what’s with the shoes?”
“Oh, Billy-Ray couldn’t find his trainers?”
“So, why does he have yours.”
“Oh, you know.”
“Ah, no, I don’t know.”
“For training.”
“But don’t you train with him?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And he’s got yours?”
“Yes.”
“So, how’s he off for jocks and socks then?”
“Yeah, he wears my socks & jocks too.”
“You guys will be sleeping together next?”
“Oh, come on, let’s not have any of that talk…”
“When he’s getting into your undies…”
“Yeah, but I’m not in them at the time.”
“You seem to be getting very close.”
“Yeah, Billy-Ray and I are, and you know if I was gonna go gay for anyone…”
“It would be Billy-Ray.”
“You know, lots of folks would tell you he’s a good sort, you know, the girls mostly, but I’m sure not always… er, girls…”
“Anyone in the footy club?”
“And ya know, I could do a lot worse than Billy, but you know hairy arses, and kissing a stubble chins, I just couldn’t see it.” Jethro laughed. “Not that I have ever thought about kissing Billy-Ray.”
“So why has he got your trainers?”
“Oh, he thought they were his, it was all a mistake. He took mine thinking they were his for training Monday arvo.”
“So, what are you doing out here jogging in your boots?”
“Oh, I just felt like a run, clear my head.”
“I bet you cursed Billy.”
“Oh yeah, there was some cursing involved, but what can you do, what’s done is done.”
“Why didn’t you go and get them?”
“He’s out with Rita Row.”
“So, he’s got past interest stage then?”
Jethro looked at his watch. “He may well have got past first base by this time.” Jethro laughed.
“So, you and Inga then.”
“Yeah, me and Inga, we’ve got a date Saturday night.”
“So that’s got past just interest too?”
“Yeah, first step towards the end of year ‘do’ for me and her. The date Saturday night.”
“Yeah, I knew what you meant.”
“I was dateless last year…”
“I see. You’re putting in some planning for this year.”
“So, anyway, I’d better keep running, working on my boyish figure for Saturday night.”
“Well, be careful in those boots.”
“Yeah, Josh, sure will.”
“That can’t be good for you.”
“You gotta do what you gotta do.”
“I guess.”
You know what is worse than men in lycra? Men in lycra that is too big for them. Especially in white. And shiny. They look like an egg that has been painted by Dali. The physical embodiment of the melting clock standing before you.
“Come on Tony, luv, time to go.”
“Oh, yes, Jim, just a moment while I get up.”
“Give me your hand, old man,” says Jim. “Alley oop!”
“Oh, yes, that makes it much easier,” says Tony.
“I’m getting my bike.”
“I’m paying the bill.”
“Straighten you suit,” says Jim. “It’s hanging down…”
“What?”
“At the back.”
“What?”
“The back, old man, the back,” says Jim. “Pull it round, or tuck it in.”
“These suits aren’t what they used to be.” Tony gives his buzz saw law laugh.
“Not only the suits…”
“What’s that?”
“I said not only the suits.”
“Not only the suits?”
“It’s not just the suits,” says Jim.
“Oh.”
Jim puts his knuckles to each side of his head. “Clean them out, Tone.” He twists each hand. “Clean them out.”
“Are you saying we aren’t what we used to be?” says Tony.
“Well, your arse is beginning to resemble Marg’s from back here.” Jim laughs.
“Not just the suit,” says Tony. “We should ride under that name.”
“Not, Marg’s Arse?” says Jim.
“Not Marg’s arse,” says Tony. “You look like your balls are hitting your thighs.”
“That’s not just the suit…”
“What?”
“That’s not the suit.”
“What’s not the suit?” says Tony.
“My balls are hitting my thighs these days,” says Jim.
“Oh, tell me about it,” says Tony.
Both men laugh.
They clack out to the footpath in their riding shoes to where their bikes are secured to a bike rack.
“Now, what’s my combination,” Tony says out loud to no one in particular.
“Hang on,” says Jim. “I’ll need to have a piss before we go.”
“Oh yes, good idea,” says Tony. “I can’t do two teas like I once could.”
They both clack back across the footpath together and back inside the café.
Wasting my life with another day in front of my computer. I should really look at this, my computer addiction.
Nah, there is always tomorrow.
Ha ha.
So, how badly do I want to do something about it?
I think I should? I think it would probably be good for me if I did? But?
What is it they say about addiction? That all addictions are really just unchecked bad behaviour. Because a true addiction we couldn’t give up. And we give up, what we call, addictions ever day.
I don’t know if that is, actually, true? But it is interesting to think about.
I don’t want to change my bad behaviour, because really I like it, it gives me satisfaction, you know.
Everything will end, everything we know will one day cease to exist, everything has it's time, which is finite. Nothing, and I mean nothing, lasts forever, even the memories of us when we are long gone, will one day drift off into the distance, until they become so small and unrecognisable by anyone.
At that thought, I touched the chair, the cat, my skin and I sniffed at the air just to remember what it smells like. All of this, one day...
…will be gone. Every last thing I can see. Including me.
I stick out my leg and touch my toes, and think about the time when all this goes.
The stretch in the back of my thigh, making me feel like I want to die,
shows me that this is all very much real, and with extermination I don’t have to deal, not today, as they say, not today.
But one day, maybe it will be me, and maybe not. Maybe by that time, my last days I will have got, and I’ll no longer even be a jot, a blip, a candy tip, you know, the size of a sugar grain, no blame, I’ll be gone, somewhere where the end of the world won’t reach, a speck of sand on a beach, a waft of dust, as such.
Perhaps, I need to go back to uni? Learn something new? Get the brain thinking again? Get inspired.
I should have done it years ago, when I first started going to night school, when was that? The year 2000. I should have finished it then.
Gone all the way. Kept going, not stopped. Why did I stop? I'm not really sure now. Stupid me. What was I thinking?
I should have kept going. Just done the creative writing degree. Gone all the way and not stopped at diploma. Proved something, if only to myself.
I loved it. Loved the feeling.
I wasn't stupid after all. I could do it. I did do it. Finally. Why did I stop? Stupid me. I should have 2 degrees.
I sneaked some of my house mate, Shane's boyfriend, Simon's pot. Not that Shane calls Simon his boyfriend, which is one of the great mysteries in life. (I wish Simon was my boyfriend)
I'm smoking pot and drinking coffee on my Juliette balcony, as Mark likes to say, first thing on this beautiful day. Soon, I won't care about the world, or will I care more? Care, in as much, as am-so-relaxed-that-nothing-will-be-bothering-me, not want-to-exit-as-soon-as-I-can, you understand.
I mean, the sky is blue, the sun is warm and there is a gentle breeze on my skin. My palms look healthy, that’s the plants sitting next to me and not some crazy palmistry thoughts I might be having. I must water them before I go indoors.
A jogger with small, white, shorts and thick, hairy, thighs runs past. He's a fit lad, broad shoulders, narrow waist. His feet go thomp, thomp, thomp on the foot path.
A mother and her 3 year old son, who is in wonder at the plants protruding through my front fence, head in the other direction. She has a tight grip on his hand, at the end of his extended arm, as he looks around.
A man stops, shields his hand, lights a cigarette and walks on.
Mum pulls her son away from the smoker. Her son looks back, as though fascinated with what the man is doing.
The sun touches my bare toes for the first time, they curl instinctively and a tingle rushes up my spine.
The street is quiet again.
I puff on my joint and try to think what I am going to do for the rest of the day? Except the marijuana has already hit me and just sitting still with the sun warming my skin seems as good a thing to do as anything else.
People say I have lots of friends.
"Oh Josh, you have so many friends."
I feel like I have got few. I feel like I'm losing them at a fast rate. So many. So many cool people, missed once they are gone.
The trouble is that I like my own company too much.
I'm not really sure I "get" this life any more. I've had great loves and great relationships, but now mostly I feel lonely. Is there more to understand? Is it just a secret that I haven't been let in on yet? Or do I have to do all of this all over again? Did I think I'd done it, only to discover that I'm only half way there?
I day dream about suicide, well, not so much day dream, but sometimes when I hear about it, I find myself thinking they are the lucky ones, you know, before I catch myself. I find empathy welling up. If there was a palatable way of doing it, I might just. Of course, I probably wouldn't, tomorrow may just be the best day of your life, and all that, but I'm sure it can't be healthy to be thinking about it.
There would be a certain freedom. A one ticket shot at it though, hey?
Still, I don't know why we don't have euthanasia laws, you know, for the bored and the tired. Why do you have to be terminally ill and in pain? It's not like we are short of human beings. Why is it anybody’s business? Because they don't want you to do it to them. Bugger you, Jack! Just don't make them feel pain, take this you’ll be okay... and then we’ll be okay too.
"Last thing I remember, I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave!"
Ah, this thing called life? What does it mean? Just when, from all outwardly signs, I look as though I have it sorted, nice house, good job, money in the bank, I'm mostly left feeling there must be something more.
Funny thing, I got the first part done, did well even, but am I going to be left feeling the elusive 'something more' for the rest of my life?
Let’s face it, the first part is easy with all that enthusiasm for the new things you are discovering. The whole world opens up with infinite possibilities.
But then it is an open book and pretty soon the pages are yellowing.
