A Note From The Goodness In People Desk

In many ways the world today is a reiteration of those tentative decades from 1960 to 1990. Children and young people of that era had the cold war, ever threatening its heat, we have the age of terror. The age when people seem positively heinous, indiscriminate in their acts of power and brutality on both sides. This propagates and is amplified through the media and the tried and true campaign of fear is under way, to breed and build on itself, as is it's natural course.

But this post is not another piece to be added to the already overwhelming canon of literature of how they hate us and our freedom. Nor is it intended to add to the collection of 'media as a necessary evil' take down pieces. It is, quite simply, intended to contrast with those sentiments. It is a piece on the goodness in your fellow humans.

Last night directly in front of our place, a car hit a motorcycle knocking the un-helmeted passenger to the asphalt. It was a moment of sheer chaos. Immediately on emerging from the door I suspected, or feared, the man was dead. His leg was clearly broken, that much was certain. I told my brother to phone for an ambulance, but one was already phoned for. A woman (whom I later found out was a nurse, but I suspect not a very good one) audibly called for his removal from the road, which anyone who understands the spine will know is the worst thing you can do. He wasn't moved and slowly things became organised; an old man waved cars by as two or three people attended to him as people stopped to indulge the human compulsion toward catastrophe. Eventually paramedics arrived and I could hear the man scream. Periodically I looked on, partly to satisfy my own compulsion toward catastrophe, but also with the conscious objective of ensuring the man would walk again some day.

But the fact is this; between hearing the tyres squeal and emerging on the scene 20 seconds later, aid had arrived, an ambulance was on its way and traffic had been diverted. This is a supreme testament to the goodness of humans. Though it might be said that no-one would leave a man to die in the street, the urban mentality breeds a certain disregard for others.

Nevermind, there are less dramatic examples of this concept in practice. Earlier this year I fell down a flight of stairs. Not in any kind of significant way, just tripped on the first one and slid across the following seven. I was not much worse for the wear at the bottom, though certainly a little embarrassed. At the spot of my landing were three hands to help me to my feet and behind me a woman asking if I was OK. When it would have been perfectly acceptable for them to pass by with their headphones in, eyes on mobile screens, concerns a million miles away. Yet their hands reached out in a literal, and to me, profound sense.

It is becoming easier to discredit most of the people you run around with as shitty to the core. In the age of king-hits, terrorism and hacking a picture of human ugliness is painted. No-one is without shittiness, for all I know a hand reaching out to help me out of my fall might well have been that of a violent drunk or a terrorist sympathiser or a violating hacker, but those hands had a basic goodness. A care for their fellow human, that was devoid of outer perception. With the news the way it is, it is nice to see.

NP.

A Note From The Glory Glory to South Sydney Desk

Last week, for the first time in 43 years The South Sydney Rabbitohs made the Grand Final. That is to me, and many like me, roughly the equivalent to whatever the opposite of heartbreak is. Jubilation maybe, something so profound and meaningful in something so seemingly silly. But sport is that way, a logical fallacy, but to the fan; meaningful beyond belief. In the case of South Sydney that is all the more pronounced.

It is the old Freudian theory of symptom formation, specifically projection. Your club is you and you them, when they win you win. And be you a rabid sports fan, or a functioning member of society; everyone could use a win. A fleeting moment to say; we were the best, we achieved our goal, we reimbursed you for years of blind faith, we made it happen and, by proxy, so did you.

This is the stick falling after decades of ribs being jabbed and in that sense it is just as much a relief as a triumph. In my mind, and the minds of the Bunnies everywhere, this is something right; no matter what is wrong. No matter the horrors or hardships in our individual lives, this is a positive to all of us.

So the anxieties that bind to living, that make life supreme misery for most of those living it; can fade, even if for an eighty minute football match, while you draw focus and muster hope. Your team can provide that for you, the forest blatant for the trees.

We are a South Sydney family, on both sides. There are outliers as there always are, but for the most we abide by that strictest tradition of sports loyalty, the pass down. It is not a masculine exclusive tradition, but in our case we've a mother with not much care for the realm of competition and so we followed our father into Red and Green fandom and a love of the underdog.

For the last 43 years, the two have been one in the same and this year it has culminated in a real shot. I have been saying for the last four years that this one is 'ours' on the hope that it would be, this one is.

So this Sunday night I will tune in, in the heart of Aussie Rules dominated Melbourne, to watch the mighty Bunnies march on to Glory once again and will raise a well deserved toast to the team so many have written off, but so many more have poured unwavering faith in.

Glory Glory to South Sydney.

NP.  

Note From the Truth in Excerpt Desk

Sydney was founded by convicts and flat-out drunks, which is probably why I like it so much. The road map looks like it was drawn by the wayward hand of a wino and, even today, it's contours all want to hold you in. But this is the unseen beauty of a city that, by its essence, wants to fuck it's occupants out of an easy life. Life shouldn't be easy, least of all city life. Sydney, as any metropolis worth its salt should, picks a fight with you, challenges you, demands you conquer it.

I was trying to do just that when I landed at 19, bush fresh and knowing nothing. I was wearing a red flannelette shirt in 38 degree weather, I laid 5 dollars at the feet of a busker who was torturing Dylan and waited for the little green man to hold my hand across an empty street.

But this was more than my new arena; I was its new project as much as it was mine. Maybe the challenge of the city to the young man was not trying to find yourself there, but lose yourself. Forget where you came from and become the dog who needed to eat other dogs.

Central station occupies what was once the site of a cemetery, parsonage, women's sanctuary and police barracks. The mix is still there; authority, death, desperation and a good deal of bibles being bashed. It isn't utopian as a slice of society, but it doesn't belong to anyone either. Though those with convenience rather than necessity on their minds tend to look a certain way down their noses.

I hauled up out and onto Elizabeth St., a long and filthy birth canal that full of other babes seeking rebirth or abortion. The globe was crammed into my cheap suitcase, whose wheels struggled under the weight. All of the things I thought I would need but none of what I did. The street sparkled with filth, a long and dirty vein through the heart of the city. A lot of people smoked and I thought maybe I would smoke too.

XX

I smoked another out of boredom and wondered why I had ever started. They dug into the lungs more in the heat and it was hot, only a few degrees off its hottest in a city heralded up north for its horrible weather. As I watched the grass of a once school yard surrender to brown I wondered where this famous horrible weather was, it was one of the big appeals of the place.

The heart of Melbourne, Australia's cultural capital, beat somewhere in the distance but I was oblivious. Holed up in an old school house, thinking of my family and sweating through the spider-manned doona cover like others had probably done. Melbourne was, to the anal lining of it's inner-outer suburbs, square and straight. It was the tireless mother spoon-feeding its new residents.

I walked hoping to get lost, but I couldn't stop noticing the aggressive signs. Always telling you where you were, where you are, where you will be. Nothing was left to guess work. I grew frustrated on a trail that had only forward and backward and lit another cigarette watching yuppies whack golf balls.

Another sign heralding the history of the area. Tom Roberts had painted what was now the Box Hill golf course, McCubin too. I bounced between the defaced picture and the scene it was supposed to represent; now swarming with bulbous-arsed men in plaid shorts, agonising over irons and woods. What a hundred years could do; I'd have preferred they concrete the thing to hell, smokestacks, coal and industrial disease. At least then the imagination could have run a little bit, instead of having middle aged beer-guts trot through the Heidelberg School and snuff out its romance like a dead cigar.

XX

My American friend Jack greeted me at the doorway with a long joint clenched in the corner of his mouth. An old hand at city life he was typically unfazed by the families and professionals shuffling in to their terrace's. My room was upstairs, and up a ladder. For 150 a week my square of the city, three floors up and overlapping two others below, was priceless.

Surry Hills runs onto Central station in the west and Oxford St. in the north. Initially I felt like an outlier, a rare occupant who found something rent-controlled, something manageable in a sector of the city that's exorbitant rents usually ran such riff-raff down the sewer to Stanmore or St. Peters. But it's high society was simply that element which shone the brightest, demanded the most attention. There was a whole wealth of slackers, booze crippled vagrants, degenerates and wayward children of God that sprung from alleys and rose with the moon. When I found them, that was where I hitched my wagon.

The city promptly opened up, as I had prompt money to spend. Bars, brothels and breakfast; there was nothing that couldn't be done. The guilt of rapidly spending through an inheritance chewed on me from time to time, Jack simply said that's what it was for; money was for spending.

This was not my element, my element was talking old blue collar drunks through suicide and onto the next schooner. But the resilience, the heartiness that grew in country origins made these arseholes easier to swallow.

I barely thought of home. We drank, drugged, ate out, went through a million healthy but temporary diets and regularly slumped our useless pasty bodies onto bronze beaches. This was a new kind of chaos and was well suited to a city that had learned to turn a blind eye and cold shoulder to such mischief. It was the ideal outlet to the teenager with a new brave confidence and backers on the front.

XX

He approached smoking a cigarette, which had become all too rare and seemed a good sign. I was 23 and expecting new friends was a thing of the past. Yet I craved human interaction.  

Note From The Things They Won't Tell You In Orientation Week: Part 1 Desk.

Orientation week at university is something of a farce. Usually in one of two ways; a cute little fun tour or an all out piss-up. While both these can be fun and informative, key things are often left out. Such useful information might not be realised until a senior year, or never. Some things are for your own good, others for the benefit of your co-students. Likely a lot of it will have already occurred to you as critical thinking, logical studiers. In the event it hasn't this is what has occurred to me in five years and three tertiary institutes (I could say universities, but that would be giving a false accolade to one of the tertiary institutes).

Where to shit?

While this is unpleasant and we all love to pretend it is not our problem, it is, I assure you. I am no advocate of public toilets, particularly in tackling the 'dump question'. But it's a reality and something that bears thinking about. It will likely cross over to your day-life, but will be pertinent at university. Long hours studying, bad food, frantic class schedules, stress smoking, stress coffee and a pack a day prune habit (#studentlife). Unless you are a hot chick in a yoghurt ad, the odds are you will have to deal with your godless deed on campus at some point.

What you are looking for here is the least awkward place to do the devils work. Isolated buildings, disabled toilets, a staff bathroom (stathroom?) or the little porcelain palace on the edge of campus. The obvious thing here is to dodge the chance of running into ANYONE. Or, if others chance to have the same tactic, to be as far from the scene of the crime as possible when they show up to commit. Deny responsibility, avoid detection.

This varies extremely from campus to campus. Libraries are a traditionally anti-brown zone, though the library at Sydney University is 8 stories tall and each has a personal, and lockable, toilet with a floor-to-ceiling window view of the ANZAC bridge. Just joyous.

In a general sense though they will be seldom used lecture halls, neglected floors of tall buildings, underground retreats that are not known to the general pooping public. Your best bet is to explore with an empty colon. I do, every time! Happy hunting true believers.

Where to sit?

Class is a nightmare for the socially awkward. If you consist on a diet of meat and tobacco, as I do, or consist on a diet of regular phone calls and texts or chat snaps (A thing?) and such, this is a thing of careful consideration.

The conventional wisdom is to sit near the door. It ensures easy escape when the boring teacher quits being dumb, or when your bestie calls cause Jamie likes her or whatever. But conventional wisdom is just that, an idea shared by the masses.

It really depends on the two schools;

If you are expecting a phone call, or know you will get one because you are cute or dreamy, sit by the door. But not right in front of it; the rear corner nearest the door will ensure a quick turnaround and might have the perk of no neighbours. A seat in front of the door will put you between two others who have similar theories. The chance that you will all get bestie calls at the same time is too great, do the wise thing.

If, like me, you are smell conscious. Sit as close as you can to the teacher. As a 24 year old male I am comfortable enough to sit near an adult (#totallamewad) and understand the dynamics at play amongst my fresh-out-of-high-school comrades. People will actively avoid sitting that close to the dumb teacher and you can breathe easy, knowing that your stink cannot possibly jump a desk-long barrier (CAN IT!?!?).

The only problem is with a crammed class or a mature aged student. A crammed class will ensure a neighbour, who is often late and wants to redeem themselves. Mature aged students have the equal comfort near the teacher and, apparently, bloodhound like noses.

When To Talk?

Questions opened to the open forum of a classroom are a two pronged sword:

The first prong is the 'I might be wrong so I will wait until someone else says something'. This is by far the more noble and logical choice. No-one likes being torn down by their peers and, in any case, you can be only ever be kinda right. The risk to reward ratio is a fools errand. So sitting on ones hands is the logical course of action for those whose esteem is holding on by a thread. Also, if they make fun of me Jenny won't think I am kick-arse.

The second is the 'no-one is talking, my time to shine', the anti-thesis of the first. It's a thunder-stealer, the realm of teachers pets. OR, a big or, it is the realm of people who got confidence from the silence of the squad. If the quite-types had a valid inclusion, aka any reason to tear you or your thoughts down, they would say something in the first place. This is someone who isn't letting their parents pay several thousand dollars a year for quiet time.

But to the thunder-stealers, the silence is not an invitation for you to air all of your thoughts on the topic. Every question has an answer. If you have one, come forth. If not, be super uncomfortable like everyone else. The problem is that you don't just throw a verbal spanner into the works, you throw everything at it and don't know when to quit.

The key here is; try to gain enlightenment by benefiting the greater good, not just allowing them the benefit of everything you ever thought about.

A Note From The Grass Is Always Greener Desk.

Since I first left the merry ol' land of Aus, I have been frustrated every moment of my foot-setting on Australian soil. It's true enough I am no patriot, as true as it is that I love this country, in some respects. Since I was 19 I have wanted to leave and never, or scarcely, return. Objectively I do not hate Australia, but as an Australian with my sensibilities I am frustrated by it.

I fit in and so I can rest on my laurels. I am the supreme example of a laurel-resting type. If I don't have to strive for it, I won't. If I desire a change or something new in my life, I will let it melt in to the ether as something not attainable. I am a cynic, a skeptic of almost everything and will naturally follow the path of least resistance.

I moved interstate some years ago hoping to provide the same fire under my arse that a trip to Europe had done, to no real avail. It's too similar; there is the stress to find accommodation, employment, friends, a niche. But once you do it becomes home and 'home' is a trap. A trap some people are content in. Like my brothers, who never want to leave but I digress.

'You never really feel at home' is ponied up as a negative. Why should you? If you don't feel at home, you will live differently than you do at home. The point is not to feel at home. Melbourne, my current city is renowned as a great city; of pubs, clubs, live music, entertainment, comedy, theater, sport and culture. Yet I feel no need to properly partake. Why? Because Melbourne is forever and I will forever be able to access those things.

I was in Dublin two and a half years ago, two weeks coinciding with my birthday in June. For those fourteen days I went out every night. Why? Because I may only be there once and wanted to do all I could.

This is a flaw in me and my attitude. But traveling provides the well heralded new experience. Which could be seeing the Taj Mahal, or simply finding a bed. Necessity and desperation drag you out of your comfort zone, in which you can dwell but not live infinitely, and into the adult world of interaction.

It is this world I crave and it is this world, eyed from Australia's distant horizon, that the grass is greener. Or looks greener. And if you get there and it is much browner and more dead and in no way pleasant?

Notch it up as another experience and move on, it's greener over there.  

The Start Of Something...Maybe

The Merger.

By the time of the merger John Prescott had fallen in love, or whatever was close to it, with Margot Frieche'. He had fallen in love though it was only a guess, he had fallen in love though his family hated her almost as much as they did him, he had fallen in love in spite of himself. What a horrible thing. He had never forgiven the French altogether and Margot was so undeniably French. She ate pastries in tiny bites and sipped wine with vigor and smoked cigarettes so thin that the vice seemed pointless. Besides, he was now dependent. He had to watch her and be infatuated and spend money on the silly things that women liked and be happy to do so. It seemed to him that love or being in love, was something close to insanity.

But there he was, stuck in the mud, stuck with her. It turned out John Prescott was the only heterosexual man in county or country that was disappointed with an exotic knockout.

The day the merger began he was shopping for a night dress which Margot was set to wear to a dinner party with his family. It didn't really matter that the Prescott idea of a dinner party was toast or cereal to soak up the booze or booze to drown the toast or cereal.

She was eager to turn their image of her. She had never been anything but loved, adored, admired and wanted so badly for them to be enamored with her. John could have helped and explained that dress sense meant nothing in the Prescott good book. But he wanted to be rid of her and wasn't under his own power, so he had to let bad things happen.

Margot examined every dress in the store; holding them up to her bosom and pivoting. Then she examined them again, and again, excluding one or two with each rotation. He watched this routine and wondered what the fascination was to him, yet he couldn't deny there was one. All else that had excited him could be logically explained, yet this couldn't.

'Oooh dis one' she said with luster.

'Alright' he deadpanned.

The thing was a deep purple that did nothing for her or anyone. He painted the underside of his boat the same colour and was glad he didn't have to look at it. It was awful but he didn't know what made women look good; she was the only one that had ever looked good to him.

'That's four hundred and eighty-nine dollars' said the wide eyed woman behind the bench.

Prescott looked at her like she'd given him a life sentence. He never thought in dollars and cents, people who did were fools. Rather, currency was just the yard stick to improve his practicality or provide the tools to facilitate ones own self-sufficiency. It was a chain that began in a mans hands and ended when his dependency was at a minimum. There at the counter a decent rifle was being traded for a cloth sack and he would rally against it.

'No, that is ridiculous' he said.

'What is?' Margot laughed.

'The price, I won't pay it'

'Oooh....too late' she laughed again.

Prescott was standing outside the store holding the bag and the receipt. He had jumped an important pocket of time and thought this as clear a sign as any that love was dangerous. She was elated and sang in French until a thin cigarette occupied her lips.

She sang all the way to dinner, messes of words rounded off and smeared together. He maxed out the volume of a Christian country music station trying to drown it, but on she sang with defiance. She was overdressed; the purple sack, blood red lipstick, hair pulled into a modest behive beneath a tiara, long dinner gloves and the smell of perfume at war with that of stale tobacco. She reminded him of Audrey Hepburn and how he had never cared for her.

He was in sharp contrast; a contained mess of flannelette  

A Small Piece of Insignificant Garbage

 It took more motivation than it should have to write this. Just this. This small piece of insignificant garbage that's sole purpose is getting words down as I have some small shred of esteem when I do. I am sick of being the drama queen, really sick, but my head isn't right and I have less motivation to fix it than I did to begin this strenuous piece of insignificant garbage.

I find myself repeating Brandos bit from Along The Waterfront ; 'I coulda been a contender'. Great line and I believe I could have, shit maybe still can. But not while my head is wrong and I have no willingness to fix it. It is not a willingness not to be better, to feel better. I want that more than anything, but that mountain doesn't seem worth crossing.

I am increasingly skeptical of therapy and that initial push is the hardest fucking thing. Its coming into me and out of me in strange ways- clinical depression, anxiety, whatever. I feel sorry for people to extreme levels over something they probably don't and I am having weird crying spells in the car. I am losing control of myself and I don't know how to get back hold of it. Trying hard to crawl out of a hole but the bottom is dropping, all the time dropping.

But its when you don't even try to crawl that you let it in, you let it get you. And once it has you, its a bitter marriage of convenience. It might be the worst possible feeling, but trying to fight it in vain might be worse. Besides it all you're used up and the worst of the worst is you don't know what to do about anything. Except maybe tap out a small piece of insignificant garbage.