Like ants …

The afternoon is steely grey, and sits on the world like a damp sponge. The dull sky drips down into the ocean and there is not a ripple on the water. The beach is empty, as dog walkers disappear out of the drizzle. There is however about thirty thousand rubber clad surfers watching the horizon like a strange aquatic cult.

They sit upright, but partially submerged. Every now and then as the water shifts with the suggestion of a wave, a few of them plop down onto there shiny bellies and paddle around each other. They stalk the space inbetween others like predators ready to pounce if and when the water surges up into a face, down which they can slide and glide escaping the trappings of the crowd.

It is a strange ritual to witness, comical even. At a distance they are tiny their black regiment moving as one, like jungle ants.

Lizard Mist

Every footstep brings the path to life. Sticks and twigs jump up, open their eyes, and scuttle into the bushes. The promise of rain has brought an invisible lizard population out onto the path which winds its way through the grassy patch between North Wollongong station and the University.

 As armies of thonged feet tramp past, the motionless reptiles emerge from the illusion of their camouflaged. Their yellow eyes catch your own for a split second before they disappear once more.

It could the damp oppressive weather drawing them out from the undergrowth. As if they can not breathe among the lush green leaves which constitute their homes. Instead they prefer to rest their underbellies on the cold lifeless stone of the path, waiting to be disturbed by the inevitable onslaught of student traffic.  

Arachnid Ambition

It seemed an ambitious plan. Effortlessly resting on the vertical, the spider surveyed the magnolia expanse. All short legs and ballooned body like an arachnid cartoon effigy, the spider appeared youthful, cute even. Skilled in the art of traveling without movement it ventured across the dinning room wall in stages, punctuated by long drawn out motionless pauses. The sunlight created great planes of difference on the wall. Clearly favoring the shadows, the tiny team of legs continued its journey, a pilgrimage conducted twice a day to the dusty sanctum behind the bookcase. It seemed a lonely pursuit.

Was there a point behind all that energy expenditure? Maybe there was a spider celebration or insect only carnival just out of sight, behind the line of browning encyclopedias. Or maybe, the bookcase provided a possible starting point for a fantastical new place of residence for the spider. A web strung glistening between the A to C volume and the light fixtures. Who knows.

The Heart of Hip

The quite Street gives way to a deep red dungeon, deliciously scented by beer, peanuts and a reminder that non smoking laws are yet to be fully enforced in
Melbourne. The Union pub is a local’s local. This is a place where a seat at the bar is a privileged thrown to the alternative, reserved for chain smoking VB guzzling, artistic types with vocabularies larger than the extensive blackboard menu which covers the walls. Despite the feeling that you may not have been in Fitzroy long enough (since before it was very cool and not a yuppie magnet) to be accepted by the regulars, there are enough dark corners to settle into and inconspicuously observe the slightly muscular black clad bar maid at work, while tucking into a huge chicken palmer and pint of VB original. Despite having to move every time the next shot at the pool table requires your chair to be moved, after a ten dollar jug of draft this becomes all part of the experience. 

Last flight on sunday night

The garish red carpet is as unwelcome as the bright white forced smiles which guide the passengers like landing lights through the departure gate along the walkway and on to the last Virgin Blue flight out of Melbourne on a Sunday night. A short flight, a well known destination, a journey of duty, this is not the magic of air travel but a necessary evil for those whose business and pleasure

 stretches them across the thousand Kilometer divide between Melbourne and Sydney.  

The air stewards go about their ritualistic preparations for take off. It seems that they must be trained not only in the art of perpetual perkiness but also taught a traditional dance: Rather like a well coordinated West End production they walk in time and conduct their safety checks to the rhythm of a silent score. It is a performance which is reassuring. Familiar to the passengers and a reminder that for these pristine individuals trusting a nicely painted hunk of metal to get you thirty thousand feet into the air and back is routine, run of the mill and completely safe.  

As the plane picks up speed with a groan and lack of grace, the forced smiles are unchanged but directed towards the windows. Strapped to their special seats the stewards watch the ground disappear as they are in turn watched by nearby passengers, searching for a glimpse of the possibility that behind the smiles they too contemplate whether today they will fall out of the sky.   

A Door that Bangs

A dream in peeled paint, pink flowers flank the trestle door and sand gathers in the corners. This house encompasses the imaginings of anyone who has hoped to live where the ocean fills their hair and erodes the spokes of their children’s bikes.  The porch is guarded by a sleeping giant sprawled on a wicker chair, soft and floppy with tufts of white fur poking out from between the pads of its paws, which twitch in pursuit of an imagined rabbit.

 

This house, wears neglect well, like a kind of authenticity or a visual reminder that the owners are not weekenders from the city but people who would rather be at the beach than choosing curtains to match a bed spread from a warehouse of over priced domestic must-haves. Although the white washed walls are dirtied around the edges, they are set in foundations of solid gold. The land must be worth enough to make a real estate agent twitch at the sight of it and mentally plan the demise of the family home which occupies it in favor of a fright of glass and stone grey feature walls.

 

Never again will a young family afford to call this their own, watching their children grow to fill the wild back yard and feeling the sun work its way through the rooms warming every corner.  

Old John

He paces the meager space which surrounds the block of tired red brick units, where he has lived on the ground floor since his wife left him in 1976 due to a bad turn in the stock market and the subsequent loss of the family home. His back is so straight, proudly staving off the inevitable onset of an aged hunch. Each step is small and deliberate, but the creases on his face are surrendered to the painful pointlessness of his routine.

 

“I get so down in winter, I can’t walk when it is cold it hurts my knees” he says to a passer by who seems to be an involuntary participant in the conversation. A smile lifts the lose skin about his jowls, almost squeezing his eyes shut. Animated by the opportunity to talk to someone he continues, trapping his target who forces a smile and tries not to look at the food stains old eyes fail to notice. “Its getting warm now though, it will be summer soon, I do like it when it is hot” John says. I duck as he looks up at the window from which I watch this routine, ashamed.

 

Living in this apartment has become a tactical game of avoidance. All the residents learn fairly quickly that if you don’t want to be cornered by John for at least twenty minutes every morning before work, you have to plan your escape with the precision of a military operation. There is however a small part of me which aches every time I duck behind the hedge out of his limited vision and jump on my bike before he sees me and asks me if I believe in Global Warming. I tell myself he has family, its just they visit when I am not home. I convince myself there is some one who cares about him, children maybe who bring him gifts at Christmas, and drop in to check he has all he needs. But I have never seen this happen.

 

He once told me he used to be big in the television industry, he offered to have us round for chocolate royals, and said I could watch any musical I wanted as he had them all on tape. I meant to go, I really did, there just is never time.

Hungry as Hell

The portions are a little too small. The organic green of the lettuce nearly conceals a streak of glistening tomato poking out from the miniature sandwich. Patiently they wait flanked by little lines of sweet personal parcels, behind the glass counter.

The price is a little too high, but the muffins are bursting with chocolate rocks, boulders in fact. As if they are competing for attention they spill out from the paper pots ..they were baked in and jostle for space in the basket.

Standing to attention, their keeper is bored of the the delights in her ward. She watches the clock grind arround on its axis, whilst others freely wonder in and out feeding their faces.

The Preparation

Silhouetted against posters which made him look taller than he is, Kav Temperly, of Fremantle formed Eskimo Joe, looked at home in his own shadow. For this songwriter and front man nonchalance appears to be the name of the game, when your face is emblazoned Andy Warhol style in rock star red across one whole wall of the bar. Wearing the low key uniform fitting to the venue, he padded around the empty Uni bar at Wollongong University, prepping for one of the smallest gigs on an impressive tour marking the release of his latest and most successful album; Black Fingernails and Red Wine.  

 

As the sound crew geared up the bar filled with the haunting vocals which set Eskimoe Joe apart from other bands born of the talented but increasingly dissimilar Western Australian music scene. Clad in tight jeans and peeping out from the staple imposing fringe, Kav emanated the self-assurance of some one who heads a band which has recently graduated from Triple J to the international music market. The previously uninterested  students loitering around the bar, look up from their beers and shared paper plates of over cooked chips now understanding why the security gates are going up tonight and tickets are sold out.