Hot Knife (2)

My first real shift started at five-thirty in the afternoon. I was five-minutes early, Anthony hadn't arrived, and one of the staff told me to sit down and wait. I pulled out my laptop and started writing. A quarter-of-an-hour later, Anthony streamed in the front door.

"Up the back."

I sat down opposite him. He began with a rant about using a laptop during his time; he wasn't paying me to sit around and do fuck-all. Once again I was silent; I just nodded, smouldering inside.

The other staff were a roll of the dice. Chris was a sturdy New-Zealander with a cheeky smile. Andrew was a Chinese design-student who had been working at this place for five-years, and I sensed that he had absorbed some of Anthony's personality traits. That wasn't a good thing.
Santos was a runty little fellow from Nepal with a protruding jaw and kind eyes. He never said much, but the twinkle in his eyes spoke of someone who had seen a lot and knew what it meant.

I plugged away. I kept quiet and made sure the customers were happy. I moved back and forth, like a pendulum, up steps and down steps; rare or well-done, red or white? Polishing knives at one point, a great crash came from the coffee machine in front of me. Fifty clean, white saucers lat shattered on the floor. Andrew looked down at them forlornly.

"Shit. I'm in trouble."

I helped him clean up, forgot about them and continued as usual. Towards the end of the night, after closing the doors and piling up chairs and tables, I grabbed my laptop bag and prepared to leave. Stepping outside, I heard Andrew tell Anthony about the plates. It sounded like he knew what was coming; there was a chill in his voice, as cold as the air that greeted me outside.

Hot Knife (1)

Today was chalk and cheese. The first stop was an art gallery cafe, clean lines and carefully placed forms. Baroque chamber music wafted through the interior, gliding over framed prints and around androgynous statuettes. The owners were softly spoken and gently amiable, in hushed tones they told me of their plans for the gallery, while a pretty young artist from Iran flittered about, humming to herself as she hung nouveau-impressionist musings on the political landscape of her homeland. The owners seemed genuine, and I imagined myself working there; serving coffee to perky-breasted art graduates, debating the merits of pre-war cubism with lanky fops, helping young Iranian artists hang their paintings….

The second part of my journey landed me in hot water, literally. Polishing knives and forks while trendy handbag-house pushed its way through my eardrums, internally I debated whether to just drop everything and make a run for it. I looked at Anthony. I figured I could outrun him, and had started to plan my escape route when he let out a caustic expletive.

“Fuck! Fuck that waters hot, mate. Shit.”

Steam rose from a small bucket of water, jammed with hot utensils.

“At least it lets you know you’re alive.” He delivered this line in his trademark monotone, staccato bursts like bullets from a Tommy gun. I nodded slowly in agreement, absorbing the statement.

“That’s important.”

“It sure is.”

I finished polishing, moved on to meet and greet, customers came and went in a steady trickle. It was a diverse bunch; athletic young gays, sturdy lesbians, middle-aged women reading the Herald or the Guardian over a latte, a couple of grizzled truckers. After about half an hour Anthony came surging towards me with a grimace. He slammed down a container filled with cutlery, fished out a sharp steak-knife, and held it up in front of my face.

"I don't pay you to fuck around. You see this?"

There was a smudged fingerprint on the blade. I nodded.

"All I ask is for you to come here and do your fucking job. This is my livelihood, you understand? How would you feel if you came to have a meal and someone handed you this? It's not on, mate. Do 'em all again."

There was more to it than that. Anthony had a menacing aura that hung about him like smog. Even when he smiled it was like a playful grin from the barrel of a gun. He glared at me. I was silent. He turned and left. I got another container of steaming hot water, dipped my hands in, and I knew I was alive.

Heatseeker

The man smiles, teeth beaming like the headlights of an oncoming car. I am a deer on the tarmac, eyes wide, frozen by the chill of my impending doom. There is a woman next to him, smiling with the same radiance, blinding me with her ersatz pleasure.

They are holding each other close, gazing down at something with all the pride of newborn parents. Music sparkles in the background, drawing me into the scene, a melody as repetitive and comforting as the growl of an engine revving.

I am silent and willing, I am still as the vehicle accelerates towards me, pushing my buttons as the driver changes gear. There is no time to think, no time but now. They are so close that I feel heat glowing off the hood, feel the grill pressing my flesh...

Holden Caulfield

It had been an enjoyable lesson. We delved through the vaguaries of clever song writing techniques, from the brazen egoism of Bono through to the honed rhythmic athleticism of Eminem. Towards the end of class we began discussing a protaganist's charming cynicism. The song's genius came from the way he acerbically dissected popular culture, yet, all the while making it clear he knew he was as sick as everyone else. Discussing anti-heroes, the lecturer made a remark that jarred me out of my daydream;

"...everyone thinks that they're Holden Caulfield, everyone imagines that they're the anti-hero, the tacit observer of the madness around them..."

It's true. I'll be damned if I can't believe that I am the only sane one in the madhouse, laughing on the inside while the other inmates let it all out. I mean; what joy can be had if one doesn't believe that they exist at the centre of the universe? There is a sweet sadness to be had from solipsism, a kind of gentle justification for one's frailties. The thing is, without being Holden Caulfield, all I am is an extra, a side-character, superfluous and superficial. If I can't be Superman then I want to be Clark Kent, life's not worth living if I am relegated to playing Jimmy Olsen.

Ghost in the Shell

Some people have had the life beaten clear out of them. They are not hard to find; these husks of men and women, soul-less eyes wanting for nothing. It's life that does it, it's life that wears away the joy, eroding the imperfections that make us human, leaving a smooth surface and a hollow core. I watch them as I make my way through the city, the poor forgotten shells, discarded on a shore; empty. The spark has gone, worn-down, run-out. They aren't dead; they walk, they talk, they do their jobs. Underneath it all, though, they are just running like clockwork - not for the pumping of a heart or wind through the hair; just running because that's what a clock does when it has been wound, it just ticks away until the cogs cease to turn.

It scares me that life will run me down eventually, sap my juice, leave me empty. That day may come, when every morning is only a reflex action, alarm buzzing and poking me awake, not from a dream but from the still black of sleep. That day may come, yet I know - at least for now - I am alive.

I know I am alive because on the inside I am haunted, inside I am cut and bleeding, in here I lay dying. Demons keep me up at night, blaze through my dreams, blood boiling and pistons churning. My rage and my anguish are enough to stave off the threat of emptiness, starve the parasite of apathy hungry for my indifference. I know I am alive because the blades of my past are sharp enough to jolt me from a vacant reverie, violent enough to battle the stubborn ennui of days as gray as pavements.

I know I am alive because there is a ghost in my shell.

Double-Shot Latte

Anthony was a straight-down-the-line kind of guy. He spoke with an earnest monotone, the sentences being driven out in stacatto streams, more rhythm than melody. I found myself answering in a similar tone, shooting back my own version. I felt like a telegram.
The whole deal was simple enough; make coffee, serve cake and sandwiches, wipe the tables. I could make coffee in my sleep. I stirred sugar into my cup, creme swirling with froth and forming a fluffy spiral.
The joint looked straight out of middle-America, large booths where people can really dig themselves into a corner and chat over food and drink. Black-and-white prints lined the walls, and the bustle of the kitchen swept out into the dining area with the aroma of melted cheese and tomato sauce. I liked it.
Tony took down my details, scrawling an abbreviated life story onto a yellow pad. He swore like a sailor, the coarse words flowing out, like coffee beans through a grinder; bitter and comfortably familiar.
Lodged in the middle of the Cross, twenty-four seven...I can do that. Only, this time, I would be serving rather than buying. Now all I had to do was actually get the job...

In the Dark

...All of a sudden I feel hopeless and alone. I want to be with my friends, but, they are spread to the corners of the earth, and good luck to them. Nope, I just have to hold them in my memory, hold ‘em close and remember the way it used to be. It’s a damn shame, the way we grow up and separate, carried by the wind. I guess that’s the way we prosper, seeds on the edge of the storm, waiting to be laid down; getting our roots into something solid. Meanwhile, I am desperate for the comfort of the way things were, the way it was - when the future was a mere fancy, and not the reality. I wish them well, God bless ‘em, wherever they may rest their heads, wherever they are getting their kicks. My kicks are swimming at the bottom of a bottle, swaying to and fro, as I clear out a bottle of beer and let it ride through me, past the shame and the regret.
The strange part is knowing that they are out there, doing their own thing, engaged in ongoing conversations, thoughts of me as vague as the dreams we once shared. I know this kind of talk is shallow; it’s rare to find a kindred spirit. If it’s difficult by day it’s nigh impossible when the moon is high, shrouding the connections in layers of thick fog. Even as I engage I am disengaged, my mouth moves while my soul is frozen. I don’t even lament the shallows of these collisions; it’s inevitable, isn’t it? To careen into another when journeying through the night; headlights off and blind drunk…

Bang Bang

Holding the gun in my hands felt good. The barrel was smooth and sturdy, and the weight of the wooden stock gave it a sense of quality. I caressed the trigger with my right index, the stock wedged tight up against my shoulder. I squeezed my left eye shut and squinted with my right, moving my torso slightly, bringing the target into the line of my sight. I inhaled, held my breath, started to pull the trigger...

It takes a long time to build a life. Sure, the act of creation might only take a minute, ten if you're lucky. A life, the thing that makes you you, that takes a long time to really get going. Layer upon layer of experience, years of emotion and ideas and filth and showers. Throw in some parental abuse here, maybe a superiority complex, this one has a skin condition. All the paths we take, mostly because we can, or don't know any better. All those roads lead somewhere, they press your flesh and guide the grain, leave you with the patterns that make this one oak, that one pine.
There is a sharp crack. The gun pushes back against me, then rests gently in my grip. It's a good shot. The target tips back, spins half-heartedly, falls to the ground. I lower the gun, pointing the barrel at the ground, start to walk towards the target...

Just like that. Faster than you can imagine, it's all over. All the years, all those words. The people, the love, the laughter, all of the wisdom, all of the mistakes. Snap. Just like that. It seems a cruel joke, that life is so wondrous, magical at times, yet, click your fingers and it can all disappear. No matter what you have, what you dream, at some point it will finish. In the blink of an eye.

It was a direct shot, in one end and out the other. I pick up the milk bottle, show it to John.

"Good shot", he grins.

We've been doing this for years, pulling out air rifles and shooting junk. I even have some of the Coke cans all shot up from years ago, ragged cans faded by sunlight. I won't keep the milk bottle. Now a man, even as a boy it was clear to me how dangerously easy it is to pull a trigger, hit something, throw it away.

There's no point fighting it; maybe tomorrow I will be the target.

Cocoa

Headed up the road to the supermarket. It's close to midnight. John had a hit of the munchies, and I felt like a walk, so; up I go. There are a couple of pubs open, raucous laughter and shouting fill the night, mixed in with pop rock, like hot gas from a heater. The supermarket is just ahead, a glowing beacon on Darling St., blinding neon coaxing shamelessly, sirens luring ship to shore.

Entering the arena is the easy part. The fight is what kills you. Workers fuss hastily; closing time bringing thoughts of home to mind. A few fellow stragglers trawl the aisles, baskets piled high with toilet paper and band aids, all the crap you need just before bed. I reel from the assault of brands, logos piercing my mind and triggering jingles that mix into each other until they form a single word: Buy.

I am an obedient subject. First stop; Coca-Cola. Check. Next; what else? Chocolate. Copious amounts of hydroponic marijuana inevitably lead to copious amounts of cocoa. It's a proven fact. Kit-Kats and roast almonds, all the flavours under the sun. It's a wonder that people can function in this day and age. We are bombarded by choice, a relentless stream of 'what's next?'. How can a man get by when he's being battered around the head with a million fucking flavours of peanut butter? I put it on toast for crying-out-loud!

Defeated, I head back home. This what the hunter has been reduced to; Homo-sapiens, bag carrier of the future.

Grimy Little Fingers

Having my glasses fixed was like seeing the world for the first time. Catching the bus home, I drank in details as we sped over the highway, out towards the tributaries purging workers from their daily ordeal. I was perched up on a seat towards the back, the seats were raised and provided a good view. The engine hummed as we gained altitude, and I looked down to see Darling Harbour laid out like a banquet below. Sydney is beautiful, a sparkling gem of a city, yet, as we climbed onto the Anzac Bridge, just over the fish markets, I had to suppress a gasp, and not from the stench that wafted through the carriage. My awe was reserved for the afternoon sky, the radiant firmament putting our manmade trinkets to shame with its glory.

What was down here? I looked at the passengers around me. All that is here is what we have made for ourselves. All that we have made, all that we make ourselves. Down here; there is war and attrition, fat men wearing suits and women and buildings. I catch a man's eye in the reflection of a window, and I think; what do I know about you? What do I know, except - we are all in this big mess together. Down here; beards and cars and toxic fumes. Yelling and sport and babies and toothpaste. I looked up again.

Clouds pierced the sky, ran across it, blurred and dappled across the great blue of it all. The sun was wedged in one corner, shining down as it always has, rays catching corners, tufts of fluffy white. There was a pleasant yellow smeared over the horizon, an amiable shade heightening the contrast between above and below. It struck me as an obscene diptych; the two halves torn clean through the middle, polarised opposites - one child the apple of mother's eye while the other sank into squalor.

Today I read that human beings have tarnished nearly fifty-percent of the world's oceans. Just imagine that! We can't even breathe underwater. I looked up at the sky, at first thinking of how pure it seemed, how removed from the mess seething underneath it. The way the shades of blue drifted carefully from one to the other, the way the clouds whispered to each other in hushed tones. Then - I remembered. No, we cannot fly. Nonetheless, we have managed to leave our mark on the heavens. As if to punctuate my disgust, a jet flies into my line of sight, thick tendrils spewing from it's engines, a sick simulacra of the clouds it smashed through on it's way to anywhere; nowhere.

We have touched the sky, our window to the infinite, our portal to the future. We have held it in our grimy little fingers and left our mark, smudges upon the dreams of our ancestors. Looking up at the sky, I am glad I have my glasses back. Maybe, one day, I will tell my children of what used to be.

Stomping Ground

The boys mark their territory with chests protruding and cocked heads. Sneers and forced laughter are plumage, motions made towards crotches splayed like peacock feathers. The girls preen as they squawk their approval, battering eyelids and pouting lips. Eyes flicker like TV sets in a storm, tuning antenna for the right reception. There's one bird that garners the most attention, the boys punch each other at regular intervals, coinciding with her nonchalant glances in their direction.
One of the boys is building the courage to make an approach; his friends egg him on, hoping to live vicarously through his success, or revel in his failure. He pauses, looks back for a reassuring nod from his right-hand man.....and is promptly pipped at the line by an effeminate young prick with a decidely girly laugh. Our boy attempts to disguise his thwarted hunt by shifting his attention to one of the girl's less-comely friends, his group scoffing disapprovingly.
The girl knows that she has scored points, making the boys look like fools while she basks in their dim light. She flirts unashamedly with the ponce, pushing her boobs to the fore, heaving cleavage bursting out of a low-cut top. The effete focus of her show, who looks like a 'Lawrence' or a 'Basil', does not seem too enamoured of her undulations, and appears to be performing a matinee of his own for the boys.
Just when it appears that the tension will reach a cresendo, all competitors jerk their heads towards the foyer's entrance. A nubile blonde enters, locks to her pert bottom, silken and shining from the day outside. She knows how to walk, like a pony, a whole lotta wiggle. Suddenly, Big-Tits and Lawrence are forgotten, off the radar. The new girl sashays past the boys, her scent rousing the momentarily stunned pugilists, a surge of testosterone reminding the brutes - the first round is over; the bell has just rung for the second round...

Grey

It was a maudlin kind of afternoon. I didn't rise 'till midday, groggy and still heavy from the beer. I rubbed a trickle of drool from the side of one cheek, dug the sleep from my eyes. Pulling back the blind, I grunted; the sky was steely grey, a thick, foggy blanket, dead and still. There was no yelling today, the street was empty. There are days that sort of float about, days that just...are. This was one of those days, just another idyll Sunday. I don't try to fight the inertia, I find a good book and get back into bed.

Muffled

I can hear them yelling at each other. It began as a muffled cry, it was soft at first. Every second it gets worse, the screams become shrieks, from anguished, to violent, to hysterical. On it goes, back and forth. They are accusing each other; their voices are pointing fingers and blame. They do this all the time. Sometime I don’t think people are even angry at each other. We are really yelling at ourselves, yelling at this whole god forsaken mess. Some people are perpetually on the edge, just itching to raise a voice, swing arms and get attention. Some people seem as though they just couldn’t bear to live without a fight. Bad feelings are better than no feeling at all, I guess.

Inside

I have a sinister streak. It is something that I have known for a long time, something I have known since I woke up within myself. There is a time in your life when you wake up, when you begin to poke around, explore the mind. You might discover a fetish, a prejudice, a fear. Me? I have found this terrible duplicity (I have found a lot more, actually...). I have lived with it, watched it develop. The way it may twist a truth, redefine a fact, shake my tongue. Many times, like the audience in a movie theatre, I have seen it do shocking, amazing things, things that have left me gasping. Yet, all the while, as I gasp, I have been thrilled, I have been delighted to expose myself to the horror, sitting through yet another murderous thriller.

This is where I should give an example of my sinistral acts. I think not.

The consequences of the streak live within me. They alter my perception of those around me; if I am like this, what are they like? I am not sure if it is right to judge others based upon the knowledge of myself, then again, what else do I know? The ramification of my deception is to live forever in doubt of the authenticity of my experience. I know how easy it is to distort reality, to live within the multiple levels of a web of deceit. Do others seek to entangle me as I do them? With no answers, all I can do is prepare my traps and wait for dinner. Unfortunately, I am not as nimble as a spider; sometimes as I weave the thread I find I have caught myself.

Sometimes I fear the filter of my perception is clouding the clarity of what is really 'out there'. I imagine the fear of one that becomes trapped by their own mind, the inescapable enclosure of the thoughts we ride upon. I have seen men in the streets scream at bricks in a wall as though they were an arch-nemesis, I have seen a person chat to thin air as though a close friend. Thin air, from my point of view...

Break

It comes around again. We fall in and out, baptised once, twice, three times; waving - not drowning. In the midst of the splendour we lose our minds, we desire to lose ourselves, smuggled within a lover's breast. Their scent infuriates us. Intoxicated, we long to be maddened, swept up and away by the turmoil, crushed by an exquisite insanity.
How many times? How many times can we throw ourselves back into the fire? I have been burnt, charred, gutted. Shame on me, as soon as that glow implies a blaze, back I go, a Phoenix in reverse, enlivened by diving back to the embers, longing to be reincarnated and destroyed .

One Word

It's amazing really. The whole country was transfixed, it was front page news and the word on everybody's lips. It was an issue that could divide families, an issue that had divided families in fact. There were tears and ceremonies, promises of reinvigorated efforts, new hope, peace and love. One word! A symbol, a letter in the dust, a sandcastle, wiped clean by the tide. Tomorrow?
Back to business. Back to the norm. Back to the way it was, prejudice and sneers, inaction and obviation. One word? Can it achieve anything? The amount of times I have apologised, meaning it less than half the time - if that. What could it do, what can it change? If the world could be healed with words then I would scream all day long, till my lungs bled and my tongue cracked. If words could heal pain, I would whisper to my wounds, serenade my scarred heart, plead with those I had betrayed, left bruised and broken. If one word could do these things...

Maybe it can. Words can burn and explode, smash and destroy and build anew. Words live within me, fertilise my spirit, rend the heavenly mantle and scatter with stars, worlds that inspire with energy and meaning. When I say love, it can fill me with thoughts, till I overflow with memories, it imbues with ineffable joy till I brim with desire. When you say hate, I recoil, my blood boils and my eyes burn, my chest beats with murder and I feel my heart pump in my clenched fist.

One word...

Poison Ivy (4)

I've reached the top. Over three hours of drinks, mindless banter, soul-searching. This is it. After all of the fuss, the charming smiles, the bouncers and their threatening biceps. This is where I am...

I'm at a loss for words. The rooms are large and quiet, hush hush and laid back - like a library, only there's a bar. I don't know what I expected really. Circus freaks? Burlesque shows with buxom women cavorting in oversize champagne glasses? The Wizard of Oz? Justin Hemmes?
None of that is here. Just a bunch of guys and girls in nice clothes, drinking and chatting. Downstairs it was all go, go, go. There was wheeling and dealing, show-offs and what appeared to be organized crime members. Men with neck tatoos, luxury suits, and girls on both arms. Up here?
Everyone seems to be minding there own business.

I must've looked pretty dejected. I end up talking to a group of Swedes, lead by a strapping blonde boy named Oscar. We talk about a lot of things, he seems down to earth and genuine. He is obviously wealthy, but there is no gloating, no smirk, no air of entitlement. We have shots of Tequila and joke with his friends. After a while a bar tender calls last drinks. We share another shot and begin the spiraling journey back to earth. On the way down, with the house lights up, nobody looks as glamourous as they did a couple of hours ago. Just men and women, boys and girls. You can't tell who's worth a million dollars and who's worth ten. We are all just heading home, to rest our heads after a night out.

That's it.

Poison Ivy (3)

The night begins to blur. Everybody is young and rich and beautiful, at the very least a combination of the three. It can be rather intimidating, especially when one has a very tenuous grasp on but one of those qualities. My businessman friend is chatting up a rude-looking brunette, and I'm struggling to understand what this Italian bird is saying. I attempt to pronounce her name correctly three times. Not happening. I decide to mingle, swimming through the crowd, a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I don't even know where I got the cigarette; I don't smoke. I toss it into one of the luscious pot plants lining the balcony, leaning over and drinking in the panorama laid out before me. So, I think, this is what the rich do. Bloody hell. There are about five levels of pomposity, bells and whistles. It is absolutely breathtaking, hideously gorgeous, gaudy and fashionable. I guess, really, it is one or the other, it's just that the two sides of my brain are fighting for adjectives.

Coming from a working class family, there is an inherent hatred for those that have more money, more style, beauty, etc. The only thing is, it's all so bloody desirable. The women are different here, as though the wealthy breed them especially for their own amusement. The guys aren't so physically special, but the stench of cash is thick at this altitude. And, there are so many of them! Layer upon layer, like sponge cake, it looks delicious, but you just know there is very little substance on your plate. I feel dizzy. It could be alcohol, or bullshit, or just plain old resentment. I collapse on a plush lounge and am immediately engaged in conversation by a charming Irish bloke. It doesn't take long before we begin dissecting the merits of the rich. It turns out to be a rather gory vivisection.

Getting pissed in a place like the Ivy becomes a dream. It's all new, strange. Three hours ago I was drinking beer on the street, and now I'm being ushered past the door bitches and bouncers with nary a word. The funny thing is, it actually gets easier the higher up you get. If you are mingling at this level, you must be someone. I'm reminded of American Psycho, of the way Patrick Bateman would confess to murders openly, only to be asked if he'd like another drink.
This is a whole other world, a universe unto itself. I begin to understand the precious glass bowls that these people live in, so coddled and spoiled that there just isn't time to care about much else outside one's exquisite sphere.

Some of the people here are pretty normal. They don't even seem to particularly enjoy themselves, not even with the money or the glamour. I talk to a girl who seems to despise her boyfriend. I ask her why they stay together, and she just shrugs. She has another sip of brandy. She shrugs again. I find myself longing for the familiar, for the streets of Sydney, where...I don't know. It's just people. Everyone here seems to be anchored down by all of the wealth. Like the credit cards and ease of life has sucked the enjoyment out of everything. There's no challenge. You want that? Visa or Amex? I wonder what Mark and Helena are doing. My phone has died. I decide to leave. Poised to begin my descent, I turn back. I've made it this far, there's only one level to go...

One more door bitch.

Poison Ivy (2)

Cal worked for Macquarie Bank. He came with a palpable sense of self-interest, and a cold smirk plastered across his chubby face. I don't think he was buying my story. Actually, I was convinced. I thought my accent was pretty good. It didn't really matter - I was gonna jet as soon as I spotted a better deal. His hanger-on was a guy who's name I didn't catch, but I figured he was all right. He had a genuine aura, offered to buy me a bourbon & Coke, and I nodded my appreciation while continuing to lay my absolute load of crap on Cal. He was a bore, too busy diluting appreciation for himself with an obvious self loathing; he wasn't rich or good-looking enough to smirk down from the upper level.

His friend returned, and I finished my drink, taking Cal's number and promising to call him about one thing or another. It was a conversation rich with ennui, both parties going through the motions and not really caring how it ended. I said goodbye. Gosh, what a pile of crap. I decided to go with a different story for the next group, I don't know if 'New York journalist researching Sydney's night life' was really gonna cut it. Besides, I figured, you needed a bit of cash to pull that one off. I checked my wallet. I wasn't concerned. I was determined to reach the top. From the ground floor I could see the flash of sharks teeth and jewelry, models and playboys; all that glitters. It looked like fun.

The next group was much more pleasant. They had a couple of girls with them, and seemed eager to find out more about a man who's family had just won the lottery. No money? I felt 'uncomfortable' with my new-found wealth, I refused to take money from my parents but had come here on their insistence: Go and learn about the world we'll be living in.

One of the guys in the group was a real buzz, he was on the same wavelength, and kept looking up at the upper levels longingly. I suggested we have a go, so we made our way to the gatekeeper.

Same look as before. Head to toe, eyes, watches. A glance at the list. It's almost like they are waiting for you to crack before they make a decision; they wait for you to break down, sweaty and tearful, begging to be lead out of the establishment, back to where you belong. Fuck that. I smiled, a real lawyers smile. My new friend looked the part, he was a business owner of some kind. The door bitch looked at the bouncer. Moments pass. He looks at us. He doesn't appear too intelligent. Just dangerous. She looks back at me, almost as though it's a hassle to move her lips.

"Go on."

Poison Ivy (1)

A familiar scene. Bottles of beer scattered around us, a fresh one in hand. A Sydney night; downtown. The streets are buzzing, girls in short skirts sway their behinds while boys in tight shirts whistle and growl and fight. It's a few minutes to midnight. We just caught the cut-off for buying more alcohol to drink, desperation turned to relief. Amid frequent trips to an alcove cut into a skyscraper, jeans open and pissing on a wall, we talk shit and watch the passers-by. Mark's girlfriend is with us, doing a very good impression of a girl that doesn't mind being all dressed up while drinking in the gutter. She looks bored. A group catch our attention, eye-contact is made.
Uncertain what they're interested in, we play it cool as they approach. After the boy in the group opens his sales pitch, and I flirt with one of his girls, it becomes clear what the deal is. We end up selling a bottle of beer for eight bucks. Shit, I think; we paid thirteen fifty for the whole six-pack. I talk myself out of writing up a business plan and get back to the conversation.

Five minutes into it we are interrupted again, this time by a homeless man who had been dozing on the steps of the next building. He has a Russian accent and is well-spoken. Asking us politely to move on, we exchange glances and agree the time is right. He thanks us, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with this world, where a man like that, a perfectly good man, can't get a place to live. Not just shelter, a real goddamn place to live. What would I know? Maybe he deserves it.

We make our way up the street, towards the Ivy. It's the new hotspot, the brain-child of one of Sydney's stinking rich playboys, getting richer on the silver-spoon permanently attached to his jaw. Hey, I'd do the same thing. The complex is enormous, built the way churches used to be, ceilings so high they force your eyes to the heavens, reverence and awe just an architect playing tricks. Trendy and beautiful people mill about out the front of the joint, talking on mobiles or pretending not to be focused on who's looking at them. The line is stupidly long. We stand and wait, edging along. When we finally arrive at the doorbitch's podium, we are looked over and rejected. Some bullshit about blah, blah. Not good enough. Heading back the way we came, I notice two girls and two guys exiting the building. One of the girls looks like she jumped off the cover of Vanity Fair. I approach, my turn to make a sales pitch. She says she'll take me in. I follow her halfway before I realise that Mark and Helena are still back on the street. I don't stop.

Versace

I am sitting on the stoop of the Gianni Versace store on Pitt St. It’s around 11:30 in the morning, and the city is really bustling, the traffic has warmed up and is gassing along the streets, tradies driving around with one-tonne trailers loaded with junk; bags of cement and lengths of wood. Workers mill about out the front of office buildings, smoking cigarettes and passing the time, idyll banter and glancing to and fro. Workman lean against poles, leering at the skirts as they saunter past, butts serenading the greasy men, all that’s left for the boys to do is whistle back. An elderly couple peer into a department store window advertising 5 years interest free – the marriage itself looks as though it is just about to hit 50 years interest free. A woman approaches people sitting on benches at the bus stop. I don’t hear a word, but the expression on her face says enough – wrong stop. Heels click against pavement as she totters towards the right one. A young boy and girl embrace each other tightly, whispering sweet nothings as the boy prepares to embark on his journey. The bus isn’t his, and as I board the 309 and it bustles from the sidewalk, I can see them clasping each other tightly, for another few minutes at least.
Another chance to say goodbye.

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Queue

Here we are. The rain is drizzling lightly, as if the clouds are so tired of the deluge of the past few days they have lost their enthusiasm. Everyone is silent, looking at their feet or peering with hopeless anticipation up the road in the hopes their pitiful expression will bring a bus sooner.
It will not. I have only been to one funeral in my entire life, and I can state, with utmost certainty and sincerity, this is more solemn.
In moments like these, sometimes, I become so bored that I will start mucking about; turning around and looking someone in their eye, not saying a word, hoping that someone will rise to the challenge of an impromptu staring contest. These competitions generally last about five seconds, my innocent opponent twitching uncomfortably and returning their eyes to the pavement. Loser.

Inside, I gloat, undefeated in seventeen years...

Anchors

I watch them with the sound off. Talking heads, perfectly coiffured, plastered with foundation. They don't look real at all. They're from another planet, a land where the inhabitants are only ever seen from the waist up, a land where fate is an autocue, a planet of disasters and murders and scandal.

I flick the remote. There are more of them. They must build them, assemble them from made to order parts, molded and precise. Is it Botox? Mood suppressors? It must be something. Maybe they are lobotomized before being put to work?
Starving children. Oil spills. A man throws his children off a bridge to spite his wife. A dictator annihilates his opposition. Nothing. They are unmoved, unmoving. Just the lips, and eyes flickering almost imperceptibly.

Another channel. Now they sit around a table, clucking at each other like best friends. Their smiles are ersatz, as joyous as the Coca-Cola sign that presides over Kings Cross. It becomes meaningless. Does it even sell soft-drink anymore? It exists because there's nothing else to replace it; it's there because nothing else can fill the vacuum.

Do you think that they pray for rain before bedtime? There's no news in utopia. They are attached to tragedy, to utter suffering, to misery. They function because all is not right, and that's the way it must be for their survival. They are pallbearers, holding their position in a tempest. Without anchors, they will perish.

Vodka?

Ryan frowned at me earnestly. I struggled to look him in the eye. We both knew what was going down. The same thing that went down every single time we did this. Nine times out of ten at least. The funny thing was that we both desired and feared the inevitable. A bottle of Vodka. That was going to rule the night, there were no two ways about it. In theory we were supposed to catch a movie. That was never actually going to happen. I was late - we missed the film. I couldn't help but wonder if I had subconsciously arrived late on purpose...

Later, sitting on the steps next to the War Memorial, we talked of our plans for the future as we drank cups of tepid vodka and flat ginger ale. Conversation flowed through the humid night, each sip adding a layer of joyous mist to the proceedings. Bats swept out of the giant figs and flew millimetres from the surface of the park's artificial lake, scooping water into their mouths and returning to the sky.

There's something comforting about maintaining a friendship throughout a lifetime. Having known Ryan for over half of my life, I can see how the patterns that had formed during our youth were manifesting themselves as we matured, like the features of a boy's face hardening into the shape of a man's. We share dreams that have been growing for over a decade, true dreams of the kind that can't be shared with strangers, for fear of appearing crazy or foolish. So there we were, two fools sharing our dreams and a bottle of Vodka.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Self-Fenestration

Have they started jumping yet?

It can’t be too much longer. The signs are in meltdown, hoardings flashing in noxious neon, turning on their owners. In some ways I even feel a little sorry for the bastards - what a feeling of sheer terror they must be experiencing! Realising that the huge beast they have been feeding is opening its fangs to bite them. What lovely teeth it has! Razor sharp, strong enough to slice through societies, raze communities, chew up lives and spit them out. What a mouth! Such a tongue! Butter would not melt, it is so nimble and slick, jargon flows like saliva as soon as the beast catches a whiff of a hot opportunity, the delicious smell of a deal on the boil. They are all on the run now, frantically chattering and tapping away, mixing this with that, alchemists performing balancing acts the likes of which you could not imagine.

This has all happened before, of course; it’s a cycle, a vicious circle, a big, fat nought. Our new gods rise like Icarus on gilded wings, ever higher, leaving us mere mortals in awe of their acrobatics. They do loop-the-loops and spinning barrel rolls, twisting and turning so far above our heads that, if you were to stand on a billion barrels of oil, you still could not tickle the soles of their feet. We wish them higher with every breath, for the height of their success determines our own; our fate is bonded to theirs. They are so far away now that we do not see the heat of the sun beginning to melt the wax of their golden wings, the paths of flight faltering, skin searing under the very sky they had intended to touch.

Down they will go, plummeting from a hundred storeys, wind punching the anguished faces with all the gusto of a jilted investor. All the way down, turning end-over-end, Armani suits buffeted by the turmoil outside. They plunge like stock-prices, compelled by gravity to terminal velocity, to rest at that unholy number; zero. Nothing. Nada. As strange as it seems, their screams will not be heard. The panic has set in, around the globe, and their colleagues are too busy yelling into cell phones and issuing cryptic hand-signals to whomever will pay attention. Sirens are wailing and front pages baying for blood, fingers pass blame on like sub-prime loans, hot potato, hot potato. What a scene!

When the fog has cleared, when the damage has been assessed, when the world is ready to jump back on the rollercoaster; we will do it all over again. We will blood new gods, build them new wings, and wish them luck. They will take our wishes, take our hopes and dreams under their arms, and, sprinting towards take-off, they will leap from the crumpled bodies of the gods who perished before them.

Fade

The first month has passed. It's a cliche to say that time flows faster the older you get. Just like a tired and politically incorrect stereotype, sadly, sometimes it's true. It's racing now, galloping along, and all I can do is hang on for dear life, arms wrapped around the furious beast as it snorts and hustles and speeds down the track. Looking back over where I've been, it all seems so close, like I can just graze my fingers over the texture of my past, hold it in my palms and let the sand trickle through my fingers. But I can't. As soon as I look over my shoulder at my history I lose sight of where I'm going, travelling so fast that I find myself wrenching the steering wheel and anxiously correcting my course. The strangest feeling is driving down this highway with headlights dim as candles, everything beyond the faint glow buried in the pitch black of midnight. There's no point trying to navigate the journey using the stars anymore, this one's shooting and that's a plane, a satellite, a mirage. As I become ever more entrenched in the stream, I find that the truest compass is instinct, as illogical as that may seem. Instinct and impulse, these are my GPS, my position in time-space. These are my beacon, the light inside that shines brightly while I continue to fade...