three men sit in worn velvet armchairs, still dressed in fluorescent orange jackets and cargo pants crusty with paint. they drink beer and smoke, their conversation is loud enough to make a few others uncomfortable, and their voices are toned by the kind of reckless hostility that makes casual violence play on your mind. everybody else clenches their fists under tables and wonders how they would handle a fight, but the three men drink comfortably, curse bitterly and laugh occasionally.
shrugging away as he reaches out to pat me on the shoulder, walking again.
driving at night on main roads with no police everybody starts to speed. they have these tense little races with each other, overtaking at ninety kilometers an hour in an eighty zone.
when i was a little kid somebody showed me the skin that a tarantula had shed. offered to let me hold it. i didn't because i was too scared that the husk would come alive in my hand and bite my wrist.
when i was a kid i borrowed one of those choose your path horror stories from the library at school. my nonno picked me up that day and took my brother and i to glenferrie road, because my brother had his grading for taekwondo. while he was doing it i sat in a cafe with nonno and i read this little book, except i made a point of folding down every page where you made a choice and i kept coming back to them so by the end of the hour i had exhausted every possibility the book had to offer. nonno finished his coffee and waited. i think he thought it was funny how i kept flipping backwards and forwards in the book.
i unzipped the pouch strapped around my waist underneath my sweater and dug past tissues and receipts to produce my prescription, the woman behind the counter stifled her impatience and took a moment to make sense of my doctor's handwriting. she told me fifteen minutes and turned away. i walked out the way i came, all the bottles and boxes of hair dye and nail polish smiled at me under the fluorescent lights but the magazine girl kept reading.
i turned left outside the pharmacy and passed a lingerie shop with mannequins and kept walking. there was a bookshop which i thought about going into but i didn't. i remember i used to read a lot but i don't remember when i stopped. i still haven't read all the books on my shelves, and i never know where to start in places like these. i can't seem to justify choosing one book over any of the others. i look at the thickness of a book and i think this will take me a week or three weeks or a few months to read, and i can't seem to bring myself to buy it anymore. i read slower these days, too. i find i lose track of myself so easily...
i sat down in the bakery next door, i waited for a while looking at the sun coming through the glass front of the shop. it was warm on my hands and my face, but i could not feel it on my arms through my jumper. a waitress came and took my order and i sat watching people walking backwards and forwards and in and out of the shop. i examined a purple lesion i hadn't noticed before on the back of my hand. i stretched my legs out slightly, they were sore and stiff from the walking. i lifted my feet to lock my knees and found i ould only hold them there for a few seconds before my muscles shuddered and gave way.
a girl came with a cup of coffee which jittered in its saucer as i reached up to accept it and lowered it to the table. i took two sugars from the bowl with a trembling spoon. stirring, i watched as a light rain swept onto the road, nothing more than a fine drizzle, like sand scattered to the wind and falling to earth. the cars and the air suddenly dazzled and shone and were hard to look at.
i lifted my cup to take a sip and realised my coffee was finished. the rain had passed outside and dim clouds had replaced the sun. looking around i saw i didn't recognise anybody in the bakery. i suddenly felt very scared, the dregs of my coffee were cold and my back hurt as if i had been sitting for a long time. i missed home and i got up and payed for my coffee before walking outside. the air was colder and it was approaching midday, i waited on an uncomfortable bench watching a newspaper stir and flutter across the pavement. later a tram arrived and i got on board and found a seat next to a window.
on the tram there was a mother with three kids. the youngest was asleep, cradled in the woman's lap and beathing softly. the next was a little boy who ran up and down the tram tripping as it sped up and slowed and turned corners. he would squeal with joy as he tumbled to his knees and as he clambered back to his feet he would shout happily and incoherently at the passengers before running off. the third child looked a few years older than the boy, a daughter in a pink dress with a plastic dolly and hair in a neat ponytail. she sat next to her mother and affected a prim expression of annoyance and disapproval at her brother's antics.
the tram reached the top of the street and peeled away down a main road and shops gave way to houses. i saw, piled on a nature strip, a set of old speakers and a record player, all recently soaked by the rain. i watched the orthodox jews walking in groups. i stood and pulled the cord above my head and held on as the tram slowed to a stop. i made my way unsteadily down the steps and walked off the road and down the street, three houses down to my apartment block. i fumbled for my key and got inside.
my living room was quiet. i put the kettle on and settled into my arm chair. i could hear my breathing and the rising tone of the water bubbling. i thought about the warmth of the bakery, the bustle of the street. i thought about lingerie. my book shelf stood against the wall, seeming to cast a shadow. the kettle peaked and clicked off. i remembered my prescription at the pharmacy.
getting up, i put on an extra jumper and made my way to the door.
[the last thing i saw was a flock of sparrows sitting in a tree. feeling gravity shudder and swirl about them, they took flight with the spirals of golden autumn leaves, wings beating in the thinning atmosphere. and their last cries came to me distant and frail as they flew forever upwards into the starry sky.]
[the last thing i saw was a fountain that sent sparkling spheres of water arcing and shattering like fat rain drops on the stone heads of cherubs. and gradually, miraculously, the rain ceased beating the statues' heads and i swear i saw them turn to watch in curious awe as the crystalline orbs started to ascend.]
[the last thing i saw were the mannequins in a deserted department store. feeling their clothing grow weightless, their feet drifted from the stained carpet, wooden bodies making hollow connections, they waltzed and courted one another as they rose like angels to heaven.]
[the last thing i saw was an official announcement on television. an eminent scientist explaining the phenomena and the catastrophe to the world, laughing between his tears with pens and paper floating about him. and before the power cut out he was crying 'my god, isn't it wonderful?'.]
so, it was last night, i don't know about you, but my area had a blackout. i'm driving with my family in the car, all the streetlights are out, the houses, everything is pitch black, except for two steady streams of light, one white, the other red, the lights on the cars going down the road. all of a sudden, up ahead, cars start swerving left and right, pulling into the opposite lane. my mum starts telling me to slow down slow down my dad's saying look out my brothers want to know what's happening and i'm starting to lean on the breaks with my heart pumping faster and faster and the steady stream of red is breaking the way a river parts around a rock. finally, the car ahead pulls over and i'm next in line.
for a split second time stops, and sitting in front of me in the blindness of my headlights is a possum, crouched on the road, staring right into the windshield with one black eye. for a while i can only stare as it sits down, looking at me, it's got blood and saliva slipping from its broken jaw, and worse still, i can see deep red curtains of blood falling from its eyes, like it's crying.
i pull over to the side of the road and stay with the car while my family piles out to go save it. i'm sitting there watching the whole scene unfold in the rear view mirror. the cars have stopped moving for a while, and the headlights have created this great kind of circle of light amidst this enormous blackness, as if this is the only moment in that exists in the whole world. everyone's starting to gather around it, they're all staring with their hands on their mouths the way you do.
but the possum doesn't move. it still sits there, bleeding gently onto the road, staring straight ahead, body hunched forward, as if it's still waiting to be hit. and i guess that's the point of this story, just that image. this broken, dying possum, sitting with its missing eye and its trembling body, still waiting for the car to hit it, even as it disappears as two points of red into the blackness.
something about the sky here, like a deep purple welt. so textured and three dimensional, like richly folded velvet, so painfully out of reach. the wind here, so frigid, nothing sticky or warm to cling to you. it sings out between the glaciers and the deep cracks in the ice, it sweeps out across the great expanses and leaves everything mournful in its wake.
we wander through the winding paths, try to hold together, but are scattered as we go tripping and falling. we are scared animals.
here, we find a deep pool of water set in the ice, and we think nothing of finding it entirely warm. so we strip and begin to bathe. we find steam in our lungs, and we talk and laugh. the sky is furious above our heads, and the horizon is desolate and empty of the buildings that we long for. everything moves in slow motion.
here, as in all places were people come together, romance tries to flourish like some timid flower. our eyes meet across the water that flickers and glows with all manner of beautiful warm light. we try to make conversation, exchange stories and charismatic ideas, try to feel closer.
but romance finds itself raising its voice above the howling winds and the roaring purple sky and while we all laugh and talk we are beginning to cow beneath the immense pressures this place exerts on our souls, and we start to grow lonely and wonder how this water is not freezing cold.
as the mountains of ice glow with inner fires and began to mix and run in great rivers we go running with eyes wide into the darkness and towards to shore where salty waves are crashing on and on.
she walks the streets of jerusalem and all the men swallow the lumps in their throats and don't know where to look. she sways with the delicacy of a sapling in the breeze, her frame is shrouded in ocean blue cotton, and aspects of her figure drift in and out of view as the clothing shifts and forms around her. her hair is rebelliously short and infinitely black, she has eyes like a deer, big and round, possessing a beauty and light impossible for poets to capture. her long, tanned arms end in supple hands that hang near her narrow hips. she is impossibly beautiful, like a flower.
they drive the first nail straight through his wrist and he chews the inside of his mouth while two of his fingers stop working. the hill is littered with horrified onlookers and mostly staunch romans, a few of the younger ones looking a little pale and shaky. there's this tree off in the distance, and all its leaves are moving together, and the whispers are wandering over the city and up the hill. they hammer in the second one, and then move on to his feet, and the cross starts to take some of his weight, so he lets himself relax a little. after his feet are nailed on, one of the tougher soldiers takes an ugly looking little club and sets to work on his knees until they are visibly mangled and he's hanging from his bloodied wrists. and the crowd's looking really worried now, children are being led away blindfolded by wrinkled hands and women are fainting and wailing, whilst men set their jaws and harden their eyes. fractured legs jangling and stabbing with his wrists slowly burning, he starts to feel terribly guilty for all the fuss he's made. a few people hurl insults, apparently unmoved. he feels a little better after that.
she walks the streets of jerusalem and all the men's eyes pass over her without stirring except for those who've seen her before. people who recognise her are moved to stop and stare in dismay at the transformation. her hair is lank and greasy, it sticks to her head in matted clumps. her eyes are dull and devoid of interest, so incapable of recognition and glassily listless they might as well be blind. she shuffles uncertainly through the crowds and her clothes are creased and stained. her hands don't move and her hips don't sway. the wind cannot extract the poetry of her physique.
jesus bakes in the sun, pinned to the splintering cross and the women keep crying. he lifts his thorny head, and cocks his eyebrow at the distraught masses, gropes for gestures of consolation and finds himself at a loss. he does his best to speak through dry lips and parched tongue.
"guys, please. it's fine. it's really not as bad as it looks."
