IN MEMORIAM

You were always there; my first contact each morning, and my last every night. You never let me down, no matter the hour. In the coldest nights of winter you never failed to warm me.

            I knew you were declining. Still, you hung on long after your body was worn-out, because your going would cause me distress. Even as your joints atrophied, you continued to answer my demands.

            Now, you’re gone. Your fractured ass could no longer bear the heat, and I have to learn to make it without you – my coffee, that is.

            I’ll miss you. I love you, Old Black Kettle.

REAL MEN III - Living in the City Makes You Soft

“Living in the city makes you soft”, Daniel Auteuil’s old school friend tells him in the French film, Conversations with My Gardener. I hear that a lot – most recently from my dad and an old friend down from the bush. It’s funny but it nearly always accompanies the phrase, “Living in the city will kill you”; seems mildly contradictory to me.

            Now, let’s see. After twenty years living in the city I can still walk for more than twenty minutes without complaining. Only two country friends, and none of my country cousins, can say the same.

            On the subject of perambulation, when walking up the street my soft city stomach isn’t turned by the sight of two men holding hands – or, god forbid, kissing. I can also behold a group of Asians or Arabs and not suffer a paroxysm of fear and rage because our country’s fucked. Being served by a woman in a bank, post-office or railway station causes me no anxiety about the future of mankind.

            But that’s all negative. What else? In the city I was homeless for a couple of years before I really noticed – Soft city winters are cold when you’ve got just one thin blanket and the clothes on your back. Living in the city I’ve been clinically dead twice. More than twice in the city I’ve had to batter somebody unconscious to preserve safety, liberty ... or virtue. And this is just the stuff I’m willing to talk about.

            None of this is boasting. I know plenty of guys – and more than one woman – who’ve spent their whole lives in the city compared to whom I’m Tinkerbelle.

            City life is so soft and easy that no country pals or kin are ever here more than a week before they start bitching about wanting to escape it.

            I’ve lived in both city and the bush. Each has its attractions and drawbacks. I’ve met hard bastards and soft-cocks in both places. And I’ve never fallen for the age-old myth that, in a country where the bulk of the population has always been urban, somehow the bush is the real Australia.

            So, I break out in a rash if I use the wrong shaving soap. So, when I’m done I use an after-shave moisturiser instead of slapping raw alcohol into my face till it looks like an old saddle. So, I avoid the sun if at all possible. I’ll still nail my soft-spoken city balls to the table next to any blowhard’s – country or city.

Related Posts:

http://tyrannyofglib.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/beer-football-cars.html

http://tyrannyofglib.blogspot.com.au/2012/12/real-men-ii-treat-em-mean.html

WHO SAYS SPANISH FOOTBALL'S BENT?

Saturday evening; on television Madrid’s stadium-quarter, lit by burning cars; police in riot gear charge and charge again; somebody didn’t like the result.

            I’m not a fan of Real Madrid. They’re one of those teams it’s fun to hate – because they’re just so fucking good. But you don’t have to be a fan to acknowledge they’re currently – since most Champions League sides figured out that if you shut down Iniesta and Xavi Hernandez you’ve shut down Messi, and thus the whole Barca attack – the best in the world. Acknowledging it doesn’t mean you have to like it.

            Real were beaten this morning by Atlético Madrid in the final of the Copa del Rey. They really shouldn’t have been. You hear about corruption in sport, about officials or players being paid-off, but you don’t like to believe it; what happened in Madrid today made our own bent horse-racing/book-making dynasty look positively saintly by comparison.

            Forget the antics of Atlético’s supporters (Instead of enjoying the sight of the world’s ... second ... best player, they shone laser-pointers in Ronaldo’s eyes the first half-dozen times he touched the ball), it was the antics of the match-officials which were truly outrageous. Some of the decisions seemed to belong to another game.

            Now, in any local derby – let alone a cup-final – you expect tension and aggression. This one was no different. Both sides maintained a frenetic pace and made tackles and challenges that were borderline-malicious. The thing is, though, that for most of the game only Real’s players were being carded – and not always for the stuff that really deserved it. Heading into extra time they had more than twice the yellows. And that’s just the most obvious aspect of some very dodgy refereeing.

            I may be cynical, but it’s hard not to think the idea was: if Real were ahead at the seventy-fifth minute, then it would be easy to quickly send-off two or three key players. As it was both Ronaldo and manager Jose Mourinho were sent to the shed during extra time – which was strange, given that Mourinho was sent the first time he ventured from his seat and opened his mouth, while Atletico’s manager spent the whole game running up and down the sideline, screaming like a mad thing. Maybe Jose sauntered over and asked the ref how much he’d been paid?

            I had an enforced break from sport for a few years while I was married. I don’t remember it being so soul-destroying. Something that’s supposed to celebrate the best in us is being surrendered to the worst in us. I’m not certain it’s all worth our attention. One thing I know – if I were a Real supporter, I’d probably have burned a few cars too.

SLINGS AND ARROWS

                                “ ... In the mind to suffer

                                the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

                                or to take arms against a sea of troubles ...?”

Sleeping better lately. Or more at least. Sure, there are the nightmares but, to meet them, you have to actually sleep. It’s almost a nice change; like going home after a long absence.

            Big decisions ahead: stay the course, or take drastic action? Is what you’re doing working? And if so, is it working fast enough? Is your impatience justified, or will you make things worse trying to make them better?

            I never wanted to be on methadone. I’ve been on it quite a while. At the beginning you rationalise it, saying, “If I have to take it every day for the rest of my life, it’s better than the alternative”. Thirteen years later, the rest of your life seems like a long time. The alternative might have killed you by now, but are you really alive anyway (Possibly. It certainly feels that way when the bad dreams start)?

            So, to rehab or not to rehab – that is the question. I’ve never liked the idea. To me, rehab facilities and all their twelve-step nonsense have always seemed a little cultish. Not sure I’m willing to admit powerlessness in the face of an incurable disease yet, or surrender my authority to a higher power.

            That’s not to say I’m on the willpower bandwagon. As a junkie you get to hear a lot about willpower. If only you had some, you’re told, you could kick this thing tomorrow; now; yesterday. Put simply, that’s bollocks. Nobody who’s ever seen what a junkie will go through to get their gear could ever conclude that they lack, of all things, willpower.

            It may, though, be a matter of power reclaimed. Contrary to the twelve-step dogma, Heroin is not stronger than you. I’ve always inclined to the view that the only power it has over you – beyond the purely physical – is the power you surrender to it. Take that back and it becomes a jackal moping about the dark edges of your life, beyond the fire at the centre. Sure, you wouldn’t turn your back on it but, as long as you stay close to the light, it won’t come too near; especially if you clear out any dead stuff stinking the place up.

            Methadone, much as I dislike it, has been useful. It gives you time to sift through the shit in your head; to figure out how you got here in the first place; and to start doing something about it. However, its usefulness is just about exhausted. The thing about high-functioning autism is you seek comfort, control and safety in routine. A trip to the Methadone clinic three days a week shouldn’t be anybody’s routine – not indefinitely.

            I’ve just about reduced my dose to nothing. I feel like a human again. A screwed-up human, sure, but awake and aware. I’ve seen a lot of people blow it by getting impatient over those last few mils. I think I’ll suffer the slings and arrows a little longer. Tis nobler in the mind, after all.

            Check back with me in November.

ANNIVERSARY

Crisp May morning chills the ears and lips. Sun shines bright without heat. Winter is close.

A normal day.

            Bus turns the corner like it always does. Puff frantically to stockpile nicotine then climb aboard. The usual boring ride to another pointless school day; probably be gone by third period.

            A sly smoke in the vacant lot opposite the school, then up the stairs to start the routine. First bell: roll-call. Compulsory reading (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – far too cool to be a school book). Second bell: trudge along to music – double practical, could be fun; might stick around. Late-bell ... odd; it’s usually me who’s late, not the teacher.

            Nigel’s out of uniform. Funny guy; been expelled from every school in town – a legend he doesn’t discourage says last time was for jumping out a second-storey window; crazy (Had this routine where he stuck needles in his biceps then flexed the muscles to pop them out. Always carving or burning something into his arms. Smoked some grass with him over the holidays then jumped the fence at the Show. Watched him on this ride looked like a giant Mexican hat – the Gravitron, I think. Passengers caged inside the rim, the sombrero starts to spin, tilting steadily on to its edge. Look up when it’s at its zenith – there’s Nigel, wrong way in his cage, trying to climb over the side. Crazy).

            “Mr Pittorino won’t be in today”, barks Sheila the Hun, our Deputy Principal. “I have a class downstairs, so I’ll be keeping an ear out. Behave yourselves.” She turns on her stiletto heel and leaves, sparks ringing each step down the stairs. Things are looking up: two whole periods to play guitar.

            Alone in the storeroom, lost in distortion and pure volume. “Shit, Sam, you scared me. How long have you been there?” She’s trembling, wide-eyed. “What’s up?”

            “It’s Nigel. He’s got a gun in his bag and he says he’s going to kill himself.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Nigel’s always saying that.

            “It’s true, he showed me.”

            “What kind of gun is it?”

            “A sawn-off shotgun,” she chokes through tears. “He’s got a whole belt full of shells. Daniel, what are we going to do?”

            Fucking hysterical girls; can’t she see he’s just looking for attention? He knows she’s still in love with him. “Go tell him to bring it in here and I’ll do it for him. Fucking idiot”.

            Dismiss her with a chord. Interrupt my creative process with this shit – Jesus.

            Back to work; practise, practise, practise. Getting pretty good too, though I say it myself. Just getting back into a rhythm when, dammit, what do they want now? This time she’s got Fiona with her – Fiona’s in love with Nigel too.

            “Jason’s gone to tell the Principal about the gun. Nigel asked if he can hide it in your bag”.

            “Why don’t you hide it in your bag, Sam?”

            “I might get caught.”

            “And you’d rather I did? Get fucked. It’s his mess; let him clean it up”. The girls skitter out. Now, where was I?

            You lose all sense of time and space when you play an electric guitar loud. Swept along on power-chords and squealing harmonics, you don’t notice the door banging open till Sam run/bounce/stumble/screams through it and trips over a chair. “He shot himself! Fuck! Nigel just shot himself!”

            The guitar hits the floor thud/whine. Through the door running. Spin off collisions on the way to the music room.

            Freeze-frame: black and white infused scarlet; rusty tang of fresh blood leads stench of voided bowels. Fiona, on her knees, cradles Nigel’s head – what’s left of it. With no crown to dam it, a waterfall of blood becomes a steaming red-black lake. Rush of people in and out – mostly out. Screaming girls soundtrack a horror movie. Back away from the doorway; half-turn. Sam!

Start running – strait into Sheila the Hun. “Go into the other music room and wait”. She’s crying. No sparks leave the stilettos when she marches into the death room.

            Otherroomandwaitotherroomandwaitotherroomand ... Right. Okay. Good. Do that: go into the other room and wait; go into a psyche-ward five minutes before medication time. Wails; moans; weeping; howls; sound of someone hyperventilating; zombies walk small circles; a girl chews her hand up to the knuckles; another sucks down doses of Ventolin between sobs, eyes wild and streaming. Can’t believe he did it. Can’t take this; will go insane in here. Back outside.

            Numb surreality. Sun still bright, no heat. “Fuck”, says Gaby, who stood behind Nigel when the world went up. “Blood was pissin’ out the back of his head”.

            “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Fiona launches, claws-first and screaming, at his throat. Rush to pull her away. She collapses, quivering – “I held him in my arms ... I held him in my arms”.

            Peripheral blue: two police walk past and into the now empty classroom. “Jesus,” echoes through the door. “He did a good job of it”.

            He sure did.

A TATTOOED HEART

In 1990 I tattooed my girlfriend’s initial on my right ankle. Did it myself with a needle bound in ink-soaked cotton thread.

I know – stupid, right? But when you’re fourteen years-old, and some deeply screwed-up girl fucks your mind at the same time as the rest of you, the tendency is to believe it will last forever. Thankfully, being fourteen and an idiot, I used India Ink; that initial – and my other two tatts – finally faded to nothing. It only took twenty years.

            Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t regret the tattoos themselves; it’s just that they were ugly and amateurish – they looked like prison tatts. I learned a valuable lesson: Think first.

            Over the next few years, whenever I had the money and the urge to get inked overcame me, all I had to do was spend a few minutes looking at that initial. That and the memory of the bathing beauty on my grandfather’s forearm, getting older and saggier as he did, were enough to persuade me to wait.

            “Wait” is the operative word. Teenagers are morons. So are most twenty-somethings. Had I done it in my twenties I’d have ended up with a winged guitar, the standard skulls and daggers or something equally naff. God forbid, today I could be looking at a dragon every time I remove my shirt.

            You see some beautiful body-art. Very little of it, though, comes from the tattooist’s wall. The best stuff tells a story; tells you something about the person underneath it. The best stuff is original. Over the years I’ve designed one or two pieces for friends. Because I knew them, I was able to come up with art that expressed their personalities better than number thirty-seven from the album could.  And there’s little chance they’ll ever bump into someone with the same tattoo.

            There’s an adage that says, Never tattoo anybody’s name on your body (unless, of course, it’s “Mother” or “Jesus”). Indeed, tattooists do a roaring trade in disguising such errors of judgement. Not sure I entirely agree. It’s that body-art as life-story thing again. And, having decided to mark yourself with someone else’s name, cover-up or removal is a cop-out.

Trying to erase a name or initial, or cover it over, is like trying to erase a person from your life – it doesn’t work. Your mind still knows they were there; you’ll still have the scar to remind you; and covering it up usually just makes a bigger mess. Even if it doesn’t, each look at the replacement will remind you of why it’s there; of what’s underneath.

It’s only fitting that my ex-girlfriend’s initial took twenty years to fade. In the two years I associated with them she and her family did twenty years-worth of damage. During those twenty years I lived a life worth remembering. My next tattoos will encapsulate some of it. They’ve had time to grow in my mind, and are already a part of me; I see them already. A deep part of myself will be visible on the outside – which is how it should be.

One of the old ones was a heart on my forearm. I could cover it up or show it, depending on my mood. It was mine. Now, it’s dissolved into my body. Only a faint scar betrays where it once was. There’s probably something in that.

PREJUDICE, HYPOCRISY

They’re funny things, prejudices. We all have them – to an extent, we need them. It can come as a surprise, however, when somebody has one against you.

            I was on my balcony smoking a cigarette when a car full of South-East Asian Muslims drove by. One of them happened to look a lot like Amrosi, the Bali bomb-plotter. “Fancy being brave enough to drive around looking like Amrosi,” I found myself thinking. “That takes some guts.”

            It wasn’t a malicious thought. It was barely a thought at all. But it stopped me. It got me thinking about friends and family who visit from the country and talk about “playing spot the Aussie”. To my memory, no Aboriginal person has ever made the same remark to me. No need, I hope, to elaborate that point.

            To visiting Caucasians the Asian population of Sydney’s Inner-West are all “chinks”; “slopes”; “fuckin’ gooks”. Those same “Aussies” might spend a moment to reflect that, to a certain generation of Vietnamese, Cambodian and Laotian immigrants, they look just like the people who killed their brothers, raped their sisters and daughters, and burned or bombed their villages – and that it’s for those reasons that they fled their countries to build a new life here.

            The twin sister of prejudice is hypocrisy. Spending a couple of decades in Kings Cross, up to my eyeballs in the drug and sex industries, was a real education in that regard. Nobody does prejudice or hypocrisy like junkies and hookers.

            You have to see it to believe it. It’s really very funny. The dealers look down on the junkies and hookers who provide their living. Most of the hookers and junkies hate their dealers. The sex-workers look down on the junkies. The junkies look down on the sex-workers. Everyone looks down on the ice-freaks.

            And the sex industry’s even better. It’s almost like a caste system, where everybody despises the rungs beneath. The massage-parlour girls think they’re better than the hookers. The brothel workers think they’re better than the street-walkers; the high-class escorts better than both. The strippers think they’re better than all of them. Burlesque performers place themselves above the whole seedy business. And rent-boys? Forget about it – everyone looks down on rent-boys.

            We all need to feel better than somebody – especially if we’re fuck-ups. It’s a comforting thought, as you cry yourself to sleep, that somebody, somewhere, has screwed their life up worse than you have.

            Prejudice is an evolutionary throwback. Our distant forebears, in order to survive, needed to know that certain people, places and things were just bad. Belief is the same. If we had to spend time evaluating every single thought that comes into our heads or every situation or idea we encounter, we’d be simply unable to function.

            So, they’re helpful. That doesn’t mean, though, that we shouldn’t examine them occasionally and re-evaluate them. We all need to take time now and then to look at what we believe and throw out unreasonable prejudices.

            That’s how we avoid becoming assholes.