Dead of Night

The sultry arrangement of night. Quiet expanse of black and moonlight; highlights on furtive movement and surface scurrying. On high, parting shadows on secret excitements. Here creamy white, there jagged black, blinking shortly for perfumed cigarette breaks, leaving wisps of smoke in the atmosphere, chasing the horizon.

Remembering Warsaw

Pusia met me at the station, frantic because she had been searching the underground passageways beneath the station instead of coming upstairs to the internet cafe where I was peacefully talking to the family on skype. I got on a bus. Pusia met me in the centre of town, after more stress in underground labyrinths with her pink bicycle clanking up and down crowded stairways.

Warsaw has a feel of revival about it. The signs of war and devastation remain - old brick buildings with broken windows and sagging frames sit alongside sparkling new office towers and malls, while the great shadow of Stalin's monolithic "Palace of Culture" falls like a gravestone over the central city. The signs are evident too in the scores of "broken" people in the streets; beggars, sick and weary ones who wander the new Warsaw as if it were still a war zone.

But most people exude excitement and confidence in what has become and what will become of their wounded city.

Think about it. Even the teenagers in this year 2007 can remember a time when most of the buildings in Warsaw were falling down or displaying the prominent scars of war. Most can remember the opening of the first MacDonalds, when it was an experience reserved for those with money amongst a still poverty-ridden community. Poland has endured the occupation and oppression of two despotic regimes over the last 70 years. No wonder the people are glad it's over.

I really can't place the events in Warsaw with chronological certainty. Time truly lost its meaning as drunken nights turned into bleary-eyed mornings and hung-over afternoons. I don't want to focus on the boozing, but it is an unavoidable constant in Polish night (and morning) entertainment.

My second night in Warsaw progressed from a karaoke-filled apartment party at Iza's place, to a park at 5am with a few bottles of tequila to toast the imminent rising of the sun. Pusia's friend David was there, a well-built, shaved-headed, hoodied guy who I'll admit would've prompted me to cross the street if I'd seen him coming towards me at night! At one point, he came looming over me and bellowing "Jew!" A fearsome approach, to be sure. Brandishing a bottle of tequila, he slurred. "You! Are either an Arab, or a Jew". I paused. "I am a Jew" I replied, looking straight up into his eyes. He immediately threw up his arms, spilling tequila, and yelled "He passed the test!". We toasted to Jews in Poland and there followed an impromptu bout of "Shalom Aleichem" raucous singing. I failed David's next test when I replied no to the question "Do you hate Palestinians?", and again to the question "Are you a Zionist?". But he seemed to be okay with me after that...

I was thinking about this girl Hana, who I had met that night, as Pusia, Tessa and I sat huddled together against the cold of the dawn at the bus-stop, waiting to go home. We were eating a delicious Polish sausage and I felt amazing.

I ended up kissing Hana on the couch at Paulina's apartment. It was the same night that i took my best photo ever, of Pusia looking innocent and childlike directly at the camera, and Hana posed ghostline, hat cocked and hair falling over her face in a picture of female poise and seduction in the background.

We went back to her house in the suburbs as the sun was rising with a cold blue light. Her house was an enormous, rambling old place of unexpected narrow staircases and small, strange-ceilinged rooms. The window of her room had a jagged hole in it, through which Hana smoked a cigarette the next morning clad only in a long, white wool cardigan. I wanted to take a photo because of the way her chocolate skin appeared behind the fabric, but I didn't. I got up and joined her at the window sill to smoke.

***

Tomec was leaving for Israel to meet his girlfriend Claudia the same day that Tessa and I were finally leaving Warsaw. We went out that last night, and as the alcohol kicked in, the English began to disappear from the group until I found myself at 5am lying wedged between Hana, Tomec, Hanya and another guy in a car, drinking cheap champagne and listening to the radio and the others' drunken conversation in Polish.

I was tired. Excessive indulgence in the Polish drinking culture and a lack of sleep had depleted my brain power and weighed down on my muscles like a lead suit. I trudged along Nowy Swiat in the rain, joined only by early-rising business people going to work. I felt like I knew the city well, and at the same time that it was time to leave. My last image of Warsaw was of Pusia coming to the balcony in her underwear to drop me the keys to the apartment. The scene was disapprovingly observed by an old woman walking her dog, who no doubt believed she was witnessing a testament to the moral decrepitude of modern Polish youth.

Pudong

Old wood is like wine.  In the grain, you can read the story of a hundred men - men who drive dirty steel cars and have heavy brown hands, and men who spend their lives in factories and dust to produce beautiful things for others.  The smell of old wood brings back memories you never had.

When time is on your side, you start to take notice of the things around you.  I've been noticing the floor.  It is wood, dark, rough-cut and scratched like a tired old face.

I try to imagine how far away I am from the closest person who can understand what I say.  It doesn't scare me, thinking this way.  But it makes me sad, all these millions of people.  I will never make friends with any of them, and we will never know each other.  Alone in a city of millions.  How different is it from walking alone through a forest?  Apart from the smoke and cigarette butts...

Outside the sun shines like a gold coin glinting in the light of a giant white halogen lamp.  The streets are an unreal grey, lit up like a film set.  This place is so new, it seems.  New metal and concrete stretched tightly over everything, taut and groaning.  Waiting at the edge of a road full of cars, I start to notice things.  Like the way my feet, white even through the dust and grime, look like aliens amongst the shiny leather and American sneakers.  My feet don't fit in.  Some people - like me - find it easier to be alone if they're hidden in a crowd.

I walk for miles, taking photos of cracks in the pavement when I find them, a postman in a blue delivery van, a child peering out of a third floor window, a small cat with three legs.  I turn it on myself once, watching my reflection in the lens blip out of existence and back again.

On a hill in the middle of everything but hidden by trees and broken stone walls, there is suddenly no-one, just me and three kids, maybe 18 or 19 years old.  They are smoking pot.  I wander over, my heart jittery, and ask them in my language for a puff.  It's silly, I know.  They can't understand a thing, and when one replies, handing me the joint cradled against the breeze, it's like singing, sounds without meaning.  I take it carefully.  They are rich kids, I can tell that.  Their clothes display a finely tuned disorder.  I sit down and inhale deeply, a few times, and then hand it back.  'Pateicos', I say, to no-one in particular.

By the time I get back I am breathing differently.  I wave to the girl in front of my building, who is standing there, straight backed in uniform, belt tight around her waist high up, shoes gleaming.  She sees me and smiles.  In my room, I take a mobile phone from my suitcase, hit '1', and lie back on my bed with only underpants on.  The fan cools the sweat covering my body.  I launch into conversation the moment the phone is picked up on the other end, and can't stop.

Later on, sitting outside on the steps with wet hair and a can of Coke, eating noodles and reading about Chinese martial arts and architecture, I feel that I am truly happy.  It is humid and the air is thick, like warmed-up pillows, and fragrant too.

Reflected

Humble Deaths

I've taken these cells and muscles

tensing and releasing in great shifting strides

over windblown scapes and pitted roads.

Me,

a creature of bone and shadows

crushing glass and small things as I go.

Grasping tight

smiling stupidly at the bite of cold air on my skin

and the tears whipping from my eyelashes.

I feel like I'm running out of time.

No matter how fast the wheels are spinning.

I know how things slowly disassemble on the pavement.

--especially when it rains,

and the roadside fills with all the exhibits of our fortunes.

I know the stubborn divide and multiply,

and the quiet retreat.

And while we carry on,

a million humble deaths are happening in private,

left behind and washed away.

My friend

Come now, come.
The words will find themselves outside.

Come now,
Step out and remember.

It wasn't long ago you walked like this
bare feet on the path.
You've been here before.
Look around,
can you feel
the same?

Go on, throw a punch.
It might feel good
to clench your feet and teeth
and then
release.

Come on now,
step forward and forget.

I've held a thousand joints
and you were there to see it.
I've caught a thousand embraces
and I saw you watching.
I've seen the sky in a million permutations
of cloud, and light and water,
and you were lying there beside me,
looking up,
weren't you.
I've climbed a thousand steps,
wood, stone and sand.
Sometimes there are birds,
and sometimes it rains.

Think about it.
You've studied a million faces,
and there's a million more
in photographs you saved.

Lift yourself up and step out and forget.
It's like, we never even met.
I promise.

Climb

I've climbed so high.

*

Crawling up over great
blocks
of straw.
The city falling away below.

I was wearing sunglasses
so dark
they killed the glare
but blackened the rooftops too.
All I could see
was the sun in the sky.

So beautiful.

The straw feels solid
packed like bales of hay
clenched so tight I won't fall.
I jump a bit
just to see,
but then stop.

Nothing moves.

I look down and
for a moment I can't breathe.
Really
I'm scared of heights.
REALLY.

Things are slipping
out of my pockets -
spare change,
a nailclipper
and a packet of chewing gum.

I sit and watch my stuff
bounce away.
It takes a long time,
bits of straw knocked free
floating
slowly downward.
Some float up too.

The sunlight smiles all over everything
glinting off treetops in the distance.

*

I've come so high,
and I can feel the warmth on my shoulders.
It feels good, so
I keep climbing.

No Booze for Street Smokers

Tonight I feel good. I'm sitting at the bar, smoking a cigarette and trying not to look sleazy as I glance at the girl behind the bar. It's easy to look sleazy. I'm drinking whisky.

I was up early to see a polluted sort of mist slowly rise up off the buildings. I walked a random route through alleyways paved with cracked concrete stones with flower shapes cut out of them. I noticed ants everywhere, so many types, some an extraordinarily beautiful shade of green. I needed to piss, and went in a dirty little black stream. A little boy was pissing on the other side of the stream. He was wearing thongs, and his piss was going all over them. He wasn't concentrating, because he was staring so hard at me.

When I walked past a woman selling fish I thought I'd buy one. She was old, but her skin was stretched neatly over her face, and you could tell she was peaceful inside. I knew what she was saying, but not from the wavering words coming out of her mouth. I could tell by the way she was grinning at me that she was teasing me for being all alone in this city, buying my own fish from her, far far away from home.

As I was walking away, the fish hanging from a loop of wire in my hand which was threaded through the place its gills used to be, I realised that I didn't have a stove or a kitchen or any way to make this fish into food, so when I got back I gave it to the guy who worked at my hotel - he didn't want it, but by then I didn't want it either so I just left it hanging on a nail in front of the builidng. I came back ten minutes later, after brushing my teeth, and it was gone.

Now I'm wondering whether it would be dirty to try to chat up this girl. She's beautiful. Naturally so. There's no-one watching anyway.

Outside, I guess there are still people sitting on pieces of newspaper smoking cheap cigarettes - much cheaper than the Malboros i'm smoking - and laughing at people going past. One of them is a guy I gave money to on my way in. I hope he got himself a nice new pack of cigarettes with it, becuase people on the streets can't drink alcohol here. Poor bastards.

I'm pretty uncomfortable thinking about those guys just about fifteen metres away on the street. I just order another whisky, and sit there sipping on it, smoking and trying to think of something to say to this girl.

Lazy

The heat of a thousand soups is warming this island. It's cool and quiet in my room, but I can feel the heat crashing in heavy waves on the walls. I lie back and put my hands under my head, watching the fan swing lazily, dragging a cobweb behind it.

I think about going outside. But I'm still very tired. And the thought of all those people sweating and rushing around in that sticky air makes me uneasy. I don't know a single one of them. Where do I start?

Nature Calls

I slept in my sleeping bag, on the floor in the middle of my room, and it took on new dimensions. I felt like I was seeing it for what it really was: a little box of wood, brick and plaster, every inch of which I have travelled countless times, unthinking.

I'm leaving now.

Ach, this sensless fear born of routine... I'll leave the Veronia on the sill for you.


Perhaps I'll write. I like the idea that my words will travel without me, in the holds of rusted old ships and passing through the tired hands of postal workers the world over before they get to you. Okay, nature calls, haha. Bye.

This Empty Room

Like it always does, the sun bursts through my dusty window. All that's left is a Veronia on the windowsill, beautiful and still. I'm tired of this empty room. Tomorrow, I'm leaving.

The Seed

We who are still gripped by the power of big ideas.

Take the cash you pour down your throats or filter through your lungs, and all the cash you exchange for ordinary sushi handrolls and unloved salads. Think of how much it all is. Turn it into a seed, and keep feeding it.

Keep feeding it. Stay strong.

I'll have a library out of this, wood paneled from wood i sanded and oiled myself, each novel inscribed on the date it was purchased in the Paperback Bookshop on Collins Street. I'll have a house in the fold of a mountain, with heavy scented grass pushing up against the back fence and gravel at the doorstep.

The three of us will drive in convoy, three sleek Ferraris hugging mountain roads like lizards. It'll be cold when we return, and we'll open wine and invite women and listen to music, while outside nothing's happening for miles.

It will be morning, again and again. But we know its more than just that.

Light in a Bar in Krakow

I am sitting on the cobblestones, my head between my knees, drunk. The cold beats down on me from the vast sky which twinkles with a smattering of cold, hard diamonds. The sky is shimmering from the cold.

I stop for a moment to focus. I want to keep this moment. I want to remember the heavy pounding of my heart in my ears, the creaking eaves of old terrace houses lining the street, and the stubborn hum of cars that reminds us other people are alive. No, no, what I really want to remember is this blur to my vision.

I lean back and watch the stars swirl giddily. I reach out and take the hand of a girl wrapped in a tight black fur coat, swinging her around behind me and back. My shoes reflect the light of a thousand lamps, scattered by a thousand pieces of broken glass. The walls are black, or else there aren't any walls, but there are no mirrors. Our feet click on the shiny wood floor, and the noise is loud, in a giant vacuum.

I say to her: I met you, in a bar in Krakow, you were drawing, I was writing, there were candles that made us all feel like children in a dream, and you were drawing me, and I was writing about you, and we looked at each other like we knew how lonely it could be.

And she says: I've never been to Krakow. It wasn't me.

I pull her closer and lean forward, and her perfume fills my head and triggers strong memories of morning. I suddenly feel lonely and we leave, stamping on cigarette butts and pushing drunk and sweaty people aside, dashing for the door, flying down steps that smell of spray-paint and steel, by train to my house.

It is hidden behind tall, yawning elm trees, populated by squirrels and invisible birds, and there is a light glowing in my windows, and she's delighted by the carved pipe on my mantelpiece, and I fall asleep, forgetting to undress.

The Camera

I have just realised that no-one is documenting my life. Just me.

The Difference Between Childhood and Afterwards

I woke up and looked at the flickering red numbers on my bedside clock that read 4:00. Good.

The radio was on, and a glass dog with a tiny black pebble for a nose balanced on it. An old woman was talking with all the serenity in the world. Her voice made me swallow hard as images of a long life in stained yellow flicked through my mind.

I was already noticing things. The plant on my desk. Its leaves against the window, bending up and down in an invisible breeze even though the window was closed (I imagine it was the breeze of my breath colliding with the cold air). I noticed the spaces behind things, and the shadows. I saw an arm in the shape of my blanket, and moved my feet around until it was gone. My feet were warm. The tip of my nose was ice cold, and felt like a droplet of freezing water was hanging from it.

I rolled over and put my face in the pillow. I pulled the blanket over my head, and savoured the gush of cold air. Looking out from under the doona, I grabbed a lighter. There was a candle next to my bed. I lit it and stared straight at the flame for a long time.

I had a notepad next to my bed. It was black, beautiful, leather. I thought about my grandfather. I thought about my grandmother. I thought about strawberries for breakfast, and watching cartoons on saturday morning, and soggy weet bix, and small t-shirts, and scraping ice off the windshield of the car in the fog. I remembered waking up in the middle of the night, afraid.

A Room on th 25th Floor

I had just taken off my shirt, and was undoing my shoelaces and was surprised to realise, suddenly, that I was upside-down, stuck to the ceiling in a sealed box wedged between hundreds of other boxes, floating through a directionless universe.

Snow in Novvy Urengoy

It's snowing in Novvy Urengoy. Under the cover of darkness a man is coming home, carrying a pot his colleague's wife threw away. There's vodka on his breath, but no-one will mind. He is thinking that he should have washed the sheets.

Imagine yourself there.

Now imagine you're in Algiers. It's hot, but raining. It never rains. I'm there too. I'm shaving, carefully. The door to the bathroom is open wide, and there's still steam escaping out into the bedroom. There's a girl in my bed, asleep. I can see her shoulderblade in the mirror, and I can hear the rain on the tiles outside. I won't leave.

In a while, you'll imagine you're somewhere else. They always do.

I think: somewhere, right now, someone is warming their hands on a fire, and someone else just threw off their doona and leapt from their mattress hopping around like the carpet was full of needles.

I think: I could fall in love with someone who is making love right now to someone else.

And she is thinking: Everything I wanted will come true if I just try hard enough.

I guess there would be about 15 million office blocks in the world. How many of them are absolutely empty right now? In Calafate, there are only seven office blocks. All of them are empty of people, except one, which is full of a woman crying in the stairwell. She is not dressed in a suit. She has a t-shirt on, and it says "la vida es llena con sorpresas". Outside the building, a car chokes cloudy fumes into the cold air. The door is open, and the driver is staring straight at the dashboard, which says 237,664km. He's thinking: I could have driven from here all the way around the world six times.

None of the billions of crabs in the ocean, or any hiding under rocks on the beach, are thinking these things. Nor are any of the babies in baby-containers or wadded in blankets or lying like upside down millipedes.

One baby is naked. He is cold. He can see out the window, and he can see stars. Millions of them. He doesn't know they're stars. I'd like to tell him that stars are holes in a blanket that covers the world, that we can see through to the other side. While he'd still believe me.

The Last Man of the 21st

Amidst the crowd the medals shone in the crisp Melbourne sun. The air was bright and thin. The sky seemed so far away. We felt small, but safe.

I saw the banner, handmade, supported by strong young men in suits standing like flagpoles. There I found the last man of the 21st battalion. He didn't look like a man who'd been sent to kill other men.

Back in Bandaneira, another old-timer told me he remembered the Australians. He laughed, remembering how the Japanese had run for cover when the planes flew over. He gripped my hands, his leathery fingers surprisingly strong, and thanked me. Makasih ya... Our eyes watered.

So standing on Flinders Street, I told the last man of the 21st about his Indonesian comrade, and about the manicured lawns of the cemetery in Ambon where his other comrades lay. When the band started up, his banner started moving and he went to join the parade.

I weaved my way through the crowds to the shrine, and then on home past footy fans in red white and black drinking beer on the lawns of the MCG.

Music

I need more music in my life.

Gazing at the sun

Gazing at the sun. We people love it. Kick back on the beach grasping a cold beer, toes in the warm sand, grilled fish on its way, golden rays on the water, Manu Chao on the air. We're compelled by the colours. We can't help staring straight at that fiery ball as it gets bigger and redder and slips off the edge of the earth. You can imagine our most ancient, primitive ancestors doing the same thing. It's like our bodies know that ball of flame disappearing below the horizon is the source of all life, and we watch it go hoping it will come back.

So why don't we do this when we're NOT on holiday? How many times have you sat and watched the sun set in your home town? Could our failure to watch the sunset be the source of all the melancholy of routine life?

In my town, the dying red streaks of sunlight hit a glass telephone box that contained a man. He was describing the immaculately paved street, the neatly cut grass on the sidewalk and the water trickling neatly down the gutters. He was a Chinese man. The plastic receiver connected to wires that ran deep underground and underwater, past the bay and beyond the setting sun. I ran past the telephone box, breathing hard and blinking sweat and sunlight.

The stab of sadness

The stab of sadness, felt right under the heart.

It's a lonely kind of sadness, just yours. It's the type you know can't be fixed. It's human.

Words

What I want to know is what motivates a person to spend their life finding and describing as many words as possible to make into a dictionary. I mean, we need people like this, right? But you wouldn't want to be friends with one... What does that mean for human society? How many dull but very useful (in a generational, developmental sense) people are discouraged from following their passion for improving the ball-point system of pens or perfecting the flush systems on toilets, just because it won't get them a girlfriend? How much unexplored potential are we losing???

Masai Warriors

A group of Masai warriors just ran the London marathon carrying massive leather shields, staffs and shoes made of old tires. I just ran 9 km in New Balance runners and Nike shorts and I'm stuffed.

Yesterday I was thinking about dumb people.

Given that these people exist, and seem to make up a good proportion of the world's population, how can we deal with them?

Here's my advice. You have to accept that they exist. Don't get disappointed every time you meet one in the street, see one on the news, or drive past one bashing another in the face in front of a pub you'd never go into. They are there, and they always will be.

Accept that you can't change all of these people. You probably can't even change more than one or two. People change incrementally, over many many years, and not much.

It is important for smart people and principled people to recognise how many dumb and unprincipled people there are running things: governments, companies, local sports clubs, families etc etc. It is important because smart and principled people need to start running things too, instead of just sitting around writing blogs, browsing new cafes and bars, and pondering things. Ok?

Middle-class guilt

Middle-class guilt. Doesn't last long.

America's relations with Iran. Probably the biggest fuckup in American foreign policy. It does defy belief that such a seemingly successful nation could produce such criminally incompetent or (if you take the less benevolent view) machiavellian leadership.

Chinese martial arts films and calligraphy. I just watched Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. The aesthetics are stunning (not as beautiful as Hero).

Giving expert testimony. Must make you feel really smart.

Patriotic Idiots

Flags. I heard an American (who has taken out Australian citizenship) on the radio today. He was tremendously disappointed that Australians don't fly the flag enough. He thought it showed that Australians aren't proud to be Australian.

Listen idiot. Most Australians are smart enough to know that displaying a piece of cloth with a pattern on it doesn't make you a good citizen. For example:




Most Australians realise that being a good Ozzie means being reasonable, unpretentious and giving a fair go for all. Or something like that.

Any twat can fly a flag.

Work

Suits. The most classy dress for a man, providing that 1. you don't have to wear one; 2. it's not 35 degrees.

Photoshop. Can show you worlds of imagination (Jodie's photo...).


Gypsy punk rock. I haven't heard it yet, but i'm excited.

Steamed flounder with ginger and lemongrass at Viet Rose on Brunswick St. Heaven, especially the bit of flesh located right about where the fish's cheek would be if it had cheeks...

Prodigy

Gabriella Cilmi. Sixteen years old and sings with the raw and gutsy voice of a woman who has seen her share of bleary-eyed mornings (ie. Amy Winehouse). Great stuff. Lets hope she doesn't get snared into singing boring pop (her Myspace).

I Am Legend. Even if you have no expectations, and come to it wanting only action and special effects, you'll be disappointed. It's boring. The action is repetitive. They skimped on the special effects and it shows.

Kevin Rudd. Cowardly backdown on carers payments. Very disappointing that he caved in. Finally, the halo falls off and reveals his weakness. Sad really.

Ties. Too expensive, but a nice one is nice enough that you forget how completely useless a clothing accessory it is, and how similar it is to a noose.