tales from an ordinary world
2002-05-01
I remain quiet, but I'm always listening.
I'm full of sympathy, though it doesn't always show.
Right now, things are fine for me, but I'm watching others, and I do what I can. Sometimes all I can do is watch, and sometimes even that's too much.
2002-05-04
All night my mouth opened and words fell out, but when I got home I realised that I hadn't managed to talk to everyone, and ask them the random little questions that'd been floating on my little sea during the week, once I knew I'd be seeing them soon.
I feel asleep wondering if I was doing it all wrong, and ended up dreaming that I was burying my face in a bedspread whilst a friend sitting nearby talked to me.
2002-05-05
Camberwell market, and the things people buy. One walked by with a framed James Dean poster with cracked glass. Another with a vinyl copy of Astral Weeks. Purses, she picked one up and a moment later an eastern European voice said "ten dollars. is good quality," and demonstrated the nice clicking sound it makes when you close it.
...and then there were the things nobody bought : a memorial Charles and Di wedding tray, or a sign with a coat of arms, saying "welcome to Melbourne, a nuclear free city." TVs, radios, board games and other old house detritus. A young man's black and white photographs, in and out of miltary uniform, or holding a soccer ball, but he was always smiling in that happy, early twentieth-century manner. I looked at shirts and jackets, but I'd already bought enough as it was.
so we kept walking, and I wondered about all my friends' stories that I'll never know.
2002-05-07
Such a rush. Work, to hospital, to coal tar vendor, to home, to shower, to leave in time for dinner. At the tram stop, I've got this nice Tortoise bass-vibe coming from between the headphones, and I know it'll all be ok...
...but not for others, it seems. Down Chapel St near Dandenong Road, a fire engine races around the corner and parks straight away. Walking up the street, I see some people gathered around a guy lying on the pavement. What seems like an eternity later (but which was probably only a few seconds), I notice the three mashed cars nearby. Now it makes sense - all these people standing in their shop doorways for a few hundred metres up the street, transfixed in a mixture of horror and fascination. My tram's stuck behind the parked fire engine, but it's ok, I'll head up the street for a while. I've got time, and looking back at what I'm walking away from, I'm just happy to be upright and healthy. By Greville St, the tram hasn't moved, so I hurry to the station, figuring I'll walk up to Bridge Road from Richmond station - a bit of a walk, but it's all I can do, now. On the platform, a light plane circles overhead repeatedly, doing its fourth turn as I step into the carriage. I could be listening in on all these post-work (or post-school) conversations, but the headphones are more comfortable - I feel like I need the buffer this afternoon.
In the restaurant (Umalulik, which serves East Timorese food), they're playing presuambly local music, and one song tickles an old memory of a Peter Gabriel song, Biko, except they've changed the lyrics - the people are singing about "Timor" instead of the South African martyr.
2002-05-08
for a tiny moment, my throat felt like it was tickling the ceiling. i hadn't corrected my housemate's telephone-order of a jungle curry for me instead of the panang curry i'd asked for. my spicy food tolerance has diminished since my heady university days, when each meal was taken as some kind of challenge. nowadays...well...it just doesn't matter so much anymore. food is to be enjoyed, not to be survived. although once in a while, i do kinda miss those days, i guess.
the best moment of the day was when i hopped out of droo's car, finishing some drunken conversation punctuated by hiccups, and put my hand into the letterbox, whereupon i retrieved an off-cut piece of cardboard sent from canada that proudly proclaimed haiyan had moved house. i truly live for these times of temporary wonderment.
2002-05-09
Tail-lights and swervy cars on a lightly-rained road. The familiar route home. The dip at the railway crossing, and the fish shop on the left, lights on but nobody home.
I thought it was the couple next door arguing again, but when I put my head near the open window I discovered it was some people singing, somewhere nearby.
Sounds from the lonesome west fill my small room. I can't move.
2002-05-12
There are nail clippings on the platform, as I do the usual person-at-the-station thing of avoiding all eye contact with other passengers, and keeping myself equidistant from people on either side of me. everybody knows this is nowhere.
Once I'm on the train, I discover it's an express. We speed past the next few stations, people standing and watching us pass, as if time had stopped outside the carriage.
At Parliament station, I make my way up the platform to the south end. Near the platform exit, a long-haired couple sit and wait for their train. A small white cat on a leash sits in front of them, seemingly content with its predicament.
Just before stepping on the escalator, I notice a photo sticker on the ground, the size of a postage stamp. A chinese couple look happy enough, without actually smiling. I thought about picking it up, but couldn't imagine what I'd do with it.
I make my way to Brunswick Street, finding no joy. No more CDs for me, not yet. In a Japanese restaurant on Smith St I face the doorway, its top half blocked with 5-centimetre long small rods (like a beaded curtain, only they weren't beads. You know what I mean). Halfway through my meal, I'm startled by a large woman who sweeps the curtain to one side and stares at me for a good ten seconds before moving on.
At a cafe across the road, my streetside table's made of coloured floor tiling, and I can hear the speakers inside playing Bob Marley as I sit down. I experimentally order a piece of cake with my coffee, but this only manages to prove beyond any further doubt that my dessert appetite just isn't what it once was. I feel guilty watching the senseless waste sitting in front of me while various down-and-out-looking people pass me by.
I set off toward Hoddle st for the bus. The clouds gathered overhead, making a sad little street even moreso. Naked mannequins left posing in upstairs windows (on more than one occasion, too). An old bus left to perish in a front yard. Power stations behind brick walls. On one of the side street, a sign said "wrong way go back." Looking further up the lonely street, this seemed like good advice.
At Elsternwick, I made an overseas call, standing in front of a small park where three magpies fought on the ground. Maybe my loneliness didn't show, it's hard to tell. Rain spotted my black suede shoes. Shops were closed. Nothing to do apart from the rest of yesterday's shopping (one can only carry so much).
Despite all this, I'm still feeling strangely confident about things. No more "I'll never get out of these blues alive". I'm lonely, but happy enough. I never thought I'd make it here.
2002-05-15
I can feel small pockets of resistance, suggesting I've been home too much this week, instead of going out. I need the break, but at the same time I feel...somewhat lacking in life, what with all this work to home to work to home stuff. bah.
2002-05-17
A comfortable back room, away from the numbers - it's hard to
imagine finding somewhere like this on a friday night after work,
that's not full of Other People. Galaga for a dollar (how times have
changed). A video jukebox, with everything from
Kraftwerk's
2002-05-18
Outside City Cafe, all the tables are empty - the first sign of a wintry day - but with three layers of clothes on (a near-alien concept to me), I feel I can survive. After unsuccessfully trying to eat my bagel with one hand, I put down my book and concentrate on food. From out of nowhere, a wolf-whistle shoots across the street - I can't determine the originator nor the recipient, but a few metres away, a girl waiting for the bus can't help smiling to herself for a minute or two.
A little later, I make my regular pilgrimage to Raoul Records, where once again the guy behind the counter looks at what I'm buying (in this case, the new Elvis Costello CD), and says "yeah, that one's great." Hearing a Mission of Burma song start playing in the shop makes me feel oddly nostalgic, and as I walk out, the music wafting out to the street, I wonder if it means anything to the other passers-by - just like when I was in Collectors Corner, and a song by Smog called ex-con that I really love was bouncing out and down Swanston St, with its cut-short trumpet blips and happy-go-lucky sound, while Bill C sings "whenever I get dressed up / I feel like an ex-con trying to make good". But nobody else seemed to notice, and I almost felt like I was just hallucinating.
In Chapel St I make my way in and out of the shops, amongst swarms of fellow fashion victims. I'd like some pointy shoes. I'd like a new jacket to replace this six-year-old thing that's showing signs of discontent. It's hard work, but thankfully I don't feel gripped by the need to actually purchase anything. It can wait. I still don't know about my new, clothes-buying self, the self I've become in the last couple of years. I still feel silly about it, really.
Jeffrey Smart prints in a shop window. I go inside and stare at The Cahill Expressway for a while, because it's the work of his I know best (although I didn't know the man in it was Clive James, until this evening), and the ones in the window had made me think of it immediately.
Tonight, like last Saturday night, I cooked. There's nothing particularly noteworthy nor interesting about cooking flat rice noodles with a few vegetables, but I feel better for having made the effort.
Tomorrow, I'll go see a band in the evening, presumably still smelling of the sunday roast lunch I'll have had with the parents. Nothing hangs around quite like the smell of a roast. I wish I knew why.
2002-05-19
Glen Waverley station seems so much more bleak and pointless than it ever did 15 years ago, especially in this dreary weather. A crow perches on the edge of a rubbish bin, pulling random items out and throwing them to the ground. After a while, it hops down to investigate a McDonalds bag it had set aside, but soon jumps back onto the bin to search for more, mercilessly tugging at the black plastic bag that lines the bin.
In the morning, I waited outside for the familiar whine of my father's engine when he picked me up for lunch. For 22 years, Since The Accident, he's always driven Mitsubishi cars - Sigmas, now Magnas. The Astron engine has a particular higher-than-normal sound, one I'll never forget. The sound of him leaving in the morning, and returning in the evening. Or when he speeds up on a highway, while Mum worriedly suggests that he's going too fast.
Just before the train reaches the bridge before Richmond station, a small white sign to the left of the tracks asks "have you made a P.A. announcement ?"
2002-05-22
An office full of sitting wounded. An hour's dose of John Zorn in the morning makes me feel more detached, and less useful. Old bones creak their way to lunch, crossing the asphalt so I can stare out a rain-soaked window at somebody's white BMW, wedged between a 4-wheel-drive and something else. Looking around, I guess we're not quite pretty or colourful or animated enough, but I'm happy enough just to be sitting down, somewhere else, with lunch in front of me.
The homeward-bound tram's refurbished, repainted, and mostly full. I watch our progress through darkened glass, behind the driver. As seats gradually become available, I consider moving, but I'm paralyzed by the fear of being accused of ulterior motives by going and sitting near people. It seems easier just to stare out the window and ignore them all. I'm just not in the right frame of mind for this.
2002-05-24
Ben Harper's mourning fills the wooden room as I step in. Dean hands me my coffee and I'm left to contemplate all this empty space, awaiting the friday evening hordes that turn it into an entirely different kind of place. At least I still have the mornings.
2002-05-25
I happened to notice that the M*A*S*H 30th anniversary show/presentation thing was on TV tonight - a reminder of times when I used to sit down and religiously watch that one show - there were others I'd occasionally watch, but nothing really dug itself into my head during those formative years like M*A*S*H.
Years later, a girl I was sorta keen on told me that M*A*S*H made her want to study medicine. I eventually worked up the courage to Ask Her Out, by which stage she'd cooled a little, but figured she'd give it a go. It wasn't very long before she worked out that was one of the only things we had in common.
Now the film's on TV while I write - the first time I've seen it - it feels good to have kept some things for later.
2002-05-25b
Down in the park, I was walking home from the station again. Kids in large felt hats threw a black frisbee in front of themselves as they walked. A lacrosse game continued, off to the west. Some work men had been surrounding the local war memorial with a concrete pathway. A familiar old Cold Chisel song called Breakfast at Sweetheart's drifted out of their ute.
2002-05-26
By the river there's nothing much beside the burble of conversations from the market at the other end of the tunnel under the bridge. Trams pass above, the sound echoing around the tunnel like an oncoming ghost. SMS beep nearby. I turn around from staring at the river and a couple's standing there, getting intimate. Perhaps it's time I left...
