Into my eighth week now and it still feels wierd not having to get up and iron a shirt and go through all the usual formalities before enduring one of the following: boarding a train that is late and twisting with people; or disloding the encrusts of sleep from my eyes as I wait an eternity at the platform for the 8.16, and then the 8.16 doesn't come at all and that faceless announcer comes through the speakers at 8.20 to say the 8.16 will not run today and the next train will be the 8.21 and when the 8.21 arrives at 8.26 (which isn't 'late', according to Connex - six minutes and under is 'on time') arrives it's twisting and turning with people. Faces squashed against the glass and all that vibe. Got room for one more, someone asks a few stops down the line. No, can't you see my head is up against this dero's armpit (and he's a fare - and soap - dodger; I'm the one paying for the privilege) and then this person pushes through anyway. Further into the forest of foulness I go.
Now, I just wake up (easier said than done now that I keep my own time), write whatever is in my head down on a notepad for twenty minutes or so, then head to work. That is, I get up, adjust myself and walk, in my jocks (green Bonds this morning), via the toilet, to my desk.
Being generous, I'll say it's one and a half minutes from bed to the desk now, instead of one and a half hours... and no armpits.
I won't know what's hit me when I do go back to the nine-to-five thing.
Not to say there aren't interruptions. The blokes next door, who are at my eye level each day (on the rare occasion that I open the curtains) as they drill bolts into their roof as part of a complete house makeover, are eager and loud and remind me of the real world, and there's an apprentice who looks no older than eighteen who reminds me of myself when I was his age - an uncertain gopher - only difference is, he actually has some semblance of what to do with his hands. Oh, the unlucky few who took me on for a day's experience here and there... I knew what they were thinking: he's a country boy, he should know how to use an angle grinder, a drill, a saw, a hammer, a nail gun, a shovel, a hedge-cutter, a corkscrew (actually, I picked up that one in the end).
So I'm logged in. Downstairs for breakfast. With my morning coffee always comes great delight as Mr Cow goes to work. Mr Cow was a Christmas present: a perculator in the design of a cow. My girlfriend hates that I call it Mr Cow. Actually, it's the sort of thing I would hate someone else saying, come to think of it. Anyway, the name has stuck now. It's a great little contraption. And, if you're comparing it with the 'toss it in and gulp it down' method of instant coffee, yes, there is a bit of dicking around. But it's worth it. Inside, without getting technical, goes - from bottom to top - water, espresso-strength coffee, and milk. The milk froths up like a cappuccino. Only when the froth creeps out of the lid, and starts dripping the cow's side, do I turn it off and carry it, along with a cup, back upstairs to the desk.
The old pupils expand as I sip away and listen to John Faine talk down to the people in power to the point where I begin to feel sorry for these powerful people, and then the whine of talkback callers has me switching the radio off.
I check my emails, feel the same anticipatory excitement as I've always done when I see I have new messages, which is soon offset by anger when I get into my inbox and notice it's just spam mail.
I get some work done, and then it starts getting warm. I open the doors to the bedroom and the mid-morning sunshine beams in so I shut the doors again. I can't be reminded that it's a nice day, I'm at work.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
freefall #1
So I spend the morning writing a scene I think isn't too bad so much for just pouring it out and coming back to it later I wrote and rewrote and deleted and inserted and sculpted and shaped it and it gets me thinking of how up and down this whole thing is going to be when some of it is rushed and others it fleshed out and is influenced at all in the book I'm reading at the time? This morning's scene came out staccato style, which is my style, thanks to starting one of the few Bukowski's I've not yet read Women and it's Post Office and Factotum all over again and yet he gets away with it and you can see how he gets novels written in three weeks with that style but you'd be a fool to think that it's easy that's what makes him great that he makes it look easy and some writers make you seethe and boil with jealousy with their descriptive voice or 'to the button' stereotype characterisation but Bukowski writes easy because he does it easy... that's all for now just had to empty out the post-lunch dross out of my head and it's flown from the fingers courtesy of a coffee which was courtesy of Mr Cow who doesn't moo when it's ready instead the froth comes out the top and you have to take it off the stove before it splashes over the side and starts clashing with the licking flames and now it's 3pm Friday afternoon and I need to get another hour out I have Johnny Cash's "American V: A Hundred Highways" on ideal for writing to I never jumped on the Cash bandwagon but now it might be time to I just left it at a moderate volume leaning more to low than high and his voice permeated through me and is a constant while I sit here and let it out the weekend's nigh and I don't have that shaky Friday afternoon feeling anymore because I don't work in the office anymore that shaky feeling that means you'll be slurring your words by seven and drunk and chain-smoking cigarettes by nine and on some foul sugary bourbon and coke just as the witching hour comes around and then Saturday's gone and infancy is left behind and thirty is looming and you wake up with ochre-coloured sagging skin around your eyes and the ashtray is overflowing with cigarette butts and you have to step outside for air that's all in the past or is it
I asked if you were lonely
you said it didn't matter
these are old emotions
we need to bury them and leave them
Move on to something new
We need to bury them and leave them
But I can't leave even you
So if it's making everybody happy
Writing songs about shit
Well I know i'm not supposed to be serious about it,
but I'm serious about it
But I don't wanna fight no battle
And I don't want to feel love a first time
But if the stuff comes better when I'm on my own
Then I'll make it so I'm on my own
- Glenn Richards / Augie March "Rich Girl"
I asked if you were lonely
you said it didn't matter
these are old emotions
we need to bury them and leave them
Move on to something new
We need to bury them and leave them
But I can't leave even you
So if it's making everybody happy
Writing songs about shit
Well I know i'm not supposed to be serious about it,
but I'm serious about it
But I don't wanna fight no battle
And I don't want to feel love a first time
But if the stuff comes better when I'm on my own
Then I'll make it so I'm on my own
- Glenn Richards / Augie March "Rich Girl"
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Life and footy, footy and life.
Two rounds in and the 'water cooler talk' is all footy. Some things never change. Supporters of teams who have started the season brightly are looking forward five months. The office SuperCoach who organised the tipping competition keeps losing to Lim in accounts who has never watched a game in her life.
And as the intensity lifts at thousands of flood-lit ovals around the country, memories of my childhood come flooding back. To a time when players could bump each other without tribunal recourse, and money-driven outsiders hadn't yet dipped their fingers into football's pie.
I think of my Collingwood-mad uncle who rang me pretending to be Peter Daicos after a semi-final win. Of course, I believed him. This same uncle who showed remarkable constraint in not throwing his beer at the television as a wispy-haired Kevin Bartlett ran into another open goal.
I think of my father driving me and a bunch of grotty, wide-eyed boys to junior football on Saturday mornings. Later he'd take me to support the local team. I would hack away at his pay with purchases of pies, dim sims and cans of coke while dreaming of one day pulling on the boots for the senior team on my way to VFL stardom.
And every now and then, around this time of year when the temperature drops, I remember the old man who took the time to kick the footy to a grotty barefoot kid and help nurture his love for the national game.
It was 1987. I was almost ten. Dad had just accepted a bank transfer to Swan Hill. As dusk closed in, I ran around barefoot at the bottom of my new street, weathered Sherrin in hand. In my mind, it was late in the final quarter. Collingwood was five points down. It was my chance to kick the winning goal on the siren as I had done a thousand times before, when all of a sudden a stray kick landed in the arms of an old, bespectacled man. A twenty-metre handpass was fired back at me. This wasn't how I'd played it out in my mind.
Even though we'd never met he called me by my first name and knew I barracked for Collingwood. He was a Fitzroy supporter; said he wanted to see them win a premiership before he died.
His old bones hampered him somewhat, but he was skilful, his drop kicks spearing into my chest. We went back and forth until the headlights of Dad's car pulled into our driveway, which signalled dinner time.
The following evening I looked out the window to the street and there was the old man, hovering under the street light.
And so it became a nightly ritual. The seasons changed and in winter we'd come out a little earlier. Mum always reserved her best neighbourly smile for him, and Dad was relieved that his late nights at work weren't hampering my football development.
He would sometimes call around on wintery Saturday afternoons and sit with me and Dad in the backyard by the fire drum. The ABC footy crackled from the wireless and he'd sit bemused while Dad lined up empty VB cans and picked them off at a distance with his slug gun. The commentators would talk in excited tones about 'Plugger' Lockett breaking the old record for most goals in a game. The old man would agree with them; the best forward he'd seen since John Coleman. He wasn't so thrilled on Sunday afternoons, however, when Warwick Capper and the dancing girls stole the show.
And then later that year it was time for us to move house again. I went around to his house to say goodbye. There was a little kitchen, and a loungeroom with old china on top of dusty cupboards. Old Fitzroy paraphernalia competed with photos of his late wife for wall space. And on the coffee table was an old photo album filled with newspaper cuttings, curled up at the sides and yellowing. He was a footballer of promise, but the war years cut his career short. I remember him being sad that I was leaving. I made a promise to visit him again. I never did.
Fitzroy became my second favourite team, and I always associated them with him. In 1996, when Fitzroy folded, I wrote him a letter to say I was sorry. He would be nine years older, misty-eyed and now probably not even able to kick a football in frustration. I'd like to think he received it, but was too old to send a reply. Then there was the years Collingwood lost grand finals to the Brisbane Lions. The blow was softened by the thought of him in his armchair soaking it up. I hoped that he was still alive to see it.
This morning I was in a queue at the Centrelink office. The line kept growing behind me, snaking out into the street. People were looking up at a television, watching the financial news. Numbers flicked up on the screen with downward arrows next to them. The mood was grim. And then, the footy news came on. The drone of chatter building like a crescendo. Smiles back on faces. On my way home there was an old man kicking a footy with a young boy. The kid dropped an overhead mark and the ball bounced toward me. He thanked me with shy eyes as I handed it back to him. The old man waved. I walked on. And so things keep on keeping on.
Life and footy. Footy and life.
And as the intensity lifts at thousands of flood-lit ovals around the country, memories of my childhood come flooding back. To a time when players could bump each other without tribunal recourse, and money-driven outsiders hadn't yet dipped their fingers into football's pie.
I think of my Collingwood-mad uncle who rang me pretending to be Peter Daicos after a semi-final win. Of course, I believed him. This same uncle who showed remarkable constraint in not throwing his beer at the television as a wispy-haired Kevin Bartlett ran into another open goal.
I think of my father driving me and a bunch of grotty, wide-eyed boys to junior football on Saturday mornings. Later he'd take me to support the local team. I would hack away at his pay with purchases of pies, dim sims and cans of coke while dreaming of one day pulling on the boots for the senior team on my way to VFL stardom.
And every now and then, around this time of year when the temperature drops, I remember the old man who took the time to kick the footy to a grotty barefoot kid and help nurture his love for the national game.
It was 1987. I was almost ten. Dad had just accepted a bank transfer to Swan Hill. As dusk closed in, I ran around barefoot at the bottom of my new street, weathered Sherrin in hand. In my mind, it was late in the final quarter. Collingwood was five points down. It was my chance to kick the winning goal on the siren as I had done a thousand times before, when all of a sudden a stray kick landed in the arms of an old, bespectacled man. A twenty-metre handpass was fired back at me. This wasn't how I'd played it out in my mind.
Even though we'd never met he called me by my first name and knew I barracked for Collingwood. He was a Fitzroy supporter; said he wanted to see them win a premiership before he died.
His old bones hampered him somewhat, but he was skilful, his drop kicks spearing into my chest. We went back and forth until the headlights of Dad's car pulled into our driveway, which signalled dinner time.
The following evening I looked out the window to the street and there was the old man, hovering under the street light.
And so it became a nightly ritual. The seasons changed and in winter we'd come out a little earlier. Mum always reserved her best neighbourly smile for him, and Dad was relieved that his late nights at work weren't hampering my football development.
He would sometimes call around on wintery Saturday afternoons and sit with me and Dad in the backyard by the fire drum. The ABC footy crackled from the wireless and he'd sit bemused while Dad lined up empty VB cans and picked them off at a distance with his slug gun. The commentators would talk in excited tones about 'Plugger' Lockett breaking the old record for most goals in a game. The old man would agree with them; the best forward he'd seen since John Coleman. He wasn't so thrilled on Sunday afternoons, however, when Warwick Capper and the dancing girls stole the show.
And then later that year it was time for us to move house again. I went around to his house to say goodbye. There was a little kitchen, and a loungeroom with old china on top of dusty cupboards. Old Fitzroy paraphernalia competed with photos of his late wife for wall space. And on the coffee table was an old photo album filled with newspaper cuttings, curled up at the sides and yellowing. He was a footballer of promise, but the war years cut his career short. I remember him being sad that I was leaving. I made a promise to visit him again. I never did.
Fitzroy became my second favourite team, and I always associated them with him. In 1996, when Fitzroy folded, I wrote him a letter to say I was sorry. He would be nine years older, misty-eyed and now probably not even able to kick a football in frustration. I'd like to think he received it, but was too old to send a reply. Then there was the years Collingwood lost grand finals to the Brisbane Lions. The blow was softened by the thought of him in his armchair soaking it up. I hoped that he was still alive to see it.
This morning I was in a queue at the Centrelink office. The line kept growing behind me, snaking out into the street. People were looking up at a television, watching the financial news. Numbers flicked up on the screen with downward arrows next to them. The mood was grim. And then, the footy news came on. The drone of chatter building like a crescendo. Smiles back on faces. On my way home there was an old man kicking a footy with a young boy. The kid dropped an overhead mark and the ball bounced toward me. He thanked me with shy eyes as I handed it back to him. The old man waved. I walked on. And so things keep on keeping on.
Life and footy. Footy and life.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Cricket comment #1 - The Australian team and the media
And so, now that normal service has resumed and the knee-jerk 'demise of Australian cricket' will have to be put on the back burner (actually, make that 'put in the incinerator'), the media will have to come up with a new angle to make their coverage interesting.
Andrew Symonds will struggle to get back in so any news about him now isn't really news.
My guess is they are banking on one of the new cats to show their real claws in the not-too-distant future; preferably on the eve of the third test.
I think Hilfenhaus might be a bit of a goer. Under that dishevelled goatee might be the binge drinking, white-stuff hoovering, womanising maniac that is the sub-editors' dream.
Or maybe Phil Hughes will be found celebrating his sixteenth birthday at some seedy Cape Town pub with a bevy of hot women and underworld figures.
Let's just hope it happens soon, before Roebuck, Dorries and co. have to resort to laying the boots into Punter again for something as trivial as his 'on-field body language'.
Oh no, a captain who is disappointed with the way his bowlers are bowling - can't have that!
Andrew Symonds will struggle to get back in so any news about him now isn't really news.
My guess is they are banking on one of the new cats to show their real claws in the not-too-distant future; preferably on the eve of the third test.
I think Hilfenhaus might be a bit of a goer. Under that dishevelled goatee might be the binge drinking, white-stuff hoovering, womanising maniac that is the sub-editors' dream.
Or maybe Phil Hughes will be found celebrating his sixteenth birthday at some seedy Cape Town pub with a bevy of hot women and underworld figures.
Let's just hope it happens soon, before Roebuck, Dorries and co. have to resort to laying the boots into Punter again for something as trivial as his 'on-field body language'.
Oh no, a captain who is disappointed with the way his bowlers are bowling - can't have that!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Diary entry #3 - tolerance
1995 was certainly a landmark year. My eighteenth birthday, my VCE year, passing my driver's license and buying my first car (a Holden Belmont Ute with three on the tree), my first part-time job with hourly earnings in double figures. And, naturally, there were a few other firsts in there as well.
Not that I knew it at the time, but it was also the first year the United Nations observed an International day for Tolerance (November 16th each year to those of you not in the know, which was me as well until wikipedia pointed me in the right direction a few minutes ago). In the fourteen years since, the values of tolerance that my parents instilled into me as a child have often been put to good use. And, as a friend once said whilst in the all-too-familiar situation of having to wait an eternity for his wife to get ready while he sat idle in the lounge room: 'By Christ, you need patience'.
But yesterday, when the planets aligned, conspiring to put me to the test, unfortunately, I failed.
The morning started well enough with me completing 'The Morning Pages' (a daily exercise from Julie Cameron's 'The Artist's Way' where you must fill three pages with stream-of-consciousness writing in order to block out any hindrances to your creative side), and then going through the same old early morning routine.
First up, after a week or more of procrastination, I decided to lodge my Austudy claim. To Centrelink I went, a short walk around the corner. Armed with realms of completed forms and identity documents, I was ready to be in and out in five minutes; be back at the house by 10.15am. Not a chance. In a sign of the times, there were two huge lines, one for job seekers and the other for first time claimers and general inquiries. The latter was longer, and no sooner had two minutes elapsed since I first slunk into line that the snake behind me was about to burst open the doors and move outside. There were stacks of people sitting down in an open waiting room, looking up at the morning news on TV. Pakistan terrorists shooting at Sri Lankan cricketers gave way to Ben Cousins' 33 drug tests in two months which gave way to the financial news. Numbers flicked up on the screen with down arrows next to them. The vibe in there wasn't great. The line wasn't moving, and I was out of there. I'd come back tomorrow at 8am.
Later on, after a morning where I added about 500 words to my novel (of which the first 250 will duly be deleted), I visited the RMIT shop on Little Lonsdale Street to pick up some texts on the way to Non-Fiction class, which, as usual, I was running late for. There was a queue of people waiting outside and a young-looking guy acting as a security guard of sorts. I looked around, puzzled. He spoke up. 'Look guys, unless you've got plenty of time on your hands you'll have to come back later. I can only let people in as they come out'. And sure enough, shortly after when three people went out, one was admitted in. It was like being out front of some seedy bar on King Street on a Saturday night, only difference being there was no hulking, white-teed, leather-clad meathead manning the door, rather a librarian type who would normally list the most physical aspect of his job as having to lift the 4th edition Macquarie dictionary in order to scan its barcode.
Later still, the old lady with the loose change trick did me again at the supermarket. It always seems to happen to me. I remember being stranded at Edinburgh bus station while my Belfast bus disappeared out of the station the same reason. I was in a rush to get home before Tash so I could clean up my breakfast mess. And there I was, in the express lane, at peak hour, and as a result of one of the registers malfunctioning three of the four checkout assistants left their posts to crowd round it and muse to one another its potential remedy. Meanwhile, the sole remaining assistant waited patiently for dear gran to count out three dollars for a small box of tea bags.
And finally, one more gripe to round out the day. On-street parking. Being inner city, it's on-street for most of us on our street, and occasionally it becomes an issue, particularly during Spring Carnival or the Big Day Out, and all the niceties, all the 'feeding each others' pets or watering gardens while the other is on holidays' goes out the window. On our side of the street we have an issue with pigeons. This is because our next-door-neighbor feeds them. Their rancid turds bombard many cars on our side of the street, and, left stationery for any length of time, they begin to resemble something taken from a crazy artist's lair. Therefore, some of us use the other side of the road, and now, it seems, the other side have had enough. Some of them have taken the time to pull branches off nearby trees and place them strategically so no one can park in 'their spot'. You see it everywhere, branches that would require two men to carry them, resting against gutters. What is the go with this? Doesn't on-street parking mean anywhere is fair game? Surely these people who we've spent time living in the close proximity of realise that we only park in 'their spot' as a last resort?
Anyway, there must have been some one-year old's birthday party because there was nowhere to park in within a 200-metre radius of the house and I wasn't prepared to go into conflict mode with someone who has the time to lift and move an elephantine branch each time he or she needs to drive somewhere. End result? Tash was home, but luckily, hadn't gotten any further than her office, and therefore missed the Weetbix-hardened bowl and crumb-infested plates sitting like sitting ducks on the kitchen bench.
I know none of this matters but I feel better now. When I say I failed so ungracefully on the tolerance front, it was only inwardly that I did so. And it feels better having let it out.
Not that I knew it at the time, but it was also the first year the United Nations observed an International day for Tolerance (November 16th each year to those of you not in the know, which was me as well until wikipedia pointed me in the right direction a few minutes ago). In the fourteen years since, the values of tolerance that my parents instilled into me as a child have often been put to good use. And, as a friend once said whilst in the all-too-familiar situation of having to wait an eternity for his wife to get ready while he sat idle in the lounge room: 'By Christ, you need patience'.
But yesterday, when the planets aligned, conspiring to put me to the test, unfortunately, I failed.
The morning started well enough with me completing 'The Morning Pages' (a daily exercise from Julie Cameron's 'The Artist's Way' where you must fill three pages with stream-of-consciousness writing in order to block out any hindrances to your creative side), and then going through the same old early morning routine.
First up, after a week or more of procrastination, I decided to lodge my Austudy claim. To Centrelink I went, a short walk around the corner. Armed with realms of completed forms and identity documents, I was ready to be in and out in five minutes; be back at the house by 10.15am. Not a chance. In a sign of the times, there were two huge lines, one for job seekers and the other for first time claimers and general inquiries. The latter was longer, and no sooner had two minutes elapsed since I first slunk into line that the snake behind me was about to burst open the doors and move outside. There were stacks of people sitting down in an open waiting room, looking up at the morning news on TV. Pakistan terrorists shooting at Sri Lankan cricketers gave way to Ben Cousins' 33 drug tests in two months which gave way to the financial news. Numbers flicked up on the screen with down arrows next to them. The vibe in there wasn't great. The line wasn't moving, and I was out of there. I'd come back tomorrow at 8am.
Later on, after a morning where I added about 500 words to my novel (of which the first 250 will duly be deleted), I visited the RMIT shop on Little Lonsdale Street to pick up some texts on the way to Non-Fiction class, which, as usual, I was running late for. There was a queue of people waiting outside and a young-looking guy acting as a security guard of sorts. I looked around, puzzled. He spoke up. 'Look guys, unless you've got plenty of time on your hands you'll have to come back later. I can only let people in as they come out'. And sure enough, shortly after when three people went out, one was admitted in. It was like being out front of some seedy bar on King Street on a Saturday night, only difference being there was no hulking, white-teed, leather-clad meathead manning the door, rather a librarian type who would normally list the most physical aspect of his job as having to lift the 4th edition Macquarie dictionary in order to scan its barcode.
Later still, the old lady with the loose change trick did me again at the supermarket. It always seems to happen to me. I remember being stranded at Edinburgh bus station while my Belfast bus disappeared out of the station the same reason. I was in a rush to get home before Tash so I could clean up my breakfast mess. And there I was, in the express lane, at peak hour, and as a result of one of the registers malfunctioning three of the four checkout assistants left their posts to crowd round it and muse to one another its potential remedy. Meanwhile, the sole remaining assistant waited patiently for dear gran to count out three dollars for a small box of tea bags.
And finally, one more gripe to round out the day. On-street parking. Being inner city, it's on-street for most of us on our street, and occasionally it becomes an issue, particularly during Spring Carnival or the Big Day Out, and all the niceties, all the 'feeding each others' pets or watering gardens while the other is on holidays' goes out the window. On our side of the street we have an issue with pigeons. This is because our next-door-neighbor feeds them. Their rancid turds bombard many cars on our side of the street, and, left stationery for any length of time, they begin to resemble something taken from a crazy artist's lair. Therefore, some of us use the other side of the road, and now, it seems, the other side have had enough. Some of them have taken the time to pull branches off nearby trees and place them strategically so no one can park in 'their spot'. You see it everywhere, branches that would require two men to carry them, resting against gutters. What is the go with this? Doesn't on-street parking mean anywhere is fair game? Surely these people who we've spent time living in the close proximity of realise that we only park in 'their spot' as a last resort?
Anyway, there must have been some one-year old's birthday party because there was nowhere to park in within a 200-metre radius of the house and I wasn't prepared to go into conflict mode with someone who has the time to lift and move an elephantine branch each time he or she needs to drive somewhere. End result? Tash was home, but luckily, hadn't gotten any further than her office, and therefore missed the Weetbix-hardened bowl and crumb-infested plates sitting like sitting ducks on the kitchen bench.
I know none of this matters but I feel better now. When I say I failed so ungracefully on the tolerance front, it was only inwardly that I did so. And it feels better having let it out.
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