Prime
Ken Ward
Berowra Heights, NSW
Sirens wail in the distance drawing closer and closer to me. They’re homing in on some signal I must be inadvertently emitting. If the opportunity arises, maybe someone will tell me I left signposts in the most obvious of places. I leave that thought aside. It’s not part of this timeline right now.
While I could not predict their arrival at this exact moment, it was inevitable they would find me, and in finding me, find us. Do they know that both of us are here? If they do it might hamstring the natural anger and violence her absence would otherwise permit. There’s no way they have the capacity to know enough about her to formulate a hypothesis. She is the x, the unknown. She is the variable that makes the outcome unpredictable.
I’m writing this down, by the way. I’ve written it before, as prologue, as pretext, but somehow I think now it will achieve an audience. Now it will take on a significance greater than itself. It will speak to something in life that’s synonymous with fear. This is where my halfthought ideas and incomplete levels of understanding become a tangible thing. Everything I’ve never quite comprehended and misunderstood will soon take on an authority of its own.
People will approach me, what I’ve done, as they would a philosophy or religion. I have now elevated my words and actions into the same sphere as time, that place beyond reach where the momentum of things is firmly set and unchangeable.
I’m thinking of triggers. Moments that spark and ignite. Moments that tap into a well or unfocused anger or frustration that hasn’t found voice or form. It’s only now I understand them for what they really are. There’s a power in them I’ve been ignorant of. And now it comes to me too late.
Tyres screech outside my building. Multiple vehicles. Sirens drawl as the cars come to a stop, the motion of the sound waves whipped around like a lash. I can hear doors open and the heavy footfall of boots on stairs charging up to my first floor apartment. I imagine the rest. Helmets on heads. Kevlar vests on chests. Hands on firearms. Fingers on the trigger.
In this moment I come to know where the fuse for this deviation in the pattern of a life was lit. I remember being on a train going nowhere in a westerly direction. My eyes and head are heavy, late afternoon sun warming the carriage and I’m sleepy. Two people across the carriage from me are talking. My mind absorbs their conversation and it soaks into me through filters distilling a purity from their words.
‘Haven’t seen you in a few weeks. You been away?’
‘Yeah. Just back from three weeks in Europe.’
Three is a prime number.
‘Wow. That’s so cool. Did you have a good time?’
‘It was amazing.’
The conversation seems to run out of steam as the train starts to slow. A computerised voice announces our arrival at the next station. One of the passengers stand to leave and they make their goodbyes.
It was amazing. Three weeks of experience reduced to three words. There is a brevity in the human condition that is rendering the act of living insignificant. Why do it at all if not to share the experience? Three weeks into three words. This is a coupling of a prime. The meaning I make out of this is clear and precise. This new understanding comes complete with an arc of what should follow.
As this revelation unveiled itself to me, I felt a cascading peace flow down over my shoulders through my body. I knew this was part of the process of realigning me with how things were in the beginning. This awareness became part of an updraft lifting me on my journey from this state to where I would join with the source.
There’s knocking on the door. Shouts are in accompaniment but it’s all muffled in my bloodcrusted ears.
This is it.
The ringing buzz in my head persists. It links me to the very beginning of things, this sound of cosmic microwave background radiation. Here, in this moment, I’m able to step outside myself. Having it happen like this seems right. That in the end something from the very beginning of things is present. It’s a guiding beacon. It’s the hum of validation.
The knocking on the door continues.
The how of their discovery interests me. Maybe in the final analysis it will reflect a level of negligence or oversight on my part. It’s not a question I expect to be plagued with for long.
I start at the top of a new page with as steady a hand as I can muster. People will attach their own meaning to what I’ve done. Defining factors will include my skin colour, my religion, my place of birth, my parents and my upbringing. What my first grade teacher said in my end of year school report. ‘Distant. Withdrawn. Lacks ability to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.’
It’s boring to me because you’ve heard it before. But it will be added to the lexicon that bears an image of my face.
The knocking and shouting at the door is ceaseless. It has become a counterpoint harmony to the melody that’s been playing since the beginning that’s ringing now in my ears. The sound of now and the sound of then, joining, adding layers to the unfolding scenario.
I’ve followed the messages derived from my search for self meaning.
This is where I have ended up. Can you sense the subtleties and nuances? Can you detect my struggle? Are you rushing to condemn me?
I no longer need to search out meaning. I am the meaning. I’ve transcended the need to self analyse, self define.
I understand meaning is fluid. It’s flexible, changeable. All of us are co-creators in the justifications of why things have played out they way they played out.
This is the gift I’ve given to everyone. And with this gift I’ve brought people together. This experience will galvanise. Strangers will embrace in long moments of shared knowingness. They will see the differences that separate them drift away with the smoke clouds. In its place the glowing success of how this event has united a community. This shared understanding. Like time, they will remain wrapped up inside it. It speaks to them, of them. No one will be outside of this. No one will be lonely and isolated in this alternate deviation.
A community has formed from the antipathy of communities past. The blood of others has breathed life renewed into those that remain. This is how it has always been. This is how it will forever continue.
There are gaps that need to be filled. I understand this. There is solace for me in these spaces, free of information. As my hearing deteriorates I allow myself to be swallowed into a version of events true only to me. I allow you to create and interpret as you wish. You are very welcome.
But I have learnt something you don’t know. It’s okay for me to tell you now even though it will become skewed and distorted through your prism of bias.
Truth like meaning has no fixed form.
I’ve referenced this before, but here it is now in all its might. Clean. Clear. Concise.
It feels heavy to me. What about you?
If I were to say ‘I’ve got to hurry, time is running out’ you might not bat an eyelid and think that an appropriate thing to say right now, given my current set of circumstances. But I don’t let things go that easily. While I may not have much time, time itself remains ignorant of me. Now that I am in ascension I feel unconcerned with the idea of seconds passing into minutes and so on. I write this next part on a new page. Right hand side fresh. It makes more sense that way.
The beginning is the centre of all things. This is where we are all one. But we don’t remain in this state. Factors intervene. The constancy of the universe unravels our oneness, our completeness of being when in unborn form. Delivered into existence we expand in parallel with the distance that grows between stars within a galaxy.
I spent many years wondering if I was the one, unable to detach from the idea that there might be more outside of myself. But as soon as I came to the understanding I am of finite form I knew I must be something else. If not the one, a prime number perhaps? I liked this immediately.
Of the one. Only divisible by itself and the one. Therefore, always in tune with the very centre,
the source. But harmony is delicate and sensitive.
I felt the ever present pain of separation from the source of all life as I grew older and more distant from the point of origin. I used to worry about what I thought were big questions, important questions, where the gap between what was and what should be were poles apart. Now I realise I was debating with myself about the difference between off-white and mother of pearl.
The distance between the centre and myself is forever becoming greater at steady and constant intervals. This can be mapped in equations, proved by formulas and theory. Time is taking me further and further away from the heart of things. My actions bring me closer to the beginning, bring people closer to each other. This is win-win.
This year I am twenty-three years from the centre. Twenty-three is a prime. I am in a prime year. This is significant. The far away fuzz of white noise from the one, the centre, the beginning, speaks to me in a language that is dependent on proximity. Cicadas reappear every thirteen or seventeen years to reproduce. They are in prime harmony with the one.
I am twenty-three.
I am looking to re-sync my frequency with the one. Only I and the one are divisible with each other. I created a sonic disturbance, a fragment filled destructive moment to help realign my wavelength with the beginning of things.
It wasn’t hard, even though I made mistakes. My mistakes can be observed in patterns of behaviour as far back as the origin of life. They are born of the one and are perfect in their amplitude.
Knocking. Pounding. Shouting.
When they enter, they’ll rush me. As I’m being secured, the other rooms will be searched and cleared. That’s when they’ll find the unknown, the x. Her presence here is the variable factor they may not have prepared for. She remains the x in this equation. The number that replaces the variable is called the solution. The solution to x has become entwined and inextractable from my search for harmonic synchronicity with the one.
The significance of this, my prime year, colluded to bring us together. Our amplitudinal patterns oscillated ever closer in tune with each other. This refining of frequencies was outside of our awareness.
It was linked to the greater design of gravitational forces and the magnetic pull of opposing poles.
And this is how it was as I entered the parade crowd. Creating chaos, adding levels of imperfection to the natural flow of events wasn’t hard. I zigzagged through the crowd dropping bangers and smoke pellets into garbage bins, into open handbags. Pockets were harder than I’d expected.
Moving at inconsistent velocities through a throng of unpredictable spectators is the conclusion I have drawn for the failure of this part of the plan.
I could see her through the crowd. It was cold. She wore fingerless gloves. She was exactly where I didn’t want her to be.
The natural movement of the swelling mass carried me on a sloshing wave in her direction. I knew time was against us. The momentum of kinetic motion was bringing me to her. I’d spent so long testing theories trying to prove the number equal to x. I should have known this was part of the process for discovering the solution. My disregard of time felt hard to justify in these moments. What could I do but accept this was how the universe was conspiring to bring us together?
I felt the heaviness of pending destruction on my back. Whether my feet were taken out from under me or I knowingly allowed myself to fall, I’m not willing to confirm. It’s enough to know that I was on the ground, shoes, boots, heels stomping over me. The crowd was one part frightened, two parts confused, equal parts nonplussed.
And yes, in this crush, the backpack and I became separated. It was a few moments before I reacted and tried to claim it back but by then it had found its final resting place yards from where she stood. She had no idea the bag was there. Through the stampede I could see her staring down at me.
Her face showed recognition which became confusion. And then, she smiled realising that she knew me, thinking, What’s he doing on the ground?
For a moment the equation changed and I knew in this temporary state of flux she was no longer the unknown, the x. She had become in this event horizon a known entity and I felt the solution was on the tip on my tongue. It was my bag that had shifted and become the variable factor in this problem. The x had generated from me. And the problem to which I set in place a formula to divine a solution was seconds from revealing itself.
In an eclipsing flash of bright orange–yellow light the answer began to unravel. A deafening boom, debris flying in chaotic patterns, shooting out from the centre of the occurrence. My ears rang in a squealing high pitch frequency. My eyes burned, caked with dust and blood. There were some things I already knew as I wiped the crap off my face so I could see. The state of flux had ended with the destruction of the newly introduced variable. She was again, the x.
Flames, dust, screams, a strange mix of muffled silence, concussion and heaviness took hold. I was close to where the solution was unveiled.
She was closer.
I was bleeding.
She was blown apart.
I pulled myself together. I needed to get out of here.
My only decision at that point was what parts of her I would leave behind. A severed arm, fingers missing lay next to her unconscious body. Blood and dirt stained her face. Debris covered her legs so it was hard for me to tell right away if they were still attached to her or not. Her other arm lay across a writhing form to her left. I crawled over who knows what to reach out to grab it. I held on to her for some time, her fingerless gloved hand in mine.
As the cloud of dust thinned and I could see silhouettes of people move about in jerky directions; the thought returned to remind me that I needed to get out of here. I put her arm around my shoulders and lifted her to her feet. She was a dead weight which dragged behind me for three blocks before I got to my apartment.
Inside, I took her into my bedroom. Laying her down on the mattress on the floor, I wrapped a large beach towel around her upper body to cover the gaping wound where her right arm once was. I washed her face with a warm, wet cloth. The dirt and blood washed right off. Scratches and cuts remained. I pulled the duvet up, tucking it under her chin, leaving a glass of water on the floor next to where she lay in case she woke up and was thirsty.
I closed the door behind me, letting her rest.
I had no idea how much time had passed. I wasn’t keeping tabs. It became unimportant. I’m sure I said something like this before.
They’re using some kind of battering ram to break down my door. There’s one final problem they are about to discover the solution to. I sit on the sofa opposite the front door and put down my pen, awaiting my return to the beginning, to the one, to the source of all things.
Ed: We enjoyed the use of the language in this story – the ebb and flow of the words and the way the internal dialogue evolved and revealed the story – as well as the fact that no ‘language’ itself was used. We also felt this was a very articulate approach to the issue of violence which may or may not be described as an act of terrorism, that such description depends on who carries it out and why, and the fact that even with all the evidence which can be gathered, the most important evidence still lies in the mind of the protagonist. Scary stuff well written.
Sunday 30 June 2013
The Performance
Deborah Stanbridge
Douglas Park, NSW
A beautiful sunset paints a performance
Wisps of clouds are lit up from behind
As a bright burn of atmosphere fades into darkness
A rainbow of orange, lemon, strawberry and cherry
Ice cream melts before my eyes
The warmth of its colours warms my heart
This free show is repeated daily and yet it is new every time
And as it fades into a purple darkness
I feel no sorrow for its loss
Only joy and gratitude for being its witness
When she passed away
Her performance
was over
No more dancing, no tears of laughter, nor tears of grief
They said: She lives on in our hearts
But she doesn’t live on, she is just remembered
Though it is full of moments in time
I know my life is but a moment,
And a performance for the sustainer
And I pray it will be a good one filled with warmth,
Compassion, tears of laughter, giving and being a good witness.
Monday 1 July 2013
One Night in Gibraltar
Leonie Bingham
Katoomba, NSW
On a ship berthed in Gibraltar were two thousand Navy men
who had been at sea for six long weeks and longed for land again.
Onboard the Aussie navy ship, the ‘Melbourne’ it was called,
were sailors set to find a girl – the Gibraltans were appalled!
They announced a week long curfew, sent their women all to Spain,
and yikes the women disappeared by car or bus or plane.
The men descended to the dock with pockets full of cash,
they went in search of womenfolk, their search was bold and brash.
But all the bars were full of men, no women were in sight,
so beers were poured and glasses drained – well into the night.
Six sailor men, that’s all there were when the bars declared ‘no more’,
they stumbled to the street; they had to leave that foreign shore.
No taxicab would stop to give those drunken men a ride –
but they came upon an ambulance, found purpose in their stride.
The streets were quiet, only they were loud and full of beer,
they climbed into that ambulance, said, ‘Let’s get out of here!’
So off they drove towards their ship, lights flashing, siren sounding –
as they made their wild escape six anxious hearts were pounding.
For right behind them, on their tail, were the Gibraltan boys in blue,
the six drove on without a care, they would hide among their crew.
But at the ship to their dismay a crowd was gathered there,
they walked the dock and shuddered at the Captain’s steely stare.
Before first light the Melbourne steamed off out into the blue –
and that night was never mentioned by the Captain or his crew!
Monday 1 July 2013 4 pm
The Ghost In Your Jeans
Robyn Chaffey
Hazelbrook, NSW
Diary entry: Monday 7:11:11
I thought I had moved on; that the grief was dissipating or I was getting stronger.
A new wardrobe and trip to the hairdresser were to create the illusion of determination to get back into life. I knew you would want me to live on in the way we had planned together.
Still, I was a little uneasy about my choice. I felt a sense of guilt which I knew to be unnecessary. Yet at the same time I was quietly pleased with what I had done so far.
As I stepped out on to the pavement from the hairdressers’ shop, I realised I was smiling … the kind of smile that announces to the world ‘I am happy with my life’. The realisation shocked, yet pleased me.
Then I saw him. I saw you! It was the jeans!
You bought those jeans the day before you left. I remember that you thought they were really too tight. I thought them perfect! How I teased you that evening when you chose to put them on to go out with your friends.
A night out with your mates to celebrate the Panthers’ big win!
I was happy for you to go and looked forward to a night in with my own friends. We parted on such a high. Life was wonderful!
The girls had all gone home and I had settled to read my book before heading off to bed … did not expect you early. My mind was dwelling on the fun of our parting and I could not help but smile. I could still see you in my mind’s eye … the picture of your sleek figure as you walked away and your cheeky grin as you turned your face to wink me a last farewell.
My musings were abruptly interrupted by the firm knock at the door. The clock told me it was still a little early but I thought you had forgotten your key and grinned as I opened the door.
The grin quickly faded as I was confronted by two burly strangers. It took time for it to sink in … they were in uniform and very sober.
‘Miss Perry? … Miss Christina Perry? … May we … so very sorry … no survivors … they were not over the limit … the other driver …’
It all seems such a blur even now. I felt that I could die as well.
It took time but I felt your spirit with me and I began to remember your joy in life.
Gradually I remembered that you wanted me to enjoy it too and you would want me to live … really live for both of us.
As I stood there on the pavement it was as though time was standing still. I blinked and struggled momentarily with the rush of memory and feelings. It was as though your presence dissipated, twisting upward to the ether.
I felt my eyes follow you taking my whole face with them toward the heavens, watching as the blue of your jeans dissolved into the crystal blue of the sky. Then I knew that you had visited me to let me know that you approved.
I love you as always and I will be just fine.
I will live our dream for both of us!
Tuesday 2 July 2013
Heaven On Earth
Andris Heks
Megalong Valley, NSW
It’s 6 am. I am tucked in under my doona. It’s time for heaven.
I pull my laptop into bed, earphones on, snugly covering both ears for stereo effect, nightcap over the earphones for even better hearing and warmth. I quarter sit up in bed, heater switched on, scarf wrapped around my neck.
I am ready for bliss.
I click on the golden star at the top right corner of my laptop. My ‘favourites’ appear on the screen.
I click on ‘Janine Jansen performs Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto live in 2013’, (Tchaikovsky, 1. Allegro moderato (Violin Concerto in D major op.35)).
The conductor and the violin soloist, Janine Jansen, stand a mere metre from each other, face to face, eye to eye, in silence. Only the conductor and the soloist are standing, everyone else in the huge orchestra is sitting. They line up behind the soloist, like the chorus does behind the protagonist in Greek drama. Their eyes are on the conductor opposite, awaiting his signals. He stands on a pedestal, with his baton in hand towering over the soloist and the orchestra, like a benevolent god. He wears a smart black silk suit with white shirt and white bow tie, like all male members of his orchestra.
Janine is a brunette with shiny, longer than shoulder length hair. She wears a long blood-red dress that leaves her broad shoulders uncovered. She looks a picture, standing there with a lowered violin in one hand and the bow in the other.
It’s show time! The conductor signals the second violinist and he kicks off the ball as it were. The other twenty violinists of the orchestra promptly respond to the second violin in chorus. Briefly it is once more the second violinist’s turn. Next, two clarinets and two flutes respond to him in unison. Now the speed and volume of the music increase: there is short accelerating drumming, followed by the violins, cellos, the clarinets and flutes having a turn. Then all, save the soloist, join together to belt out a crescendo. Through this thunderstorm of sounds Janine stands by, cool as a cucumber. With her violin only held by her chin, hands resting interlocked on her abdomen, she is patiently awaiting her turn. Now the orchestra puts on the brakes, ready to hand over the baton to her. Janine slides the bow on her violin’s strings and makes her grand entry. The scene is reminiscent of Michelangelo’s picture of ‘The Creation of Adam’: God extends his hand towards Adam – here the towering conductor’s baton points towards the first violinist.
Adam (here, the soloist Janine) responds by in turn extending his fingers (here, her violin) back towards God. Their symbolic connection breathes divine life into Adam (here
, into Janine’s music).
She mesmerises the audience as she begins to softly play the achingly beautiful concerto theme tune.
I purse my lips to start to whistle along with her. All eyes and ears are on her; the rest of the orchestra is in temporary suspense. I whistle in tandem with her as tears of joy flow from my eyes.
I listen to her closely, keeping my whistling just a touch softer than the volume of her play so that I can stay right with her. I am melting at the beauty of the theme tune. Now I hear her and the orchestra together in stereo in both ears through the earphones. My whistle vibrates between my ears somewhere deep in my brain and chest, blending with the rest of the music. The pace begins to rapidly accelerate. It’s take off time. We become airborne and continue climbing. All the engines roar to their utmost. The air is getting thinner. At last, high up, to the tune of gently exquisite music, the plane begins to cruise horizontally without the slightest effort. Then bang! There is the thunder of loud and fast sounds bursting through the calm, heralding the full blown climactic return of the concerto’s theme tune. It skyrockets vertically. I have to hold on to my seat to stay in tandem with the immense tempo but I am hanging in there. We continue to spiral upwards with mindboggling speed.
I am starting to lose myself. The soloist and all the diverse instruments and sounds including my whistle are merging into one experience only: that of the single concerto in all its glorious wholeness.
It fills the cosmos, expanding into infinity!
Wednesday 3 July 2013
Kirsten’s Photo
David Anderson
Woodford, NSW
So it’s happened again. Another failed relationship and all that goes with it. Hurt – grief – cold bed – black dog – I’ll never get hurt again – all women are ... He really thought that this time it would work. She was so beautiful, so loving and had told him she wanted to get married soon. Why? What had he done to make her leave?
To hell with it. This time he wasn’t going to go through all that hurtful crap again. He piled all of Kirsten’s photos up in the fireplace and lit the match. It only took a moment for them to catch fire, and it only took a moment for him to singe the hairs on his hand as he grabbed his favourite photo out of the burning heap.
He opened the drawer and took out the photo frame he’d bought at Go Lo the day before and kissed Kirsten’s photo. That’s when it hit him. She really was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he wondered how he could continue his life without her. He put the frame on his bedside table and lay down and gazed at her with loving eyes until he fell asleep.
It became a daily ritual of staring at the photo frame and feeling the painful tug in his heart as he knew there was probably no hope of them ever being together. The days ran into weeks and months and drifted into two years. He’d lost contact with his friends and had left his position at the Italian restaurant; the patrons complained the lasagne was never the same. He was living on what was left of his superannuation and that was fast running out. He kissed, cried and held the photo to his face every night before bed, and slept with it on his pillow.
Finally, it was time. Now was the time to make contact. If she knew how he felt and how it was possessing his every waking moment, and bringing him to near insanity she may, possibly would, indeed must, love him, and enjoy the rest of her life with him.
It took some internet surfing to find out where he could contact her, but finally his nights at the keyboard bore fruit, and at last he had found a possible contact phone number.
He picked up the phone and dialled. A woman’s voice answered. It wasn’t her, but he spilt out his tale of passion and devotion. Would this woman please see if she would talk to him – arrange a date – or just a meeting for coffee? He just had to meet her and it was a matter of life and death if he couldn’t. Please talk to her ... please ... PLEASE ...
Her answer shattered him, and as his obsession had taken him to the bottomless depths of depression, the answer sent him over the edge of hopelessness into madness, and he threw down the phone and jumped from his seven storey window to the concrete below. His traumatised brain broke out of his splintered skull, as fragments swam in the rivulets of blood that danced down the driveway towards the gutter.
The woman on the end of the phone line wasn’t sure if he’d heard her answer – so she repeated it.
‘I’m sorry, Sir. But our company just makes the photo frames. A contract photographer chooses the model for the photo frame headshot. I think he’s in Beijing. In any case, we couldn’t possibly let you make contact with her ... Sir? ... Are you still there?’
Thursday 4 July 2013
Ode To My Canary
Irina Dimitric
Mosman, NSW
Although you’re still here
My little golden friend
I’m already grieving
Nine years you’ve been singing …
Cheerful tweets and trills
To my soul are clinging
How much time is there left?
Perhaps another year or two
Before eerie silence
Engulfs the empty space
Where once you reigned
Trilling your ancient lore
Then one day
Dead silence
For ever more
How lucky you are not to be aware
The end is coming
These days you’re only tired
Very quiet
No energy to spare
But for old feathers to shed
And grow fresh ones
I must keep you well fed
Not a peep
Not even a faint ‘Good morning’
While you’re busy creating
Your new attire
I know when you’re done
Once again you will sing
With regained fire
All day long
Your crystal clear song
A song of joy
A song of life
A song of hope
Each year reborn
Until the day
Uneasy peace rings forlorn
In my heart’s core
Dead silence
For ever more
Friday 5 July 2013
On the 5½ Floor
Fayroze Lutta
Randwick, NSW
Cara Andréa,
On the front of your postcard there is a very stern looking formally dressed policeman. The photo was taken in 1929, the year of the stock market crash. The policeman stands guard to a broken street lamp, I guess lights out! I saw the same thing in Morocco last year except with a post box. Paris these days seems to resemble Morocco more and more.
Here in Paris, on my street, Rue Marcadet, opposite the Préfecture de Police, I have seen the burnt out remains of cars. Further away on Rue Clignancourt, which is the very limit of Montmartre, opposite La Commiserate de Police I saw the brazened carcases of motorcycles. The people held responsible call themselves Les Révolutionnaires, quite a handsome title. They dream of anarchy and the destruction of this old Republique.
I recall what Sébastien from the Brasserie La Triomphe told me, after I had flown into a rage about the despicable and loathsome nature of policemen. He calmly stated that without the police there would be no law and order and without order there is chaos and with chaos there would be no Republique! ‘Alors Vive La Republique’ is the catch cry of the French politician to this day.
The apartment I am staying in is very comfortable except for the shower which has a large window that isn’t frosted. I am high up here on the sixth floor and the first time I took a shower I found it shocking. However, I now have l’habitude that half of Paris will see my naked breasts each and every morning as I take my ablution.
There is a lift that starts on floor 0½ and I get off the lift on the 5½ floor that opens on the stairwell – like living life in a John Malkovich film. I watched a film of his, Thé au Sahara of course being here in
Paris with the French doublage. The film, set in the French colonialist period in Morocco, was easily recreated as nothing much has changed there since that period.
Here in Paris things have changed and it is starting to feel more like Morocco. Some streets still look ravishing, like they are still dipped in gold, demonstrations of ‘la gloire de l’empire’ and they shout, ‘Viva La République! Viva La France!’ However now is the époque of austerity when cities, when societies, become too complex with the self perpetuating greed only offering extreme lifestyles of rich and poor. It is the end, the sounding out of the death knell of the middle class. I think of our hometown of Sydney; each city has its own problems and there is still the looming volcanic bubble with all its paper millionaires waiting dormant, ready to explode like Pompeii. I know you cannot wait for the day of reckoning to come – when there are rows of office buildings and shop fronts vacant, a ghost town. I recall you saying that it would be spectacular.
The cost of living here in Paris has increased. However, the minimum wage has not increased with it in a decade, so people spend less, so businesses close, so people lose their jobs, so it continues, so it turns, and so it goes round ’n round.
Il n’y a rien dans la caisse ici! The coffers are empty. La Misère is pulsating in the streets. I become quite nervous sometimes, especially carrying my old 1920s black leather vintage swing clutch which I cling to like an old lady, with both hands around the strap. There is a nervous energy, an ambiance dans la rue. I sense it is the dark days of Les Misérables once again.
I fear that people are getting desperate and may do something they themselves never thought they were capable of before. Everyone is hustling trying to make a dollar out of 50 centimes.
I see images that remind me of the Great Depression, the ‘Hoovervilles’ of New York and so I think of today and tomorrow. Paris’ wedding cake façades crumbling with its sour rotting innards holds me for these few weeks I am here, maybe more.
In front of the Metro Barbes-Rochechoart men had laid down white sheets trying to sell piles of old clothes in the rain. I guess the rich just stay cocooned in the other life which is St Germaine. Or the assured escape hatch of the well-to-do. Europe and here in France they play out the end of empires. It does not feel like chaos, more like the halls of Château Rouge – Barbes are all around.
You told me once the leader, the once great Chairman Mao, once said, ‘There is great chaos under heaven – the situation is excellent’. I wonder how to lead a life of freedom, not to just think of it or dream, but to live it all out, not just the limits this society imposes.
I want to lead a life of my choosing, not to have a mortgage and be imprisoned by debt, a slave to the office, chained to my desk for the next few decades. Cut down in the prime of my adult life, left to turn into the hunchback of town planning as my individual liberty is circumscribed by debt. I want to lead a more fulfilling life. I do not want to work to feed the bottomless pit of cravings attending to our society’s circumscribed edict of counterfeit desires.
Has the time of la vie de bohème passed? I still search for it. I try to live it out here however it is the life of the bourgeoise bohémien (bobos) now. Oh how I detest those Parisien bobos! Has Paris just become a carnival of attractions of the past of la vie de bohème. I still hope it is not all truly over, hoping for the heyday to return, reminiscing about an époque I never lived through, now long gone.
Oh dear me,
Fayroze
Saturday 6 July 2013
Red And Cream
Whitney McIntosh
Wheelers Hill, VIC
Placing the phone slowly down onto its receiver, the silence of the house hummed in her ears. The news had sent her spiralling into momentary paralysis, dazed inaction. It was only the delayed metallic click of the phone that set her into a panicked flurry. Scampering over piles of half-filled boxes in the hallway, she fled into her bedroom. She soon disappeared into an inferno of shirts and skirts and leggings as she rummaged for something clean to wear. The clothes billowed open in the air for an instant, before falling down into crumpled piles.
Her room was a musty mixture of pinks and greys, a lazy assortment of tacked up artwork and piles of old jumpers. The occasional tail or ear of a stuffed toy poked out from here or there, like tiny plush moles pushing their noses out to the sun. Drawers lay open and picture frames askew in a loose, yet not untidy way, as if every job had been contemplated but not taken to completion. Her alarm clock dazedly flashed 3:00 pm, reminiscent of the power shortage of the morning and repeatedly alerting her that the time was anything but that.
Finally, with a single leap she flew through the front sunflower wall-papered corridor, out the front door and over and off her front porch; while the screen door indolently clinked to a close. She ran through the soft wet grass to her car, which soon started with a rusty murmur.
The day was clear and cold, the sky an empty blue. Her ancient neighbour peered over the fence, curious about the commotion, but within seconds her yellow Cadillac was speeding out through the wide suburban roads of the neighbourhood.
The drive barely registered with her. All that she saw was the uneasy transition from the cool blues of the sky outside to the brick walls of the school. Within moments she was walking up the corridors of St Justin’s Elementary School. Yellow school bags lined the corridors, which were further decorated with student artwork and posters of arbitrary phrases such as ‘Work Together!’ and ‘Perseverance = Success!’ As she finally reached the carpeted section leading to the reception area, the principal of the school sauntered out of her office, her hawklike shoulders hunched over a clipboard. She smiled waspishly, pronouncing procedural pleasantries which were bland and empty, yet keenly observed.
Allison gasped softly for breath, straightening her cream scarf against her chest with her fingertips. The principal turned abruptly, striding down the corridor, and Allison sprung forward to catch up with her.
‘He’s just down this corridor, if you’ll follow me.’ The principal’s sharp voice rang through the hallway, bursting through Allison’s blurred consciousness.
‘Yes, thank you …’
‘As I said on the phone, I think it would be best if he spent the rest of afternoon at home, to calm down. If he still needs time tomorrow to do so, it would be apt if he took another rest day,’ the principal continued, walking ahead, without turning to see if Allison was within earshot.
‘Yes, yes, of course …’
‘And can you please talk to him about some correct classroom behaviour. It is a pity that he does not qualify for government aid for his autism, as the teachers do not have the time to manage his social behaviours themselves.’ Her voice dripped with icy disdain. Allison gritted her teeth and gripped her scarf.
‘Of course.’
As they reached the classroom the principal moved aside with a simpering smile, and then stalked back to her office. William was sitting by himself in a corner, moving a wooden train set slowly around haphazardly lain out tracks. Some were connected; others fitted like smashed together puzzle pieces, for which he bridged with his fingers as the train ran across them. His wispy brown hair fell about untidily, obscuring his dark green eyes which were already hidden behind thick black frames.
‘Will?’ He turned quickly and stood up, while she moved forward to hug him. Allison calmingly ran her fingers through his hair as he fidgeted with the drawstrings of her hooded jacket. She murmured into his ears soft reassurances, while following the train tracks on the ground with her eyes. They walked slowly out of a side exit of the building together, avoiding the imminent commotion of the school corridors.
The car ride home had a ghostly, eerie quiet that was cold and unsparing, and yet not wholly unfamiliar. Allison felt as if the quiet seeped into her very skin, producing the crinkles around her eyes and wrinkling her insides. Will looked blankly out of his window, his elbow resting on the car door.
‘Will, what would you like to do when we get h
ome?’ His murmured reply, she did not hear, and neither again when she asked for him to repeat it.
‘Will, any ideas for snacks? I could bake some cookies if that would cheer you up?’
‘I’ve got some new movies from the video shop too, Will.’
‘Will …?’
At home, William returned to his playroom while Allison hovered silently at his door, watching him race his toy cars and pull out his box of toy dinosaurs. She slowly moved backwards out of the doorway, slipping into the shadows of the hallway and past the jungle of cardboard boxes.
Outside on the front porch the air was biting, sliding its icy fingers down her back and over any of her exposed skin: her wrists, her midriff, her ankles. Raising her hands to her lips she bit down hard on her nails, her maroon nail polish slightly cracking at their tips as she ripped and pulled at them, sharpening them into jagged sandpaper teeth. She imagined that a more romantic version of herself would be casually smoking a cigarette, watching rain fall onto their untidy weed-strewn lawns. The smoke of her cigarette would rise, swirling into the cold air like ink in water; up, up and away.
Her ubiquitous neighbour was gone, most likely to rest her weary feet on a warm radiator after a morning of gardening. The street lay empty, bar a black and white cat who strolled languidly down the sidewalk.
Precipitously Allison heard a loud crash from inside. A hundred images flew through her mind. Broken vases, splayed books on floors, scratched pots and pans, her jewellery smashed and twisted. Lab coats, plastic doctor’s waiting room chairs and the glaring eyes of hundreds of faceless strangers pointing their fingers towards her. Without another thought, she stepped off the porch, moved steadily over to her Cadillac, and started the engine. She moved mechanically, forcefully brazen against any pervasive lingering guilt or regret. Within seconds she was out on the road, heading for the highway. Her eyes glazed over in a silent frustration, a determined, dispassionate stare. Her knuckles turned white as they gripped the steering wheel at 10 and 2.
It took 15 minutes to get to the Fort Knox Dumpster. Stretching out into the distance was an elaborate and hazardous maze of cast-off coaches, cupboards, broken tables, broken chairs, desks, televisions, industrial containers, and large items that couldn’t be disposed of in any normal fashion. The misfits of the standardised waste paper basket, the office sized desk bin. The Dumpster seemed to continue on forever, a land of once-loved furniture, a sweeping forest of deciduous table leg shaped trees, shrouded with mouldy faded couch fabrics and the jagged glass of shattered television screens.
Near the fence was a small guard hut with peeling brown paint, yet the guards only ever stayed until 6 o’clock. She smiled ironically. ‘There were things you learnt with an autistic child.’ The windows of the hut only seemed to look out onto the junkyard silently with sad, knowing eyes.
With a sense of deliberation and procedure, she turned off the ignition, and went around to the boot of her car. Underneath the carpeted interior, from the grey depths of the boot, she pulled out a long shiny and incredibly scratched baseball bat. She walked out of the vacant parking lot to the wire fence which surrounded the junkyard, pulling up its sharp metal roots without hesitation, stooping underneath its jagged ends.
She walked passively through the abounding junk for a few metres, baseball bat in hand, before coming to a halt. An indescribable mixture of sadness, frustration and pure pain flashed through her eyes. Lifting the bat up into the air, she brought it heavily down on the face of a television screen, which burst into the air in a cascade of falling diamonds. As she swung the bat around again, she hit a deteriorating wooden chair which flew until a thousand splinters as metal hit rusted wood. Again and again the rough and deteriorating junk of the Dumpster smashed into smaller pieces, beaten into sand and dust and thread with the full force of her frustration. All the broken things, broken no more. The whole time, not a sound burst from her lips, although beads of sweat formed on her hairline and her limbs began to ache with the action.
As she swung again, this time at a large television set, the baseball bat slipped from her grasp and spun into the air, landing metres away. With silent, urgent frustration, she drew a fist and punched through the glass with her hand. The glass screeched and shattered all around her fist, now enclosed in the black plastic outer shell of the TV. She slowly pulled her hand out to reveal jagged mountains of glass on her fingers and palm, surrounded by small streams of blood which trickled down her wrist. She further realised her left hand was gripping the serrated side of the television, and she slowly let go of the glass, which ripped at her soft skin as she removed it.
She let her hands drop, her arms hanging limply by her sides, looking out onto the cardboard and plastic sea. Finally, she felt small again. She fell back onto a threadbare couch turned on its side, dust puffing out of the seams. The moth eaten cushions gave comfort to all her bruises, while the cool air soothed her burning face and arms. After a few minutes, her mobile phone rang in her front pocket. She hesitated, staring at the caller ID, before inevitably pressing ‘answer’.
‘Hey Ally! Guess what?! I found those toddler locks that we’ve been looking for, for ages! I looked up the store Andy and Jessie recommended during my lunch break, and thought I would go by the store on the way home. We’re so lucky; it was their last set before their next order comes in December. Phew. And next door was a candy shop called Michael’s which was selling sugared almonds cheap, for a dollar a bag, which seemed a good deal! So I bought a few. Sugared almonds are your favourite, aren’t they Al?’
Tears swum in her eyes, but she choked back a few sobs, muffling those that did treacherously escape by pressing her scarf to her mouth. She was teetering on the brink of hysteria that only Peter’s soft excited tones were holding her back from.
‘Ally? Are you there? … and hey, where are you right now?’
‘I’ll be home in 15, okay?’ she gasped. Peter hesitated for a moment, before accepting her answer and carrying on. Here was something unconditional that they both knew and understood.
‘Alright, I’ll get the dinner going and crack open these toddler locks!’ The phone died with its electronic call tone, and she absently pushed it into her front jeans pocket although it was marked with blood.
For a moment she looked out onto the anarchic configurations of the Dumpster, set against the orange sinking sun. She wove her cashmere scarf flat and tight around her palms, her left from one end and her right from the other, so that her hands were handcuffed. In this warm cashmere linkage red flowers blossomed in the thick cream blend.
It was a moderate form of acrobatics to make her way out past the wooden and metal monsters of the Dumpster, but within a few minutes she was safely on level ground once more. The gravel crunched under her boots as she walked sedately back to her car. She stopped for a moment at her car door to breathe in the cool air, closing her eyes. With a final golden gasp, the sun sunk below the horizon behind her, the last rays of sunlight dancing around her shoulders in a melancholy, yet tender embrace.
Sunday 7 July 2013
The Future Is Female – The Xing Saga part 3
Jane Russell
Mount Barker, SA
SnoopyLoo was born on Xing in the second millennium of the imperial age of Po. Her progenitors were both male, so it came as a surprise to everyone when she came along, a female being a rare occurrence. She was, in fact, one of a mere handful of genetically engineered metalbots who were born female. And, as they all were produced in the same birth centre, a technical fault was suspected, but had yet to be identified.
One would expect that Snoopy could have her pick of the myriad hoard of male bots, but no. Strangely, they shunned her. To them, maleness was the norm and she was a freak. So, she spent her early life disguising her difference, trying to fit in, to be liked. She was not a happy bot. Then, one day she met another female and finally made a friend.
‘Hi there, I’m Curly,’ chirped the new robot, her oildrop-shaped eyes sparkling as
she extended her forefinger in greeting.
‘I’m Snoopy, pleased to meet you.’ As they touched fingers a spark of static zapped between them, surprising and delighting them both.
‘You and me, gal, we’re special,’ affirmed Curly with a smile, if not on her immobile metal face, at least in her voice.
‘You think?’
‘Hell yeah! Male bots are so last year! We’re the future, baby. We girls gotta stick together!’
Snoopy and Curly did everything together. The males were puzzled at first, but then began to view them differently. Suddenly Snoopy was in demand. She was popular. It seemed like a dream come true. But, like all dreams, it could not last. A couple of new females moved into the area and the males pursued them instead. Snoopy was forgotten once more. She still had Curly, but she was never Curly’s one and only friend. She didn’t have Curly’s gregarious nature, and she envied her ease at making friends.
Jealous and afraid of losing her, Snoopy initiated a huge and destructive argument, and thus lost her only friend after all.
When the call came for volunteers to form an advance guard for a proposed planetary invasion, Snoopy joined up. What else was there for her to do? Better to die for her people than to live her life in lonely misery. It came as quite a surprise to her that Curly joined up too. They approached each other warily.
‘Look, I’m really sorry for what I said,’ Snoopy began, but Curly cut her short.
‘No, it was my fault, Snoop, I was jealous of you.’
Snoopy couldn’t believe her sound receptors! Curly jealous of her, how could that be? ‘But, but ...’ she stammered, ‘you were the one with all the friends. What were you jealous of?’
‘Oh, sweetie! Haven’t you ever looked in a reflective surface? You’re drop dead gorgeous, Snoop! How could I ever compete with that?’
Snoopy’s mouthpart hung open in amazement. ‘Oh Curly, you were always my one and only friend. I never wanted anyone else!’
If robots could have cried (without the very real danger of seizing up their joints from the moisture) they would have. Instead, they hugged each other and it seemed that all was forgiven.
Sadly for them, though, they were now part of an attack force hurtling through space on a deadly mission from which few, if any, would return. As they approached the planet in question, they looked out and admired its pretty blue with white swirls.
‘Ahhh!’ came a group sigh.
The spaceship landed and was hidden before the group set off. The commandbot gruffly ordered them to separate into three groups. Alpha group headed towards a towering apartment block, with its own beach and sea floating impossibly on the 20th floor. Snoopy didn’t envy them the climb. Beta group marched on a nearby town which had a lot of pointy spires and Gamma group, with Snoopy and Curly, were directed at a rural settlement. Their orders were clear: capture, interrogate, and intimidate the local life forms, in order to build a picture of their powers of resistance.
Snoopy and Curly weren’t too sure how to go about the intimidation bit, but there were plenty of pushy male bots they could copy. They stood back and observed as a bot marched up to a four-legged life form and demanded its surrender.
‘Moooo,’ it replied. Other bots were getting similarly unhelpful responses from the other beings in the field, until one of these, larger than the others and with a sack dangling between its legs, bellowed defiance and charged. The nearest bot was knocked flying into a tree; the rest beat a hasty retreat. They noticed smaller, woolly beings in the next field and tried their luck with them.
‘Baaaaa!’
Then a mighty bang sounded, and a two-legged being marched up to them holding a smoking metal stick.
‘Oi! Watcha think you’re doin’ in my paddock!’ he shouted.
At last! A being that made sense! They were so pleased to see him that they almost forgot their mission.
But, before the lead-bot could declare that they were an advance force from the planet Xing, etc., there was another bang and he flew backwards, several limbs falling off as he smashed into the ground. The bots looked from him to the being’s metal stick. The group was now without a leader.
Without thinking, Snoopy stepped forward.
‘Please, no violence. We mean you no harm!’ realising as she spoke that this was now true. ‘My name is SnoopyLoo, what are you called?’ She was gambling on diffusing the situation by getting on first name terms.
‘Well, bugger me dead!’ exclaimed the being. ‘A sexy robot! Whatever next?’ Snoopy would have blushed, but as her normal colour was bright scarlet, there wouldn’t have been much point. ‘I’m Bruce. This is my farm. What are you doing here?’
Snoopy had to think quickly. ‘We’re lost! We’re just a group of simple metalbots from the planet Xing, and we crash-landed on your planet. What’s it called, by the way?’ Luckily for her, the rest of the group was happy to follow her lead.
‘You’re from another planet? Get outta here! Really? This is planet Earth.’
The farmer invited the invading force into his home and offered refreshment, after he apologised for shooting their leader, and had helped retrieve the other, battered bot from the tree. He was obviously very chuffed to have robots from space in his living room. While he went to boil the kettle, Snoopy addressed the troops.
‘Look bots, we daren’t get on the wrong side of this Bruce. He’s dangerous. Let’s just try to learn as much as we can about him and his weapon, and leave it at that.’ They hummed and harred but agreed to do as she advised.
Bruce came back in and banged a pot of tea down on the table. Hot drops splashed into Curly’s face and she screamed. The farmer was very apologetic, but the damage was done. Curly’s facial surface blistered, she couldn’t move her head and she could barely speak. Thinking quickly, Snoopy asked for oil or grease, and Bruce brought out some WD-40. He sprayed it over Curly’s face and it began to work almost at once. This was their first experience of the planet-wide dangers of water. They declined the tea, and enlisted Bruce’s help to get them all back to their spaceship without getting wet on the way. He was delighted to help.
Later, he was to say on the local news: ‘Lovely bunch of aliens, they were! So polite. Fancy choosing my farm, eh? I was on first name terms with the leader: lovely girl called SnoopyLoo. I expect they’ve buggered off home now. What a pity about their water intolerance – otherwise they could have stayed longer!’
He was encouraged to lead the authorities to where the spaceship had been, but it was long gone. Most of Alpha and Beta groups were destroyed due to thunderstorms and other watery events. Any stray survivors were abandoned and forgotten, as was the doomed invasion attempt of Earth.
Meanwhile, Snoopy and Curly and the remains of Gamma group were hurtling back home to Xing, carrying several cans of WD-40 and getting their story straight for their own leaders. They would report on how they and their fellow bots faced deadly danger and braved overwhelming odds, winning through by mind power over brute power. Only their group survived, because they had a female leader. They were Xing heroines! Which subsequently led to a huge increase in the demand for female bots by the army!
Back on Earth, Snoopy would be amazed to know a sketch of her, coloured in red crayon, was in pride of place on Bruce’s living room wall: a talking piece for years to come. A being from another world that would never forget her.
Monday 8 July 2013
Old People Luddites
Mark Fowler
Magill, ACT
I was on the bus
Nothing on my mind,
Watched girl in front
As she tried to find
A song on iTunes
On her mobile phone,
Her fingers dancing ...
Pink, no, yes ... the Stones.
Send friend message, click
‘C U A D N’ – wow !
Text most important.
‘see you any day now’
Tapped out number,
Made cal
l very quick.
‘Know you’re seein’ her;
Ya think that I’m thick?’
Fingers swished madly
Back across the screen.
Him-her photos, click,
Memories wiped clean.
Took a few selfies
Smile, pout, tear in eye
Posted on Facebook
‘I hope Jason dies!’
Used ten more functions,
Then her stop came up,
Turned, and she faced me
‘Hey!’ says I, ‘wassup?’
‘You’ve been pervin’
since gettin’ on the bus.’