Now it’s 4am and we’re in the Seymour Likely watching our beers collide with our mouths.  Charlie Manson rolls a massive hash joint. He needs it to help take the edge off the crank. It’s very sharp crystal meth that we scored in bulk from Franky The Chancer. We were supposed to offload the package but Charlie Manson decided to test a little bit of the goods and before we knew it we had been awake for three days.

“I’m drunk.”

It’s not as if I’m telling Charlie anything he doesn’t already know. But sometimes you have to test your mouth and tongue; just tweak them with some muscular activity, if you leave it too long there is a good chance of never speaking again. Not sensibly. Crank does that to you.

I’ve been doing double of what I can normally cope with and he’s been doing double of what I’ve been doing. Charlie seems to get healthier on speed. His complexion glows and he loses the death pallour. Charlie is from the days of Fat Freddy’s Cat; sincerely believes in the old hippy addage that “drugs will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no drugs.”  We’ve both been fucked upside down and sideways by Miss Life. Neither of us was smart enough to surrender. We just keep taking it up the ass. Two assholes.

“I want a good fuck tomorrow morning.”

It’s Yolanda. She works the window close to the Spui. About thirty years old but I swear she could pass for fifty. She’s been flirting with Charlie for years. He’s noncommittal. Growls back at her.

“Chicks always have a pissy fanny in the morning.”

Yolanda squeals, her cerise lips purse up in mock fury.

“Give me a break, I’m Greek, my pussy never smells like fish.”

Then she leans over Charlie and sticks her tongue in his ear, whispers hoasely, but still loud enough for the rest of the bar to hear.

“C’mon baby, it’s time for that ole finger up the ass. …”

Charlie doesn’t appear to feel the tongue. Speed is an anaesthetic, especially in the quantities that Charlie’s just done. He keeps on staring at his beer glass which is now empty. I raise my right arm to our barlady Deborah. When she delivers the beers she gives Yolanda some much-needed advice.

“You’ve got to take him home at the right moment. Otherwise nothing will happen.”

Charlie comes alive when he tastes the fresh beer. He puts a finger in his ear which comes out dripping, wipes it on his lap, shrugs and shakes his head apologetically to Yolanda.

“Actually, I think the guy should be taller than the chick.”

“Then you must have a huge problem.”

Peeved, Yolanda stands up and moves to another table. She must be at least six foot six. She’s one of those transsexuals that simply does not realise the effect she has on  straight men.  Charlie turns around and yells at her.

“Everything ok?”

“No.” Yolanda hisses

“But you’ll get over it, right?”

Busty Jessica walks in. She’s from Uganda, also works the Spuistraat. Charlie comes alive when he sees Jessica’s bubbles do that synchronized wobble thing.

“Jesus, have you ever got big tits!”

Jessica loves the attention. Graciously accepts the beer that we offer her. Sits down between us with a sigh. It’s been a hard day at the office, slaving under a load of hot Slavs.

“The bigger your tits are the better you get on with everybody.”

It’s a statement of fact. Our philosophies are always pre-determined by our bodies. We shape our thoughts according to the shape of our warts and all. Nothing needs to be added. Deborah, whose mammaries are not of the large kind, pipes up.

“But you must believe in something?”

Jessica rolls her eyes. Takes a deep slug of her free beer. Takes another. Then she mutters.

“I believe in art.”

Charlie Manson is disgusted.

“Art is simply the expression of utter loneliness.”

Deborah goes thoughtful. “Women,” she says, “women is all there is to believe in. We are goddesses. Without us there’s nothing.”

Charlie says “No! The nature of woman is venal. They only need men for to pay. Pay is the best foreplay!”

Jessica laughs. Then she laughs even louder when Charlie buys her another beer. He doesn’t mind. His actions are illustrating his theory.

First there’s the body; then our thoughts; then comes action. What we do depends on the shape of the thinking which is determined by the form of the body. That’s it in a nut shell. Jessica drinking the beer proves what Charlie believes. There’s no freedom of choice. There’s only the body. And  in Jessica’s case, believe me, it’s more than enough body.  But then she gets moody.

“Beauty is harder than pain.”

We know what she means. We were all of us beautiful once. But that was long ago. Time and beauty are strangers. The longer we live the less beautiful we are. It’s true. Look at any old person you know.

Now Jessica’s bawling.

“They like me! They love me! They leave me!”

Working the windows can be a lonely business. What can she do? It’s what Jessica was born for. We were all born for something. Charlie was born to get cranked up and loaded. I was born to complain and be jealous. There’s no getting away from your fate. It’s all in the body.

So I scratched, probably a little too vigorously because I suddenly tore away my scalp. What shocked me was that it was so easy. It was like tissue paper and completely bloodless. It was like unwrapping a poorly wrapped gift. Suddenly, there I was; the back of my skull exposed for everyone at Panda Express to see. What was I going to do? Well, I did what any normal human being would do if their skull was painlessly exposed… I poked it.

I didn’t poke too hard… at first. A gentle tap. However, I have never been one to leave something like that alone. So I poked a little harder. It was nothing like I expected it to be. It felt like the wafers inside a Kit Kat. So I stopped poking and simply pushed. With very little force my wafer skull gave way and my finger was inside my cranial cavity. I was stunned, as you can expect, but being one to never back down from a challenge, I pressed forward. Soon my whole hand was in there.

‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I’m in here. I might as well fish around a bit before I go to the trauma ward.’

It wasn’t nearly as gooey as I would have thought. The brain is nice and warm and has a … well… you know how the meatballs in Spaghetti-o’s feel?  Meaty and rubbery at the same time. The brain feels kind of like that. Plus there’s all these nooks and crannies. As I soon found out – that big crack that runs down the middle… all sorts of fun stuff collects there. It’s like the couch cushions of the human body.

The first thing I retrieved was a little toy gun. To be more precise it was a little plastic phaser that accompanied my 8″ Mego Captain Kirk action figure in 1976. I could have sworn mom got that out of my nose years ago. Of course there was some loose change and a couple of guitar picks. I found my name tag from Randall Video and Violet’s class ring. Ancient skittles and the back of the old TV remote.  I was amazed at the pile of odds and ends that were coming out of my melon and accumulating on my tray. So I pushed in a little deeper.

I can tell you that the strangest thing about digging stuff out of your brain-crack is the things you trigger when you bump into the walls of your brain. Sights, smells and memories flashing at me like the blinking lights atop construction horses on a high way. I smelled plums. I saw my cat Maya chasing a laser light in 1996. Then it was 1977 and I had a Lemon Twist on my ankle and I was skipping…skipping…skipping. BAM! “Coming of Age” by The Damn Yankees. BAM! My knee jerked and kicked my co-worker who sat in horrified amazement across the table from me.

My life was flashing before my eyes. It was a rush, like time travel would be. Or when you are stuck in a really, really bad traffic jam and have to go to the bathroom… then you finally can get off the expressway and you make it to the bathroom and you have that little *shudder* of relief. Yeah it was like time traveling with a pee-relief shudder.

I sat a while longer, long after my friend had run screaming from the restaurant. I rummaged and shuddered and giggled. Then, just as my hand ventured in a bit further… something bit me. I pulled my hand out of my head and, sure enough, my finger was bleeding from two small punctures. I reached back and jiggled my brain, like you might jiggle an ill-working toilet handle. Sure enough I heard the scratching of little claws way back in there – just above my eyes inside my forehead. Something had taken up residence in my brain’s central fissure.

So I loaded my found treasures into a doggy bag, grabbed my carefully folded scalp and went home.

That night I slept on my side with a trap set just outside the hole in my skull. A little cheese should do the trick. Around three o’clock in the morning a loud SNAP and a pained squeal woke me. I turned to look. There, dead in the trap, was a filth covered, feral miniature dwarf toy poodle. I apologized to it for taking its life in much the same way the Native Americans did for thousands of years. Then I tossed the carcass over the fence into the neighbor’s lawn. Those fuckers are always judging me.

Now I am sitting here in front of my computer. I am checking on bids that have been made on the stuff that came out of my skullhole. I’m going to make a killing.

There is one thing that I am curious about. I’ve watched a lot of Zombie movies in my day and… well… frankly I’d like to know what the big deal about brains is. As I’ve said I’m curious. I figure I can snip a little piece without doing any real harm. I wonder if it’s sweet. I’m just going to reach up there and… just take a tiny…. pinch…nfoiu341yu5p9ho3l

asndas

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.

Mother, the truck with the red crosses took you and you haven’t come back.  What should I do?

Keep your eyes down.

Keep them down.  Bend your head, slouch, seem smaller than you are.  Keep your head covered with your shawl.  Take small steps.  Stay away from the black men.  They are dangerous, the black men.  Be small.  Be unimportant.  Be little Sara.  Don’t ever, ever, ever

Meet the eyes

Of a black man,

Ever.

.

“Herbert?”

A kitchen match scratched against cement.  The end of a cigarette glowed in shadow.

“We have a hard duty, Herbert.”

Herbert shrugged.  “We do as we must.”

The cigarette end glowed and faded.  “There is no glory in it, Herbert.  But it is the most vital job of all.  To our country.  To the future of the world.”

Herbert leaned forward in concentration.  On the table before him rested a music box, its back open.  He squinted.  “Dieter, you should be more careful with this.  It has a delicate mechanism.  What were you doing, playing soccer with it?”

Dieter stepped closer to the table, into the light.  He flicked ashes into a chipped porcelain bowl.  A guest was here last night.  She caused the damage.”

Herbert looked up.  “A woman, here?”

.

Hunger’s hand has a billion fingers.  The fingers clutching Sara’s belly tightened into an old woman’s fist, all knuckles and yellow nails.  She was new to this hunger, complete hunger.  The pains were sharp, the old woman, gleeful.  Sara moaned.  She moaned and forgot to look down.

A black man looked at her face.  He paused.

.

Dieter’s eyes – cerulean, glassy like a doll’s eyes – regarded Herbert with mild irritation.  Pique creased the clear, pale skin between his eyebrows.

Herbert repeated himself, “A woman, in here?”

.

Fear as warm and thick as blood washed through Sara.  She saw boots, dusty from walking in the compound, heavy black trousers, a greatcoat, its charcoal-colored leather as silky as a pelt.  Her eyes slid off the coat and upwards.  A scream rose in her throat, but fear strangled it.  She looked into the eyes of a black man.

The eyes were blue.

.

Dieter stabbed his cigarette into the bowl.  His thin lips pursed below his aquiline nose.  He had expected camaraderie from this man.  But Herbert was showing every sign of being nothing but a stupid, peasant lout.

.

“Sit down. You need not fear.  Let me take your wrap.  There.”

She was in an apartment with a black man.  She willed her heart to cease beating, but it beat mindlessly on, each pulse pushing her toward the chasm of her future.  She looked up.

His face was ordinary, pale and thin.

“You have beautiful eyes.  They made me wish to speak with you.  You can’t be very old.  Perhaps seventeen?”

Sixteen.  Sara looked down and said nothing.

“I have some chocolate.  It’s Swiss.  Quite good.  Here, take it.”

Blunt fingers pressed chocolate against her palm.  She looked at it.  A piece of gold foil remained stuck to its surface like a stray, golden snowflake.

“Eat it.”

She raised the chocolate to her lips, placed it in her mouth.  She was aware of no taste, only of weight.  The chocolate was like a lump of compound mud resting on her tongue.

“This may interest you.  I picked it up in Vienna.  It’s a music box.’

He placed the box in her hands.

‘Push the little lever.”

Sara pushed the lever.

Bells tinkled.  Mozart, the first theme of a piano sonata – Sara could not remember which one – trilled from the box.  The silvery bells touched her as the chocolate had not.  Tears welled in her eyes, spilled down her cheeks.

The black man’s white fingers caressed her cheek, intercepted a tear.

Sara looked up, but this time her eyes locked with the eyes on his collar, the hollow eyes of the silver skull on his collar.

.

Herbert shook his head.  “One of the new shipment?  A Jewess?”

Dieter turned his back on Herbert.  “A girl.”

Herbert snorted, looked back down at the music box.  “A Jewess.”

Dieter whirled.  Fury stained his cheeks scarlet.  He opened his mouth to flay this lout of a Herbert.  Control returned.  He smiled.  “As you say, a Jewess.”

Herbert did not look up from his work.  “What made you bring her here?”

Indeed.  What?  Why?  Dieter struggled for words.  At last, he said, “At times they seem almost human.  This girl, for instance, her eyes, they seemed to hold intelligence. I had to see if she did . . . have a mind.”

Herbert said nothing.

Dieter continued, “Her skin was luminous; her breasts, just beginning to rise.”

Herbert chuckled.  “Ah!  Her breasts.  You need to visit the brothels.”

Dieter clenched his right fist.  “No, it was not that.”

Herbert plowed on.  “The camp brothels are well supervised here, not like at Sobibor.  You’ll get yourself a nasty dose if you insist on harvesting unscreened girls from the shipments.  Trust me on this, my friend.”

Dieter hissed, “You have not understood me.  I wished to discover if this girl could think, could feel.”

Herbert, his attention at last engaged by Dieter’s tone, looked up.  “And?”

Dieter turned away from Herbert’s gaze, walked to the small window, peered through its frosted pane.  “And . . . she became deranged.”

Herbert laughed.  “There you have it.  Stick to the brothels.  It’s all supervised in the brothels.”

Dieter said nothing.

Herbert made one more small adjustment to the mechanism and then shut the music box.  “That should do it.”  He pushed the golden lever.  Mozart’s sunny melody again floated through the room’s stale air.

Herbert stroked his index finger fondly across the instrument’s warm, rosy wood.  “Yes, that’s done it.”  He looked over at Dieter.  “What about the girl?”

Dieter laced his fingers together, stretched and murmured, “I shot her, of course.”

Herbert nodded.  “Of course.”

.

The ‘Sichuan compromise’ however was different, or at least I intended it to be different. Firstly, it had compelling imagery. Such Far Eastern archetypes as the sailing Junk or the opium den whore, all rolled into a term you can use for so many various occurrences, tied together with a nuanced general theme. I invoked the province of Sichuan, and this is the only time that I will admit the whole story, because the original compromise involved a restaurant in China Town, namely ‘Sichuan Palace’, a place famed for its spicy foods. I had in me the general idea that in English transliteration, ‘Szechuan’ was the accepted form. However I now realise, by dietary implication alone, that ‘Sichuan’ is the more genuine. Inasmuch as the region is famed for spicy food, the Z in Sichuan is just like the X in Espresso.

Capsaicin and I have a long history that begins at the father and ends at a resolution to never again eat the spicy vegetable. That resolution itself would have been considered a Sichuan compromise a week earlier.

I had been training for six months, eating the spiciest things I could find, so that I would be ready for the spiciest burger in the world. The Burger was produced by an insane Viet named Minh in a previously unassuming fish and chips shop. The average jalapeno is around 1000 Scoville units, the unit of perceived heat for capsaicin containing foods, the burger I intended to eat in less than eleven minutes was around 1kg of 3 million Scoville unit death-sandwich. The patty was drenched in a sauce known as ‘Blair’s 3am reserve’, which had on it a skull and crossbones motif and a large fluorescent label, which read “Warning: this is not a food ingredient”. When Minh first told me about the Burger in 2009, I asked him if he’d ever eaten it, he just shook his head and laughed.

Minh also used a cheese-melt, which incorporated a sauce known as ‘ultra-death’, and was by far the most edible ingredient in the burger. When you bite into the burger this concoction drips over your face and fingers and renders you paralysed. Before you mentally underplay the significance of having this sauce on your face and hands, remember that the burger as a whole was 1000 times spicier than the pepper-spray used by cops to subdue rabid meth addicts and parts of the burger were 10,000 times hotter still. He really was a genius. Challengers universally learnt not to touch their face or cock for weeks afterwards and many developing sexual relationships were soured by the negative Pavlovian conditioning associated with even the slightest caress. However, once I had determined to eat the Burger, there could be no backing-down, this would not be a Sichuan compromise.

I arrived at the restaurant at around eleven in the morning and Minh was already cooking the Burger. It was impossible to breath in the kitchen while he grilled the patty so he wore a full-face respirator. I was not afraid. I sat in the chair reserved for challengers and Minh had me sign a waiver absolving him of any duty of care. He was fully aware that I was about to eat something not meant to be eaten. I don’t think a lawyer had really combed through the pencil drawn contract that read something like “I eat this burger with knowledge I may be harm or die even and also no blame Minh or establishment”. Minh also gave me the roll call of previous challengers to review. A few names were familiar, but most striking were the statistics. There had been 48 challengers in total, names written in black were failures, names written in red had succeeded. I saw four names in red. Minh also had a book in which all challengers were encouraged to leave a note concerning their experience. Choice extracts included: “My face is on fire, I think I’m going to die”, “I have never vomited like that before, it felt like hot coals coming out of my nose”, “They laughed at me in the emergency department”, “This was a mistake” and my favourite “It tastes like pain”. The four triumphant messages were never as exuberant as I imagined I might be after finishing the burger, the first guy to have ever eaten the burger wrote, “Just finished the Burger. Won’t do that again” and his successor “Ate the whole thing. Vomited. Was it worth it?” The successful emphasised their poor-judgement, the failures emphasised fire and pain. It was zero-sum. I remained optimistic.

I remember actually enjoying one bite. The only words I said during the attempt; “this is a tasty burger”. Nobody believed me, but I was sincere at the time. The last few bites were a formality. I sat back in my chair, red face, runny nose. My eyes were closed, apparently I was shaking violently. The pain was subsiding though I was so cold. I also couldn’t stand up. I understood the lacklustre notes written by previous winners. The notoriety, the free burger, completely overridden by overwhelming regret. Why would I poison myself with this inedible agent of pain? The Burger will destroy you if you are unprepared. Your id is terrified of this Burger. It’s not in my stomach lining that I wear the scars of that experience.

It was two months before I again ate anything resembling a capsicum. My friends, knowing how devoted to spicy food I was, took me to ‘Sichuan palace’ for my birthday. The food comes in a stew of dried chilli. It was such a feeble heat compared to the Burger that I had to be told by one of the waiters “you’re not meant to eat the chilli”. I now understood why Western society had triumphed over the province of Sichuan and all those other Chinese places. I enjoyed my meal at Sichuan palace. I looked forward to another chance to dine at the Sichuan palace.

You see, the original Sichuan compromise arises quite simply: I was on annual leave. During which time I had to abandon plans to attend a Jazz festival in Switzerland because I realised I had invested in too many goal-directed pursuits. One day, before an interview, I called a friend and suggested to him that we eat at the Sichuan palace. He agreed but said that he would have to collect his wife from the cinema where she had just watched a newly released Australian film. That was fine with me except that the time taken to fetch her would use all the time I had prior to the interview. We agreed to instead eat at the Sichuan palace after my interview, around an hour after she had been retrieved, but still an hour or so before the minimum respected hour for dinner, the 17^th in my estimation. These friends of mine enjoy eating though, and are not rigid with their meal time or composition, so we agreed that by missing lunch and having an early dinner, we could eat a large dinner at the half-way point and substitute one meal for two. It was genius. Except that she, unbeknownst to he, had scheduled to have a 6 o’clock dinner with her parents who were visiting from out of state. His attendance was required. I wasn’t going to eat at the Sichuan palace alone. We couldn’t even postpone to the next available meal-time, or amalgamate lunch and breakfast the next day the same way we had intended to amalgamate lunch and dinner today, because he was required to attend the museum with his parents-in-law the next day. I was upset. During dinner though, it did arise, that he made some excuse and freed his day, the next, so that we could lunch at the Sichuan palace and even see the same film his wife had seen, which she reported to be very good, the next day at some time. We were all very pleased with the outcome that seemed to have improved on the originally lost opportunity. I, all the same, still substituted one meal for two on the first day and went to bed with some self-satisfaction at that achievement. The next day when I woke, I decided I had too much work to do, and there was no way I could make time for both Sichuan palace and the movie. There would have to be a compromise. I called my friend and told him “There shall have to be a compromise”. He said, “it’s only 6am, let’s discuss this later.” I said “Sure.”

I called later, and, having estimated the time required to complete only the most pressing tasks, realised I would be unable to leave the house for three weeks. I told my friend “I shan’t have time to do any of the things we planned to do today and for the next three weeks, please don’t call me unless it’s urgent.” He said, “Shame, I suppose I’ll read a book”. Mine is the primal Sichuan Compromise.

When I first determined to generalise the event to a repeatable epithet, it was because I found a certain aural enjoyment in it, Sichuan compromise, a certain comic succinctness in the very existence of a general term for this reasonably specific occurrence, but also a relatively high frequency of such abortive events, sufficient to justify a Chinese-inflected-paradigm-definer. Of course, I intended to generalise the paradigm thus: A wants X, A fails to achieve X but arising from the failure of X is X plus Y, A finds X plus Y superior to X alone, but circumstances determine that A must eventually reject both X and Y. I used the term as frequently as the context allowed and explained it to all who heard it, they agreed it was a resonant term and one they might use in the future, but they were usually afraid of its comedy. Most thought it also perfectly described the situation wherein: A wants X, A is disallowed X, A realises X was a trap and is thankful. This paradigm had been previously described as a Reverse-Akbar. However, I agreed, It could be used for either, I was happy it caught on so easily. Many of the Chinese also found some locality-derived racist humour in it and many of the Sichuan-extracted Chinese residents of Melbourne either benefited or suffered, I had trouble knowing which. The fact that most, particularly the young, now use the phrase to represent the simple about-face, as in; A says X, A does Y, especially with respect to politics and business, is really just a Sichuan compromise.

To anyone over fifty, being hairless down there conjures images of eight year old girls, or the time my grandmother’s polyester robe slid horrifyingly open. A curly little bush was the sign of a woman in full flower—a bald one was too raw or too ripe.

Over the years I’d toyed with the idea a few times as I held the razor aloft in the shower, but last Saturday I was motivated to mutilate myself.

I felt it before I saw it: that distinct stripped-wire sensation of a stray gray. The light is bad in the shower, but there was no fooling me. I considered giving it a good tug. Then I saw my razor on the shower shelf, grimacing, drooling.

I began to rationalize: it’s warm, it’s moist, and it’s hairy. Three strikes. If I thought about it much longer, I’d run out of hot water: I manhandled that damn plastic razor and began to hack away.

Within two minutes I was standing in four inches of water, sporting a Big Sky version of a Granny Goth Twat.  I had a pubic and plumbing disaster. The only way to pull this look off would be to pierce my labia and dust off some old Sid Vicious albums.

I sidled out of the shower, put on something loose fitting, and headed for Target.

A new razor, an electric trimmer, chemical remover, or bikini wax? If I cut myself, I’d have to bite on a washcloth every time I used the loo. Yeah, right, like I’m going to stick an electric razor down there…I could already visualize an adverse reaction to a chemical depilatory; this may be Montana, but there ain’t any horses that big. I saw the Forty Year Old Virgin: bikini wax, my ass.

Tucked in a corner was a little display of hot pink mini-razors, and something called a ‘Finishing Touch’. I just hoped it wasn’t literal.

My rash decision had taken up most of a Saturday, and as I sat on my bedroom floor, spread eagle on a towel with a magnifying mirror, my Finishing Touch whirred with purpose. I was determined. I wanted my crotch to shine.

As I parted the delicate tissues, I was shocked to discover my pink puffy parts sported hairs where I didn’t even know I had skin. It took some nerve for hairs to grow there, I reprimanded the orifice aloud.
The sound of those little hairs hitting the clipper was like chopping rough off beside the green. I winced and went on, not wanting to justify a Vaginal Van Dyke.

When I finally emerged from my boudoir, I revealed my new look to my husband, who looked up from his crossword puzzle and said evenly, “That looks weird.” Actually, he said it twice.
I plodded back upstairs alone and took a shower.

The sensation of warm water against shorn hooch is not soon to be forgotten. Perhaps there is a rationale for an unholy hair removal regime after all.

My nether regions are red hot, even if my husband is lukewarm.

Hullo John Longstaff cry they in harmony and back to them John Longstaff sings

Oh how is it that

You have come upon me

When dead I found you

At the base of a tree

But the base of that tree was not very near to here,

this suburb of Camberwell,

although upon our travails ending at the base of that tree do stand

the multitudes who now pass this tree,

in the suburb of Camberwell and also others.

Continued he

And I found you at the base of a tree and on that tree in blaze I found

The unpleasant news

That you’d been abandoned

And

Inadvertently

Chimed they then

Abandoned

Though

Inadvertently

But we were our own abandoners, and we were the journeyers, and though you may have found us, at the base of a tree,

blown to prostration and abandoned, though inadvertently,

your find was made but figuratively.

And while, all of our fibres, lived uncomfortably

And every motion strained our parts violently

You did live so comfortably

Here near the base of this tree

In Camberwell

Or near one much like it

So comfortably

On the backs of our egos

Taken most obsessively

To travel over the inland sea

And bathe ourselves in the extremities

And though our indulgence

May yet yield for you some benefits

It was but indulgence still

And all your comforts

Here at the base of this tree

Owe nothing to our egos and all to our peril

Though inadvertently

And your comfort here at the base of this tree

Says much of what we did for you

But none of why

And is not what we deserve

For our actions were for ourselves

But our consequences, not

And in that hive are absorbed the highest deeds

Into the routine of easy survival

And easily ill-deserved

For our actions were ours alone

but their consequences

Are for the urbs and urbs and their suburbs

Tony: Why didn’t you tell me you’d been attacked by a shark?

William: I didn’t want to be written of as  ‘just one of those “shark attack” people’.

Tony: But a shark attacked you.

William: So what, you know, it’s like those cancer people.

Tony: What do you mean “those cancer people”

William: Like your mother.

Tony: My mother had cancer.

William: Yes but she didn’t have to let it rule her life the way it did.

Tony: It killed her.

William: Oh, so now you’re a doctor.

Tony: Forget it; anyway, it would’ve explained a lot in your actions these past few weeks.

William: Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you; I needed to incorporate those actions into my enduring persona, I can’t go around with two Williams. This is William, and this is Shark-Attack-William. When you do that you are admitting that William is overwhelmed by his Shark-Attack, which he is not, William absorbs the Shark-Attack and it’s disadvantages into his self and does not need an excuse.

Tony: I’m just saying, it would explain why you didn’t turn up to the game.

William: William didn’t turn up to the game because William didn’t feel like running.

Tony: William, you don’t have your left leg.

William: Which is why I didn’t feel like running.

Tony: But we just thought it was only that you didn’t feel like running.

William: So it was.

Tony: No, no, Bill, it was because you can’t run without both legs and you haven’t both legs… Or both arms.

William: Precisely, I neither felt like running nor like pitching so I decided not to come to the game.

Tony: But I mightn’t have been so insistent on the phone if you’d maybe further expanded on your reasons.

William: I don’t need to invoke some super-clause in order to make my excuses. William needs no super-powers. Why did you not come to my wedding?

Tony: I didn’t know you and Deb back then, how could I have attended?

William: You might have attended, you were alive, the wedding occurred, I’m near certain that the wedding happened, you might have attended. But you didn’t, and I’ve never held that against you. Not only that, you’ve never felt the need to make longwinded excuses.

Tony: But I didn’t know you!

William: It would have been nice to have your support at the time. It was a big step for me.

Tony: Congratulations, Deb is a fine woman. Such elegant ankles.

William: Thanks for saying.

Tony: Listen, I am dependant on my glasses for reading, you know that.

William: That I know.

Tony: If I was at the wedding, in front of your 200 gues-

William: One hundred and sixty four.

Tony: 164 guests. And you asked me to read a passage from the bible or make a toast, but I’d forgotten my glasses, I wouldn’t have said “No I don’t feel like speaking tonight”.

William: What would you have said?

Tony: <Exasperated now> I’d have said “Sorry William, I’ve forgotten my glasses.”

William: Well I refuse to be ruled by my illness like you are. I define myself, and I shoulder my own responsibilities. But, you can convey my displeasure to “Blind-Tony” for his non-attendance at my wedding too. Really to think that neither of you bothered to show up.

Tony: <yelling> We didn’t know you!

William: And you both forgot your glasses.

Tony: <still yelling> We didn’t know you wanted us to speak!

William: Geez, there’re so many Tony’s in here. Here here, listen: Imagine you’re out having a run, for exercise. And you run through a darkened park, it’s past dusk. And you’re running through the grass, there is a path to your right but you’re on the grass.  And you’re taken to look over your shoulder because of an inexplicable uneasiness and you see something clearly running towards you at a pace much faster than you are running. What do you do? You’re already running.

Tony: I keep running I suppose.

William: Or turn to fight.

Tony: <strained> Yeah, or I turn to fight. What’s the point?

William: <yelling>  Come on man, it’s a story of inevitability!

Tony: <yelling>  How is that relevant?

William: Do you run with your glasses on?

Graeme: Sorry, I gapped there.

Mr. BQ: What gap?

Graeme: A long mental pause in which what the other person is saying doesn’t penetrate ones consciousness. It often happens when one has been smoking weed. Scariest when it happens when one hasn’t been smoking weed, which is often the case with me.

Mr. BQ: No offence taken, cunt face. I’d lost my train of thought anyway. A whole train of it, lost, in a tunnel somewhere I suppose. The helicopters are searching for it but I don’t hold out much hope.

Kathleen: This is funny (pronounced Ziss)

Graeme: The light will emerge from the tunnel.

Mr. BQ: No, that train is lost.

Graeme: Ahhh (relaxed sigh). I think I’ll have another bong? Anyone?

Kathleen: No, thankyou (pronounced sankyou).

Graeme: You have a lot of stars in Australia. Kathleen, how many stars are there?

Kathleen: This I don’t know.

Graeme: BQ, have you counted all the stars?

Mr. BQ: Yes. 25 Bazillion, exactly.

Graeme: That’s a surprisingly round number.

Mr. BQ: Not surprising at all when you realise that God is a round number. And the universe itself, of course, is just an expression of itself.

Graeme: You’re right, I see that it’s not surprising at all now (bong gurgles). Smoke this!

Mr. BQ: I’m already wasted.

Graeme: Smoke it!

Mr. BQ: (Bong gurgles) The God of Round Numbers.

Graeme: The guy in the room over there, Mike’s friend, he’s a bit of spiritual guru isn’t he.

Mr. BQ: I hate him, he knows nothing about the one true God of round numbers.

Graeme: I think he was trying to convert me.

Mr. BQ: Me too, and failed.

Graeme: He was talking and I just changed the subject to something annoyingly material, cars I think it was. That fucked him off.

Mr. BQ: Everything is material, we know that.

Graeme: I just had an epiphany! Wait… wait… shit, no, I lost it!

Mr. BQ: You lost your point.

Graeme: No, it’s not lost! It’s just gone down to the beach for a swim. It will be back,  when it’s ready.

Mr. BQ: I’ve got a whole train of thought out there somewhere. Kathleen, say something!

Kathleen: (Shaking her head negative)

Graeme: Mr. BQ!

Mr. BQ: What!

Graeme: What do you mean what!

Mr. BQ: I mean WHAT!

Graeme: I just asked you a question.

Mr. BQ: No, you didn’t.

Graeme: I did.

Mr. BQ: What did you ask me?

Graeme: If you wanted to watch the South Park episode where Mohammad is censored.

Mr. BQ: Kathleen, did he ask me that?

Kathleen: (Nodding her head affirmative)

Mr. BQ: Shit, I gapped.

“What horrible misfortune!” cried the farmer’s brother.

“Maybe,” replied the farmer.

Four days later, the stallion returned accompanied by twelve others. The farmer watched as they calmly corralled themselves.

“How pleased you must be!” exclaimed a neighbour.

“Maybe,” replied the farmer. 

All seemed resolved. Then one afternoon – a week to the day the herd had arrived – the farmer’s son was thrown from his mount and gravely injured.

“Oh, how you must suffer!” lamented the townspeople.

“Maybe,” replied the farmer. 

The son was nursed throughout the autumn and slowly began recovering from his injuries. Near the end of his convalescence, a government official came bearing conscription papers; there was conflict in the north, and all able young men were to enlist immediately. The official, upon seeing the farmer’s bedridden son, returned the papers to his satchel and apologised before excusing himself. 

The next day, the son took his first steps since the accident and began walking as though it had never occurred.

“You have been blessed!” bellowed the mystics.

“Maybe,” replied the farmer. 

It was done by Saturday. She decided to extend her travel indefinitely; she’s young; she needs to get out of Perth; she loves me but if we don’t end it now it will only get more difficult come November. All of which is true.

“Motherfucker,” mumbled the writerfag once she’d left.

Unlike the farmer, I’ve never been much of a stoic and my past exuberance has found its counterpoint in my present discomfort. If I’d been indifferent; cagier; not yielded to my affection…this would have been far easier. Seamless, perhaps. I don’t have any regrets, however, and if this discomfort is the worst the universe has in store for me, then I welcome intemperance.

I stare out the bus window and try to look as affected as possible while the young mother across the aisle  – who a year ago would’ve feared me stealing her purse, but who now fears me molesting her children – pulls her brood closer to her and I smile in spite of myself. For an emotional pygmy like me there’s nothing worse than having no blame to apportion and instead I’m focusing my bitterness on the slut in the window seat next to me. 

“Yair, I think I’m gonna fuck him off…yeah, he just. You know? I don’t know, he’s like….blurrrh! You know? You know? Yeah, I might just not call him…I kind of want something to happen with this new…with this new guy at work, yeah. I think he has a girlfriend. Hahaha! Is that bad? Is that bad? Fuck it, she doesn’t have to know!” 

And I wish I could kick her in the fucking head or stomp on her testicles so she could feel just some of the pain I feel waking up every day, but really I had one of the good ones -which is more than most can say – and I’m appreciative of that. 

I know my situation is too universal not to be trite and offer it simply as an example of how readily fortunes can change, for better or worse. No one can be prepared for these machinations and whatever your stead, you’re never immune from them. If the best we can do to survive them is to douse any vitality we have within ourselves and live detached from our blood and spleen, however errant they may be, then perhaps it’d be best just to fuck it all off now and make for the ravine. Myself, I’m going to drink, write, piss on tiles, make distasteful rapist jokes, fuck up, redeem myself and keep stoking the whole convoluted process: after all, it would be unwise to think my luck won’t improve, much as it is bound to dip once more. And what of her in my future?

There’s a Chinese farmer somewhere with the answer to that.