Saturday, May 28, 2016

Off to Guido's

Guido messaged to say he’d “been off air”, so he didn’t get messages until he got home. I was welcome to go to him, but he would be doing a good deed for his sister during the night, not that it matted because his boyfriend, Junior, would be at the house. When he told me he was incommunicado tomorrow, and that we could meet at Melbourne Cemetery in the morning, his first stop anywhere in the vicinity of my place, I decided to drive to the fringes of the city to get it myself. Too cloak and dagger for my sensibilities otherwise. Guido, naturally, found it hilarious. He loves playing the part.

Buddy didn’t want to come downstairs at 6.45pm when I was leaving, so I left him inside with Andy. It was very gratifying when he jumped about, happy to see me, when I got home. (I didn’t think I suffered from any dog owner’s insecurities?)

So off north to the “boonies” to visit Guido in his lair. Out passed where the trams end and the giant second hand car yards begin. Out passed the bright lights, the music, the kebab shops and the fusion cafes. Passed the pesky fucken bike paths filled with their angry bike riders. Passed where streets have people on them. Out passed where the evolved narrow streets become the planned wide roads. Out passed the service stations and the Seven Elevens, and the Maccas and the KFC’s, which seem to morph into generic roadside stops where punters can be drained of their hard earned cash in a multitude of ways. Out passed the mega shopping centres, the multiplex, the Cinemaplex, The Northern Central Jumbotron, the 2 ache Woollies. Out passed the road intersections that look more like aircraft landing facilities more so than the humble red, amber and green light configuration. Out passed the car stripping joints, the spray painters, the secret warehouses, the junkyards, the scraps for sale, the gaudy mosques and the northern boy’s gyms, sweaty T’s and discarded jockey. Guard dogs, CCTV, security. Drag strips. Late nights.

Of course, every slow cunt was in front of me for the entire trip out there and the entire trip back. Naturally. Tapping fingers on the steering wheel. That goes without saying. This is when Sam tells me that the only person being damaged by my constant flow of abuse from the drivers seat is him. He says I have a special form of Tourette’s that I save for driving. It is only his ears that bleed. Would I mind cutting it out?

I tell him that they are the words of a non-driver. It is just a little bit rich coming from someone who spends his entire life being chauffeur driven around wherever he may want to go. I tell him that while he is prepared to sit his arse down in the passenger seat never having bothered to put in even a scintilla of effort towards driving a car, he has no right to criticise. It is very easy to be a pussy-arsed passenger seat criticiser, but do the pain and then come back to me.

To the house. Where the bright lights stop, where the street lighting mysteriously dims to something that looks like it is gas powered. Once you are away from the main drag, every street looks the same, every intersection like the one before, kind of run down display home, circa middle of last century. The prom queen still in her prom dress fifty years later, post kids, post divorce, unemployment and drug addiction. It gets confusing, sometimes I laugh to myself that it is like an episode of Doctor Who, no matter how far I drive I keep coming back to the same intersection. So I have a safety word now that, funnily enough, covers the street names I have to look out for. (I’m not going to tell you what that is, well, there has to be some semblance of cloak and dagger about it all now doesn’t there?)

The house, it is more like a compound now. Guido has bought up the neighbouring houses in the street. Great, big horrible houses, dark and shut up, what the Greeks of the fifties did with their illegal casino money, but the wogs moved out years ago. There are matching Lyons, one decapitated. Balustrading that looks like mouths with teeth knocked out, dry fountains, more likely to be filled with a possum carcass than water. Wrought Iron Gates with fifteen rusty chains attached, some semblance of order obvious in the now faded-to-the-same-colour once colour-coded chain covers Windows with bars displaying broken blinds behind. Curtains drawn. Shut up. Closed down. Dead orchards, the trees bare sticks against the grey sky. Concreted gardens, entire concrete yards. Car bodies in the driveways. Giant work utes. Hatchbacks on the nature strips, parked up against super cars of the 80s, long since broken down.

“It ain’t no big deal, the land out here is cheap.”

He now has a cluster, the Guido Cluster. In Guido’s driveway sits a brand new WRX and a brand new 86. Both black, of course.

Junior was there, as mentioned. Guido was being a man with a van some where in the neighbouring suburbs, doing a good deed. Junior gushed about their new lounge suit that was arriving tomorrow. Guido was playing Good Samaritan? Bullshit! Guido was dumping used furniture.

It is always a fretful moment when the Dobermans rush in. They always seem to rush too, glide silently, blink, and they are there, 3 Doberman’s suddenly sniffing you silently. It is so sudden sometimes, I am sure I know what divers feel when they are suddenly surrounded by sharks.

Pepper, Bruno and Hussein. Hussein is the really big one, but Bruno isn’t far behind. It is Hussa for short, which seems all together more disturbing than Hussein when it is given as a directive. Hussa can sound like the death command to an efficient killer, when it is spoken all breathy in your right ear. “Hussa!” Kill.

Guido breeds champion Doberman Pincers, who’d have thought. Well, not me, but I already knew. I’ve been patted down by the three of them many times. He shows them and all. He plays it to the hilt, camp, rich, dog expert, apparently, according to Guido, as I have never been to one of Guido’s dog shows. “Oh, it is soooo much fun.” Apparently, he is good at it, well, again, according to Guido.

“Good dog. Good dog.” I pat their grey, leathery skin as they swim silently around my legs. Their pointy noses brush across each of my hands, almost simultaneously, like it is part of the training. Bruno and Hussa. Pepper sticks her nose into my arse, just in case I’d, some how, missed her presence.

Junior acts all sweet and blonde, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, like he always does. He’s lovely. Mr Business Analyst just mucking in and lending a helping hand in one of Guido’s business enterprises. I’m in and out in minutes.

There is a fourth one too, Beau, apparently she is with pups. When it is four Dobermans against the humans, ground space is very hard to find.

Junior is your All Australian, blond boy (ed note – he is thirty, so no letters please) every mother’s dream son, as sweet as the day is long. He kind of has this slightly ditzy routine he goes into, but I have never heard him make a mistake, or be wrong.

And four guard dogs.

That is Guido’s life, if it isn’t some kind of mind fuck, he is just not into it. I’m sure in his mind he is just playing one great big game of cops and robbers. Good guys. Bad guys.


Friday, May 27, 2016

I bought hot chips at 6pm

Buddy has suddenly become obedient as he starts to suffer the first effects of Stockholm Syndrome. I haven’t taken him for a walk in 2 weeks. Sam is cross about it. He is the best dog to be writing with, he just sleeps all day. Occasionally, he looks over at me with big sad eyes, but then slumphs down to sleep again. I must take him for a walk today.

I wrote all day.

It rained all day.

I bought hot chips at 6pm. Yes, I know, I thought I had the diet back under control. I headed out into the cold with my hoodie hood pulled up over my head. the wind blew bitterly, the rain fell. It was wet and dark and comfort food was exactly what was needed right at that point of leaving the house. It was a trip out into the elements, man pitted against nature.  Besides, Sam would never let me buy hot chips. "What sort of food do you call that?" His tone would be incredulous and dismissive at exactly the same time.

I bought 2 potato cakes and chips and while even I probably realised that my initial mental calculation was some what low at three bucks, but I wasn't quite expecting the actual cost when it came of $11.90.

The Hibiscus is in Bloom Again


Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Sweetie, Darling!

I had a real Edina Monsoon moment.  I came to on my bed, I looked over at the bedside clock and it said 6.02, well, that is what I saw.

I gazed over at the curtains. Well, it is about the same level of darkness this time of year for 6am and 6pm. We're into those mucky, winter months. I couldn't tell.

"Yes, but is it am, or pm, sweetie? Darling?" I had no idea. Not a clue. I've been writing down when I've fed Buddy, well, he is the only living creature who's life and death, actually, depends on me. I just figured it was best to write these things down. 

I looked down at my Apple watch, it's analogue. My head spun. Funnily enough I thought it was evening, don't ask me what day then Mark Skyped me to tell me it was cold and what he was having for breakfast. Oops.

I can't wait to tell Sam, he'll spit his coffee. No he won't. He'll say something cool like, "And I'm proud," he can roll that r," that you are SO proud of your behaviour."

Nah, he'll say, "You must be loving me not being there to nag you."

"There's this white noise, it is hard to explain, that seems to have stopped. I wondered if it was an ear problem all along?"

"Very funny."

Sam's worried about Buddy too. Me and Bud haven't been for a walk for a week. Bulldogs, so it would seem, are very adaptable to sleeping on their owner's bed's for long period's of time. Buddy has slept with me since Sam has been gone. That dog can put in many hours of inertia, no problem. 

Of course, Milo is dependant on me too, but he's a cat. Dinner time and some how he magically appears in the bedroom the door to which is closed. I'm laying in bed. Suddenly, Milo is on my chest. "Purr, purr, feed me, feed me." The next moment I am on my feet and opening the bedroom door. "Yay, human." Milo glides down the stairs in great cat fashion. He is rubbing against my ankles in the kitchen as I reach for the cat food box. "Yes, yes, feed me, feed me."

Buddy either stands up on the bed gazing at the bed room door, or he jumps down onto the floor boards and stands facing the door, when he wants to go out. He'll look over at me, then look back at the door, if I don't pick up on it straight away. Then it is just me following him through the house, opening the appropriate doors at the appropriate times.

I had a misunderstanding with Tuan in the shower, we were both getting in at the same time. Tuan said he'd be 5 minutes. I waited and waited and finally I went to see if he'd finished. Not only had he finished in the shower, he'd left the house.


Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Balloons

Like a bull dog

You can often hear them, before you see them

Balloons in the morning light

There is something ookie  spokie about balloons in the early morning air.

All of that rushing silence, while slimming through the air.

Motion without movement, flying without wings.

Monday, May 23, 2016

I think it was Kafka

When your conscious becomes unconscious, you are drunk.

When your unconscious becomes conscious, you are stoned.



Sunday, May 22, 2016

Afternoon Nap

Some bitch has got her baby outside the front of my house, and the thing is squawking, he looks up from between his pillow mountain, wonky-eyed. He doesn't know that for sure, it is an assumption. It could be a metrosexual with one of those snazzy baby back packs. It could be two queers proving their love is real. Really? Of all the houses of all the world, nay, of all the houses in our fair city, of all the crummy gin joints, you had to pick mine to which to bring your kid, he thinks. He relaxes his neck and rests back down onto the mattress. His head is warm up against the bull dog's furry head.  Buddy breathes rhythmically. The light is gentle. The baby cries.

My friend went to America and I got this bull dog t-shirt

Blue & white combi


Bird's Nest Soup

Neither offered up a better salutation

Do you ever think it is weired, when you are waiting for the coffee machine to run through all of its goddam checks and balances, that the chicken leg, breakfast, you so indelicately tore from the caracas on the square white plate tucked in amongst the overripe lettuce and the marg container with the half cut onion on its lid, was once warm and making "cluck cluck" sounds around your ankle region? Do you ever think about its heart beating, its body covered in feathers? No, I never have before. And I like chickens, it is one of my favourite animals.

I put Buddy out at 10pm. Mitch was in the lounge room wrapped in a blanket watching TV. I think his laptop has broken, so he has to go old school and watch the footy on teli. So no porn for the 22 year old, for the next few days, at least, I wonder how he'll cope?

The Lake House started screening… I must have fallen asleep watching it. Now there is a pelletised and bottled, subscription for falling asleep. They couldn't have done better than it they'ed inserted Keanu Reeves IV into my bloodstream. (which part do you think I'd chose?) Keanu fucking me in the vein, it paints a pretty picture, now doesn't it.


Andy is heading back to the country for his father's funeral today. 

He said he was leaving at 1pm. 

I said, "Have fun."

We both stopped side by side int he kitchen, if only in silence, to momentarily ponder the inappropriateness of my response.

Neither offered up a better salutation.

Buddy spent the night in his kennel, but he scampered back up to my bed enthusiastically, me with my first coffee in my hand. I could almost make out the "woo-hoo" in the snuffles, like Scooby Doo.

The sun is shining, it is sunny Sunday. It is as good a day as any on which to get sent off. The first Sunday after you have died. I'm sure that had great spiritual resonance once. Funny what people once thought? Old Charlie, finally slipped his mortal coil. I was going to write him a poem, but I didn't. Too monged. I've never met him, of course, I've just seen a few images of him on Andy's Facebook, it is a bit hard to get any sense of someone under those circumstances. So, no poem for Charlie. Perhaps, that is what I should call it?

Sam is the plotting the death of children. Oh yes, hello and good morning to you too. Apparently, 20 kids on monkey bikes to be specific. "They just ride around and around, not going anywhere..." Apparently, I was to aide and abet this crime most fowl. "They all have to die, they woke me up." You can do almost anything, but don't get between Sam and his sleep. It never goes well. My honey needs at least 8 hours sleep to be a pleasant human being. He got sick of my lefty, pacifist, non-fatal, bullshit pretty damn quickly and declared "Off with their fucken heads," in his best Alice in Wonderland tones.

"All I need is access to a semi-automatic weapon," were his parting words.

Sam's been baby sitting the kids while the adults run the family business  He's been looking after the nephews  actually, with all those boys over there, he's been looking after the one neice. He should be sweeter, then by my reckoning. But disturb his sleep and you die, I've had some looks, let me tell you. And yet, he is the one who is incapable of letting me fall asleep on the couch, go figure.

I really must go and floss. It is one thing to not shower for four days, but not to floss, it is inhumane.

"The fat" boyfriend sure has got a bum wiggle on her, as though someone once did tell him his arse looked fat in that. He's been self conscious in the way he walks ever since. I see as I gaze down from my balcony as he heads across the street, tippy-toe balarina-style, my Statler and Waldorf routine on the inhabitants in the street.

Andy got picked up by a dowager in a Mercedes.

Friday, May 20, 2016

Sloth

I'm watching the midday movie, talk about sloth. It's called Michael. Andie McDowel, Bob Hoskins, William Hurt, John Travolta. It seems to be a road movie. Some American dross. It is nicely shot. Nice Cinematography. I'm hungry. There is no longer any food in the house. Well, none that I want to eat, anyway.

I mute the ads.  The golden light of the afternoon glows at the balcony doors.

First, an egg into boiling water. I can cook you a runny yolk egg every time, it is easy. 10 minutes to boil from cold. It couldn't be easier. Chuck it in, turn on the gas.
I cut an avocado. Salt it, you can never over-salt an avocado and if you do, add more pepper.
I pull all the smoked salmon out of the packet. I lay a good amount over the avocado. I eat the rest. (It is only me, and this is the end of any thing edible)
I peel the egg and put it on the smoked salmon. Yolk oozes out, just after I run the fork through the egg, golden yellow.

Buddy comes down for a drink of water, and a piss.

I sit in the garden. A neighbour starts up his buzz saw. Like? Seriously?

Milo comes running in as if to say, make it stop, it is hurting my ears. I secretly hope that I am about to hear a sawing accident. Like punching a dead weight punching bag right in the middle, that would be the sound of the saw as it takes his arm off just below the elbow.

I can hear my other neighbours talking. The party boys are in their garden, two houses across. Seriously? Does nobody work around here?

It's like being in a rain forest full of chattering monkeys, one lose with a power tool.

The sad queens have a selection of newly washed undies on their line, red, white and blue, as they always do, when I go play mrs jessup up the back where the fence is missing. You don't need too many guesses to guess what those boys fetish is. I used to think the muscly dark-haired one was the cute one, that's why I called him the fat boyfriend, go figure, but now I think the blonde business like one is cuter,  that deep, sexy voice, those sparkling eyes. Although, with what I've been eating, I have no right to call anybody fat.

The buzz saw starts up again. I do hope he trips on that power cord and falls, soon, I think.

I chose the Bourne Identity and the Bourne Supremacy, for the films for this afternoon.

I've written nothing.


First Light

I Drank More Coffee

I woke, 4.59am. The TV was talking, I hit mute. My world was quiet again. I smoked a joint, track pants, hoodie, explorer socks, balcony.  It's not warm at 5am. The balcony floor boards are cold under my feet.

Buddy sat up in the middle of the bed making a "Gak!" sound, as I come back into the room. I took him out the back. He disappeared into the dark of the back yard, walking off fearlessly until the shadows engulfed him and I could see him no more. Silence, not even the faint sound of a paw digging in the garden. Not even the rustling of leaves. Buddy comes running back down the garden stairs and inside at a sprint. Job well done. 

I dropped a huge turd. I only mention it, in case there are squeamish amongst you, as it was a huge relief. I'd woken up feeling somewhat uncomfortable and it took me quite some time to work out why. 
I drank more coffee, sitting on my balcony in the dark. I bought it upstairs with me, with Buddy. The strong taste of coffee first thing in the dark morning air, as the world wakes and get's dressed and heads out its collective door's.

A bike road passed with no lights on. It couldn't be seen. Just a figment of what might have been there, sliding through the shadows.

A car started up, out of sight. A Commodore pulled into the street, with big sweeping lights. It stopped momentarily on the wrong side of the road. The newly started car commenced to back out from the drive way opposite. The Commodore took off again. The station wagon backed out into the street and took off in the same direction as the Commodore.

A bike rode by the other way with a bright head light, it sparkled like the biggest diamond.

Buddy lay in the middle of the bed, settled down in the puffed up doona, like an Elizabethan gown. He breathed heavily, not quite a snore.

6am. It is still dark outside. Cold.

Buddy snores from the bed.

And then the incredible dawn. It is awe inspiring as the world is reversed and the light begins to shine from above, no longer artificially from the bottom. The sky lights up bit by bit.

Trucks begin to move along the streets. Cars drive by. Reversing beeps begin to sound. The whir of life can be heard. The first tram clunks along the tracks and then slides away to some where else.

It's freezing. I'm hungry.

I eat muesli and yogurt with pomegranate.

I watch Ellen. Our lives are full of American dross.

The party is over

As the bomb goes off