"No-one is from here"

Had one of those head-nipping, moral-rattling situations earlier. I think I once read somewhere that everyone finds themselves in at least one such situation in their lifetime. Whatever, it has stuck with me since.

I'd just picked up my green station wagon from a garage, where I'd just had a petrol pump replaced, still reeling from the sting in my hip-pocket. Given it was low on petrol (part of the reason the fuel pump gave way) and dirty I decided to take it to my local servo for a clean. Give the neglected old thing a complete makeover.

This place has two cleaning stations, one of which has been out of service for what seems like an eternity now. This almost always means a delay. No problem; I live in a city where patience is a pre-requisite for survival. Whilst waiting for the incumbent occupier to finish, I filled the wagon up, and cruised inside to pay.
I recognised the moustached guy behind the counter: he was one of two friendly men of hard-to-pin origins. As I swiped my bank card and hit the digits on the EFTPOS holder I casually asked him, "Is that other car wash ever going to be operational again?". He almost cut me off answering, like he'd been asked this a zillion times before.

"Soon. We have been waiting for part from Germany."

Fair enough, I thought. I guess it's not an issue unless you have twenty cars lining up when there could only be ten.

Then he fixed upon me a strange look. "Are you from Germany?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm from here."

He gave a tight, crackly laugh. "That what everyone say. No-one is from here."

A flashbulb went off in my head as I considered that my game was up. Perhaps this stocky little retail assistant, whose broken English had a rolling accent that leant towards Israeli, or, for the sake of hedging my bets, somewhere else in the Middle East, was some sort of prophet. I understood what he was getting at, though: the distant German ancestry of my mother's side, and the shape of my nose. Maybe my girlfriend had it on the button early on in our relationship when she said my nose gave me away. Although she guessed wrong. Poland is a galaxy away from Germany.
I screwed my nose up slightly, as if to rid it off its 'German-ness' and stated simply: "I was born here." I wanted to say: so were my parents, grandparents, Great-grandparents, and, I think, Great-greats... it was either the 'greats' times two or three that made the trip over. On both sides. But he cut me off.

"Don't matter. No-one is from here."

I didn't know what to say. It was an abrupt reach-around from left-field. He tore off a receipt and wished me a good day, a look of stoicism still on his face.
I walked out and moved my car into the now-empty car wash and thought about what had just been said.

Had this guy been on the receiving end of racism one too many times? Was this a backlash of sorts? What disturbed me most, was his comment that 'no one was from here', regardless of where they were born. Effectively he was saying there was no such thing as an Australian! This was racism in reverse!

As I scrubbed off month-old bird turds off my car bonnet I considered how lucky it was that I didn't care about the whole racism/multi-cultural thing. My groove is: let as many in as possible, provided it's value-added, and we can live together harmoniously. Imagine if I'd been some disgruntled, out-of-work hulk with right-wing, red-neck tendencies. Someone who'd have him up against the wall for a comment of far less poignancy. Someone who'd demand more respect for a country who had taken him in. Perhaps he saw me as an easy test target.

I wanted to walk back in there and declare that I'm from here because I'm Australian. I wanted to say: Just as you're Australian, sir, because you immigrated here. Just as you may have picked my German nose, I pick your accent as someone who arrived not long ago, probably in the past twenty years. It goes back to old-fashioned geography. This continent is Australia, and we live on it. We two. You're originally from somewhere else, but I'm not. I'm a fifth-generation Aussie. I accept – and encourage – your culture, and wish you all the best in this land of opportunity. And that's what Australia still is. That's why you're here isn't it?

I don't think respect is too much to ask for in return for the opportunity to be sworn in as a citizen of one of the world's most liveable countries.

But still, I didn't say any of those things. All I did was finish cleaning my car, then got in and drove off. And not even a burn-out on departure.

Who's the toothless tiger?

This article might be seen as biting off the hand that potentially feeds. But I don't care. As freelance writers, we're taught to write about topics that ensnare our passion, make us frolic or seethe inside. So, here goes.

Now that the dust has settled and Terry Wallace’s life has returned to relative anonymity – maybe he’s even sleeping and eating again – I don’t think it’s unreasonable for the blowtorch to be turned the other way. In short, the media’s treatment of Wallace this year has been nothing short of savage. Blood-thirsty. A slight on the profession.

The carnage began after Richmond’s first round loss to Carlton. It was Wallace's final year of a five-year plan and he'd yet to make the finals. Richmond needed a strong start to the year to keep the wolves at bay. It didn't. The Tigers were thumped, and they – the wolves – sprang to life. The losses kept coming and the calls for Wallace's head – literally – reached fever-pitch in round four after a loss to cellar-dweller Melbourne.

The media – so often a struggling coach's Achilles heel in April and May – probed Richmond's bigwigs about Wallace's future, to which their position was unequivocally stated – that it would be reviewed mid-season. And yet, amid such headlines as 'Death Row', the same question continued to be asked and the public woke up to the same article – albeit with a few words moved around – every morning for a week.

Even Ben Cousins' return from injury didn't arouse the lower-regions of writers and subs.Remember not so long ago when the Herald-Sun, tired of being hot on Cousins' heals for no result, sent out a plea to readers: have you seen Ben Cousins?

Then came Wallace's 'week from hell', where an unlucky three-point loss to Port Adelaide condemned Richmond to 1-7. Wallace’s sacking was misreported (it would later be dubbed as ‘the non-sacking') amid rumours of a player revolt, and the circus reached proportions that would make our British brethren blush. One article observed Wallace's 'gaunt' features; that he'd lost four kilograms. And yet they continued pushing. That Wallace had been involved in 500 games at the highest level mattered none. The respect and dignity normally reserved for a person of such calibre forgotten in the gluttony of attack.

How long until this sort of treatment puts someone over the edge?

I'm not denying the story was there, and, yes, some of the disclosures were out of the box. But surely when the denials start, and the broken record is immovably stuck on track one, it's time to move on?

Football clubs are like any other employer. They do things on their own terms. When did your last employer get hassle from an outside party and then think to themselves, “Oh yeah, why didn't we think of that?”

Richmond fans, among the most passionate in the competition, would be sick to the teeth of the negativity surrounding their club. They know better than anyone how they're travelling on and off the field. Yes, a new coach should have been appointed earlier in the season. Yes, their club has made some perplexing decisions at draft and trade time. But they don't need their faces rubbed in it. And they especially don't need journalists and cameramen hiding behind pot plants and then reporting fact based on assumption.

Whenever journalists are challenged by players or club management on intrusiveness or shoddy reporting, their usual response is that players' and coaches' salaries are worthy of such scrutiny; that it's not for them to decide what's in the public's interest. What's forgotten is that with the rigours of modern-day football a player's career can end with one bent limb, and, historically, a coach's life only accounts for a small percentage of their life.

And so we get manic sensationalism from editors trying to outstrip their rivals, and, with increased third-party interests in the game, more outlets delivering news to the people they say matter most – the fans.

What codswallop. If fans mattered most then many things would be different, not least the fact that you are still short after handing over $10 for a beer and a meat pie.

Are the media still giving us what we want to know, or is the current climate of reportage based on assumption? If public forums are anything to go by, it's the latter. The on-line tide is turning. The average Joes don't trust what they read anymore. There's one senior writer of eloquent, minimalist prose who should understand this better than most. Bottom last in Herald Sun's tipping competition, among his many privileges is the ability to amend his pre-season predictions. If only the rest of us were able to reconsider the choices we get paid for. Amongst the varied condemnation posted this year, one popular notion is, “I'd have lost my job ten times over if I kept getting it wrong like that”.

How about changing that record, Mr Media? What about some focus on the good side of footballers' lives? Their entertainment value during these grim times aside, what about how the majority of these young blokes carry themselves as role models when so many of a similar age are turning Melbourne's streets into battlefields?

Maybe you could even write about what’s happening on the field. When was the last time two teams remained unbeaten after eleven rounds?

Diary entry #6 - drafted

I've had one of those restless mornings, the kind where you sit there at the computer with good intentions but in reality you are really doing nothing. Except: looking up stuff on Wikipedia (well, I read up on Bret Easton Ellis' first two published novels, which I've been told to check out, so that can be classed as research); sending inane emails to friends; guiltily slipping on to Facebook, shaking my head as the same cats fill the homepage with the same idle drivel; trying to book tickets to see a bunch of top-notch Aussie male artists' take of The Beatles' White Album later in the year, and being disappointed when it's sold out... and checking out scenes from The Big Lebowski on youtube. I tell you what, if there's a more surefire way of feeling like a waster than watching the biggest time-suckage character of them all, The Dude, let me know. I still laughed like a guffawing school boy though. There's several playlists where you can get your f-word fix from that film. My favourite is 'The Big Lebowski - the f**king short version'. At least I had Word open while I watched it, twice. Anyway, I'll be busier this afternoon. I'm a little chuffed after 'finishing' a draft of my novel. It's actually a rewrite, but the first time around was basically ideas thrown down, now it's tightened and fleshed out more. So yesterday I sent it off to Jeremy my mentor, who is going to do his best to give me a reader's report of sorts by early next week, so I can tweak, fix, adjust, make better, in time for the Vogel award deadline of 31st May. Which is a Sunday, so it needs to get there by Friday. And it needs to get to NSW, so I'll be posting it on Wednesday, the 27th. One week away. Why do these things always have to be so tight? I meant to give it to Jeremy late last week but life got in the way, and some of the finishing touches of the rewrite took longer than I'd planned. Grammar consistencies... head-nipping chore. Changing Irish and Scottish characters' accents... a 'quick' eternity (why does the little clock at the bottom right of my screen skip forward two hours?). Even something as seemingly harmless as a spellcheck took forever. I only have myself to blame. My informal writing style (present tense, and second person POV in this instance) gives rise to both fragmented and flowery sentences that need double-checking and/or punctuation. Comma or semi-colon, sir?
Anyway, as that outdated band Morcheeba (who I thought were cool at the time as I danced to their cool beats, revved to the eyeballs in a cheap disco shirt either bought for 2 quid from an op-shop or stolen from the hostel 'lost and found') sing on their signature tune: 'it's all part of the process'.

The credit noose

Have you tried to cancel a credit card lately?

I was on my way out for an evening run the other night, when I did a quick scan of my 'to-do list'. It always gives me a sense of satisfaction to put a line through items on such lists, no matter how minuscule. Sort of like an 'I've earnt my beer tonight, look at what I've achieved today' scenario. To my annoyance, there was one item at the bottom not actioned – a cancellation of a credit card. A card with a little bit of history.

So I cooled my running shoes while I rang them. It seemed easy enough. I had a credit card with nothing on it that I want to cancel. I had no income, and thought it best not to have the card any more. I'd read that all lenders had fallen into line with tighter credit policies. I thought I'd be out the door in no time.

What followed were three minutes and eleven seconds of voice prompts, then:

“Good evening, –––––– Cards customer service centre, Jemima (pseudonym) speaking.”
“Ah yes, my name's Daniel Lewis and–”
“Oh, good evening, Mr Lewis, how are you today?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Good, good. That's great. Now, how can I help you today, Mr Lewis?”
“I'm wanting to cancel my credit card.”
“Oh... congratulations.”
“Sorry?”
“You've obviously won Tattslotto.”
A more bellicose person would have asked to speak to the manager there and then.
“No, I haven't. I just want to cancel my card. That's all.”
“Well, I'm sincerely sorry to hear that”.
Lady, it's after five, either you're on late shift or you're in the right job.
“Can I ask your reasons?”
What if I said 'No, you can't', would that put an end to this?
“Um... I don't want or need the card any more. And I quit my job a few months back so I have no real income at the moment.”
“Oh. Are you in employment?”
Is she serious?
“No, as I just said, I'm in between jobs. A career change as such. And I'm not sure when I'll have regular money coming in again. I'm living on savings, and have learnt from past mistakes with credit cards. I don't want it any more, that's why I'm ringing today, to cancel it.”
I can't be any clearer, can I?
“Okay, Mr Lewis, I understand, I really do. I will have to put you through to another person to finalise your request.”
I knew this was coming, so I bit my lip. I also knew where it was going: to her supervisor, or to the Collections team leader. Without debt their jobs are on the line. Jemima announced her colleague, Dionne (pseudonym) would assist from here, and put me through.
“Mr Lewis?”
A new voice on the phone, a little clearer, even more upbeat. It took her a good minute to get through her greeting. Then she asked how I was.
“I'm good. I'm just–“
And if I was having a good day.
“Yes.”
“Now, my colleague has informed me that you wish to close your account with us.”
“That's correct.”
“And can I ask your reasons?”
These people are good. Strange combination: it feels like they've been amped up during these tough times, although, surely, they haven't been given an equivalent pay increase. Corporates just don't work like that, especially not now.
“I already explained my reasons to your colleague. I don't need or want the card anymore.”
Maybe Mr Bellicose is coming to play after all.“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Your colleague said that as well.”
“You have been with us since 2004–”
“Yeah, well I–”
“And you have an excellent payment history. We regard you highly–”
Let's cut the crap. You've made money off me in the past. That's why you regard me highly, although I'm sure you personally don't, or should I say, shouldn't, give a shit. I'll give it to the big wigs here, they have some of the very best syrup drummed into their employees' heads.
“I'm not working at the moment. I'm doing the responsible thing here. You guys would be crazy to want to keep my business.”
“Are you in employment?”
Am I speaking effing English?
“No.”
“Well, I know $170 is $170, but for that small annual fee you get the luxury of having this $5,000 for a rainy day.”
She almost had me cornered here: I almost asked about the possibility of waiving the next annual fee. I held my nerve. They knew that I only took on this card as they were offering low interest debt consolidations, back in the day when all lenders were doing it, trying to snare their piece of the debt pie. I had never purchased anything on it, only hacked away, ever so gradually, at the balance. If they started waiving the annual fee – which was, after all, the real bee in my bonnet here – then they'd make nothing off me. So it was back to the verbal tennis, I was about to unleash the Nadal backhand.
“Listen, I've been on the phone for nearly ten minutes now and all I want to do is cancel this card. I have another credit card with my bank and that is all I need...(top notch pre-empting here) and, no, I'm not getting into discussions as to what their rates are. Your annual fee is too high, which I know is the same for most cards, but you charged me a $40 late fee for being one day late a while back. I have learnt from my mistakes. I think if more Australians started cancelling their cards and just living with what is actually theirs, we'd be much better off (enter inspirational background music). I know it doesn't augur well for your profits but I don't particularly care, either.”
Exhale.
“Okay, Mr Lewis, I understand. I've de-activated your card”.
She sighed. It sounded like she'd heard this rant before.
“Thank you.”
“But I do I need to read you a disclosure statement, which includes the option of re-activating your card within the next six months... All cards are required to be cut up and destroyed–“
“Already done.”
“And any remaining balances are to be paid in full before account can be fully closed.”
Huh?
“I've already paid the close-out amount.”
“Yes, Mr Lewis, it's all part of the disclosure statement. I'm legally required to read it out.”
She went on. I barely listened. And then...
“One last thing, Mr Lewis.”
“What's that?”
“There is a $7 credit on your card.”
sighSighSIGH... where's the initiative from earlier, lady?
“That's your fault. I rang a while back for a final amount, including all interest, and the man gave me the wrong figure. Just write it off.”
“You don't want us to–”
“Please. Just write it off.”
“Okay, Mr Lewis. Thank you for your business, and hope we'll see you again in the future.”
Not likely.

Afterwards, I got to thinking: is the credit noose tightening, or is it as loose as ever? Back in the earlier days of the millennium, if it wasn't the low interest deals, it was the letters in the mail advising of pre-approved card with limits that equated to a third of my salary.

Unfortunately, there was a time when I was blinded by the snazzy logos and the promise of getting my house in order. The 'inspired' joint ventures between big banks' analysis and marketing teams ensnared myself and so many others, steamrolling low-to-middle income earners for the sake of sustaining market share. (And who could write about lenders without mentioning the Antichrist – no points for guessing who they are – and their crippling interest rates for those with nowhere else to go. Where is the government legislation here?)

The fact that it takes ten minutes of verbal tug-of-war for someone with next-to-no income to do the responsible thing and get a credit card cancelled says those days are still a long way from diminishing.

No, the noose is still loose.

Diary entry #5 - morning recap

The wind rattled against the window, rousing me again. Then Tash said goodbye. I heard the clip-clop of her heels going downstairs on her way out to the real world. I pulled myself up and loped into the bathroom. Went through the routine, then pulled on my running gear. Well, I don't have running gear as such. Not like the over-zealous, over-walleted cats you see sometimes, I don't have the lithe Lycra, or even the Nike Air singlet or shorts, just a cheap pair of Spalding shorts, think I got them from Big W, and a long-sleeve white top that an Asian student who once boarded with me and my ex left behind, and over that, an authentic, now faded, Beatles tee. Authentic in that I bought it when I was in Liverpool back in 1998. That was during the fifteen minutes I spent away from the Caven Club and the hectic bars of Mathew Street where the pub owners would all have their stories of near-greatness. "We entered a music competition, a skiffle-guitar night. In our heat was John Lennon and his Quarrymen group. We were disappointed to finish third, but looking back, that wasn't such a bad result... The Quarrymen finished fifth!"
So, shoes aside, I had on about $30 worth of clothing. And even if I was one of the lucky souls who leaked money from every orifice what was the point in buying expensive just to sweat in? No-one looks their best when they're running. In fact, the grimace on most people's faces is anything but attractive. The spittle at the sides of their mouths, the crimson cheeks, the hair matted with sweat. When I ran the 14.2km Run for the Kids two weeks ago I wrenched my t-shirt afterwards and the Murray River was rejuvenated.
I do own a good pair of shoes, though. A pair of asics from none other than Leo Russell sports in Preston. Great range, great prices, a very 'healthy' feel to the place. And they have a very tasty pie shop across the road, just to balance things out.
Downstairs to the kitchen. Banana milkshake. Mr Cow stared up at me, I told him he would have to wait until I got back. Into my station wagon, lightly cursed Tash, sugar-coatingly, when I saw my empty cigarette lighter holder which meant she had the iPod dock. Triple J had to do as I drove to the Maribyrnong. The radio presenters, par for the course for breakfast radio, talked about nothing in particular, and my thoughts slipped back to last night when we visited Coburg Pentridge to see a Chopper impersonator. It was bone-achingly cold in there. A few bellow laughs though. Think I counted a hundred f-bombs in the first ten minutes.
I stopped on Maribyrnong Road for some petrol. The price hadn't gone down since Easter weekend. Did that mean the economy was going up? I didn't want to think about it too much, my head hurt when I did that. Some tall, muscular dude with a 1995 undercut (perhaps he was honouring a bet) and wearing lycra pants was filling up his Beamer. I looked away as I filled up. A few minutes later I paid the Egyptian man behind the counter who never smiles, then got back in the car. The needle on the petrol meter sprung to life.
I arrived at the river. Parked the car, pulled my headphones out, put them in the iPod, stretched half-heartedly, then got going. The iPod was on shuffle. I was keen to listen to a few of the 460 new songs a friend had burnt for me a few nights ago. The first song was "Everybody's got something to hide except for me and my monkey", off The Beatles' 'White Album'. John Lennon in fine form. That first kilometre flashed by, the river glistening. Second up was some Gnarls Barkley crud that I'd continually told myself to delete, so my rhythm was hampered for a few seconds as unlockled it and skipped to the next song. It was Faker's 'Hurricane', a song that I never tire of. It copped a pounding even before the great upload earlier in the week. I went up a gear. Even Johnny Cash's 'Danny Boy' didn't slow me down... until the vocal started. I think I was the only person running and weeping along the river at the same time. That song gets me almost every time, particularly when someone as honest and fragile as the ailing Cash was at the time he sang it. I had to slow down a bit to find 'Yellow Submarine' and then got bored with it as I realised I heard it only on the weekend and too much Yellow Submarine is like sharing the LSD Ringo and the boys were obviously on when they recorded it back in 1967. The last kilometre or two was a mishmash of different artists, none that seemed to fit the vibe of that very moment. I had it unlocked, fidgeting with it. It's typical of iPods, the more songs you have, the more restless you get. You never hear one song in its entirety. Having navigated the river, I arrived back at the car, stetched half-heartedly again, then got in and drove off.
The supermarket was next. I was tempted for a coffee at one of the cafes on Puckle Street but thought the cold air might give me a chill after my run. Yes, very soft. Safeway was a hive of activity. I even saw one woman jostle another out of the way for the last loaf of Helga's, on special for $3.29. The woman who missed out was almost in tears. A few minutes later a staff member loaded up the bread display again. Not much else happened. I queued up. The woman in front of me had homebrand bread, baked beans, cheese, cordial. Homebrand hair gel for her husband. 'Select' brand air freshener. And a sixteen-box of Ferrero Rocher, which were $1.50 off the normal price but still six times more expensive than the cheaper varieties. I imagined her saying to herself 'Can't eat that Select brand... it's too thick." And it is too, like stuffing a brick into your mouth, I know where you are coming from, sister. I picked up the Herald Sun, read Bruce Matthews' artice about Heath Shaw not apologising to umpire Vozzo for tapping him on the shoulder. Yesterday there was more on the 'Chickengate' scandal. It's almost enough to make me start reading the paper from front to back from now on. It was my turn to be served when I realised the self service area, only a metre away, was deserted. I could have slipped through there in half the time. The automated voice spoke, a monotone woman's voice. The checkout lady shook her head. "It's doing my head in". I nodded, got in my car, and drove home.
I had breakfast. Mr Cow was in fine form. Then I sat down at my desk, still in my running gear, picked up one of Tash's tops and draped it over my legs for warmth and sat down to write about my morning, as a way of 'warming up' for the day. My red-inked manuscript piled on the desk awaiting more mark ups and squiggles. Two hours later, could have been more, and here I am now. Time for a shower, then lunch. Ham salad sandwich. Leg ham, seven dollars a kilo.
One more thing, what's with Etihad stadium? I'll just go on calling it Telstra Dome, thanks very much. By the time my brain will be conditioned to say 'Etihad' some other huge corporate will have bought it out.

Diary entry #4 - mornings

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.

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"