A letter to Canada about Australia

I sort of stuffed up a lttle with this letter, writing way over my audience's head. My partner's cousin had a school project where she had to ask someone from another country to describe that countries geography. I thought the cousin was about 16, but she was actually only 8! I wrote this in October - November 2004.

Dear L____

G'day from Australia, the smallest and driest continent, the biggest island - I'm Josh, N____'s partner. I read your letter and liked the idea, so decided to respond. I've travelled a fair amount around Australia, though not yet to West Australia or Tasmania. My partner and I met while at University in Wollongong. In a funny way, it is a good example of most of the populated areas of Australia.

Wollongong sits along a mostly flat strip of land about three kilometres in width, between the Pacific Ocean and an escarpment that forms part of the great dividing range(1). It relies on fishing, farming, the steel works and the university in the main, as well as the assorted occupations required in a city.

One spring morning, on top of Hospital Hill, while the mist rolled in slow motion waterfalls from the escarpment that stretches away to the north, and the flares from the industrial hell of Port Kembla to the south lit the twilight sky in shades of yellow, orange, blue and pink, I found a wallaby(2), lured into the town by the new buds and flowers in gardens, struck dead by a car or ambulance, in the gutter outside Emergency.

Further away to the south is Macquarie Pass, once a logging track that is the main route up to the Southern Highlands, where N____'s parents live. It is a lovely road that wends its way through subtropical rainforests, mosses and waterfalls. There are a number of rainforests in Australia, all the way down the east coast, in wet pockets between the dry sclerophyll(3) woodlands. In Tasmania, the island state south of the mainland, the climate is much wetter, and they have the oldest plant in the world; a type of cycad or holly - I forget how old it is, 43 000 to 120 000 years, but the remains of its own leaves are partially fossilised around is base.

My mum's farm is in C_________, also on the Southern Highlands, about three hours drive from Sydney. It is a lamb and potatoes region, though my mum farms goats and has heavy horses. At the moment the whole south east of Australia is in drought, and although the rolling hills around C________ that stretch to the horizon are as green as the fields of Ireland right now, it is all a lie. There haven't been enough winter and spring rains to properly soak the soil or fill the dams, and when Summer comes the fields will turn brown and bare. When you walk in them clouds of dust puff up around your ankles.

In times past, due to the application of European agricultural techniques, which aren't suited to Australian soils or climate, the farmers used to lose a lot of topsoil to wind and also rain(4) erosion. In the 1980's a giant dust cloud covered Melbourne. This is mainly under control now, it is illegal to log along creeks and rivers, but the big problem these days it that due to the removal of so many trees for pasture and crops, the water table has risen in many places. This is a problem, especially in Western Australia, because the water is very salty, a legacy of the continent's past when there were inland seas, and the salt ends up coming to the surface where it clogs up the soil and basically destroys any chance of anything growing there. This is a nation-wide disaster in waiting.

Another is the overall way that Australians use water. We waste a lot of it, using drinking water in toilets, for example. Things are starting to change a bit now though, but only due to impending calamity; Sydney is due to run out of water in two years if the drought doesn't break- some towns are already trucking in water. Under much of the country there are acquifers, including the Great Artesian Basin. There are many bores that for many years have been bringing these subterranean waters to the surface, at a greater rate than they can be filled, a slow process that takes thousands of years. In many areas the bores are no longer attended- when I was twelve on a trip around the country, we found an oasis in the desert, an abandonded train station where steaming hot water gushed from a broken pipe. Most of the water, of course, evaporates. Another oasis was a meteorite crater. Because most of the rock had been fused at the bottom by the heat and force of the impact, it made a bowl where water would collect- not enough to see, but enough for the plants. Where there are plants, there are birds, reptiles and marsupials- the desert hopping mouse never has to drink in its life, it can make its own water in the chemical reactions in its stomach from the carbohydrates it eats.

It is very hot in the deserts, a different type of heat to the coasts' because the air is so dry. It doesn't really even feel that hot, though the beads of sweat that run as fast as a tap should warn you that it is. It can be very dangerous. People used to die (different now with mobile phones) if they ran out of petrol in the outback and didn't have heaps of water. The distances are huge: on that trip when I was a boy we did 9 000 kms in three weeks.

When you think of deserts you probabaly think of the Sahara, all sand and death, but our deserts aren't like that. In the Northern Territory, around Uluru and Kata Tjuka (Ayers Rock and The Olgas) the sands are a rusty red, and it is hot and dry, but life abounds; there are allocasaurinas, eucalypts, wattles(5), many more species of trees and bushes, and of course, spinefex(6). Even in Sturt's Stoney Desert, the remnants of an ancient sea bed, where pebbles and dust stretch to the horizon,and it seemed that here was a death place, I saw galahs, emus, kites, kangaroos and of course, spinefex (though not many or much).

Outside of the perenially wet pockets the plants have to be tough to survive. Most have leaves with very few stomata(7) and thick layers of wax to avoid water loss. Eucalypts actually angle their leaves through the day so that they present a sidewards (the thinnest) profile to the sun. It is very dry and hot, but also our soils are particularly poor in their quality. This is because Australia is a very old continent. The lack of tectonic activity for millions of years has seen our mountains eroded down to stumps- look up Mount Warning on the web; our highest peak in the Snowy Mountains, Mt Kosciusko, is only 2230 metres. It always snows in the Snowies, but it is practically the only place where it does(8).

Because our soils are so poor, and differ from mineral content from area to area, t makes it difficult for one species to dominate, so we have a wonderful biodiversity amongst our plantlife. Eucalypts create a huge amount of oil impregnated bark and leaf wastes, that in our hot and dry conditions will carry a fire with ease across a landscape. They burn well, and like it because it kills competitors and makes nutrients available again in the form of ash. Eucalypts have special epicormic buds, just below the surface of the bark, that burst out when a fire has passed through, feathering their trunks and branches in fresh growth, gentle reds at first that change to the distinctive blue-grey-green of an adult leaf. Many other plant's seeds, like wattles and banksias, actually rely on a fire scorching them to germinate.

When Captain Cook first arrived, he described the landscape as being open woodlands; grass beneath a fairly continuous canopy of Eucalypts. This was because the Aboriginals(9) used fire to farm. They would ensure that the undergrowth and waste never built up too much, smothering the grasses that the kangaroos liked to eat. They burnt the land in little patches, always. Captain Cook reported the smoke of many fires the way along the coast(10).

You might see on the news now and again we have huge bushfires every few years; houses are burnt, people die, huge areas laid waste. Many native animals that survive the fires die of stavation afterwards because the fires have burnt everything for as far as they can travel. This is due to the land being improperly managed, as we no longer follow the procedures the Aboiginals utilised.

There are a few reasons why Australia is so dry. One is due to it being situated along the Tropic of Capricorn; there are corresponding deserts in Chile. This is something to do with the cold of Antartica meeting up with the heat of the equator. Deserts also lie along the Tropic of Cancer. The reason we get droughts in cycles (for the south east cost at least) is due to a Pacific Ocean current called El Nino, which oscillates the rain back and forth between South America and Australia. With Global Warming, the current is becoming erratic, which has dire implications. The North of Australia is monsoonal, so they are usually drought struck through winter and flooded in summer, while Tasmania's climate shares that of New Zealand- similar again to England's. I don't really know much about West Australia's except it is much drier than the East Coast but roughly corresponds, and South Australia's is also very dry. At the moment the drought there is killing the sorts of trees that normally survive.

We get cyclones across the north of Australia sometimes, in 1973 our territory capital Darwin was destroyed by one. When I was four, holidaying in Queensland, we got stranded by the accompanying floods. Because I had chicken pox, and the authorities didn't want an epidemic, my family was given separate quarters from the rest of the refugees, in a stilted hut amongst the tall dark trunks of eucalypts that doubled their length in the ankle deep waters at their base.

In Sydney, our winters are mild- 14C is a cold day. Spring is characterised for me by cold winds that slip through your jumper while the sun warms your face and a deep blue sky. Summers are hot, and so still and muggy it's like swimming in mud, you wish you could cut the air with a knife. On days like these we long for the Southerly Buster, those cool winds from Antartica. On the beach in Summer you can see them coming- a cloud that looks like a rolled up carpet. When it hits, pandemonium! The golden white sands so hot underfoot sting your legs, beach umbrellas soar sixty metres or more, and everyone scuttles towel clad for safety. Autumn doesn't really exist except for the imported deciduous trees: at some indefinable point, summer just becomes winter.

So- to finish, Australia is a continent, so we have all sorts of climates and terrains, but mainly we cluster along the arable strip of our coastlines, fighting to survive the droughts and attendant bushfires, that, with Global Warming, are to become more prevalent and longer, especially in the south eastern corner of Australia where the bulk of our population lives. Next time you drink a glass of the water that abounds in your country, think how precious it is to people, plants and animals on the other side of the world.

yours sincerely

Josh Avila

ps. Sydney's topography is essentially a slanted plateau sloping to the ocean- this means we just allow our stormwater and sewage to go to waste, taking the path of least resistanace to the sea. This topography is also responsible for Sydney's summer conditions- inversion layers blanket the city (cold air sitting on top of warm air, like thermoclines in water)

(1)An ancient mountain chain that blocks the rain clouds from getting inland.

(2)Like a small kangaroo

(3)Any woody plant with leathery leaves retaining water.

(4)When it does rain it pours. In 1998 in Wollongong we had 400mm of rain in 24hrs, most of it falling in one. There were flash floods and two people died.

(5)One species, the Golden Wattle, is our national flower. It is now a weed in many areas because it has been planted outside it's natural range.

(6)A very important spiky native grass, whose clumps form microclimates that give shelter to many small marsupials and also form the basis of the diet of termites, whose role in the ecosystem is critical.

(7)Very small holes that allow the plant to 'breathe' in Carbon Dioxide and 'exhale' oxygen and water vapour. These littleholes actually pull the water up from the ground through a process called transpiration.

(8)There is a very big dam in the Snowy Mountains that was built largely by migrants in the 1950's when Australia had a 'populate or perish' policy, driven by fear of 'the Yellow Peril' of Asia, also reflected in its 'White Australia' policy. World War two saw huge numbers of Europeans displaced, and many came to Australia. The value of migration began to be seen, my parents arrived in the sixties as 'Ten Pound Poms.' By the 1980's we, with Canada, had the best record for immigration and a resultant vibrant multi-cultural society (in the cities at least). Also by then Australia had begun to revise its opinion of how the Aboriginals were treated through history. It is true to say that the English came here and made war on them with guns, germs and alcohol, destroying their culture, stealing their land, then their languages and children.
The cultural progression has been halted in recent years, and the ugly spectre of racism has gained under the aegis of our Prime Minister, whose government has provided adequate financial management for the economy at the cost of our health, education and morality. His small minded stance and divisive politics that trade on fear and greed has seen refugees denied lawful entry, children imprisoned, the denial of Aboriginal history and landrights, a continued debasement of the environment, involvement in an illegal war and an alliance so tightly knit with the USA that we have become a non-voting American state and a resultant terrorist target, to name a few.
We have a lot of myths in Australia about 'a fair go' and 'Aussie battlers' and 'independence of spirit and disrespect for authority,' but that's all nonsense. This nation has always been about criminals, convicts and sheep. The brittle and grasping attitude of our PM could well be a relectin of the country; facile, we cling to the coast the way around, our interior shied away from, even in name, the outback.

(9)The Aboriginal tribe that inhabited the Sydney region were called the Eora. Try to find out about the wars fought between the colony and Pemulway. It will be hard, because they tried to cover up all evidence of conflict.

(10)A lot of my information comes from a book called 'The Future Eaters,' by Dr Tim Flannery. It is very easy to read and well worth finding.

the history of my surname as i know it

It’s not clear how or exactly when my ancestors arrived in England, but they were without doubt Sephardic Jews. Somewhere along the line the surname became anglicised slightly, in that the pronunciation changed from ‘a villa’ to ‘avala’ with a hard middle ‘a’. Given the persecution that the Jews were subjected to through Spain, and the rest of Europe across history, the actions of my great great grandfather should come as no real surprise. He had a daughter and three sons, one of whom I am descended.
By that stage, I was told, my family had accrued a huge manor house in the country, with peacocks strutting across the lawns. He was a real freak, who doted on his daughter, and condemned the sons to grow up in the workers’ cottages at the bottom of his estates. When they turned 18 he horse-whipped them from his lands.
My great grandfather, foreswearing Judaism, was a drunk who died at the age of 45, having moved from the UK to Canada to the UK, he abandoned his wife, daughter and son after moving to Australia. My Great Grandmother was forced to become a ‘private nurse’ for wealthy old men. She had to leave my Grandpa Jim and Great Aunt in care, and wouldn’t see them for months. At one of these places when my grandpa Jim was seven, the carer, basically a mad farmer, had some odd ideas about hygiene. He would hose them down in a courtyard in the middle of winter once a week, and circumcised my grandfather with a kitchen knife.
Grandpa Jim met and married granny Molly, nee Bedford, and Andrew, Ian (my Dad) and Kay were the resultant issue, Kay apparently very quickly: upon the first contraction, Molly grabbed the bucket kept handy (because they slept upstairs and the loo was downstairs) and as her waters broke they carried Kay out along with them. My Dad tells me that Jim was pretty tough with them when they were kids; bashing his brother Andrew about. Dad once related a tale of defenestrating to escape Grandpa Jim’s rage. Fortunately, Jim managed to mellow across the years. His method of estimating what sort of a person you were was, upon first meeting, to immediately insult you, and then laugh like a drain. You either laughed along or were affronted, which meant he could relax or treat you with gloved disdain.
The night before Dad was born, so the story goes, granny Molly had seen a film about werewolves. Dad was born in 1943, with a caul, a wrapping of hair that lines the amniotic sack in the womb and is superstitiously regarded as proof against drowning, so Molly thought she’d borne a lycanthrope. Dad told me once of how a doodle bug landed a few houses away, bringing down all the plaster from the ceiling, and how scared Molly was, which made him very scared, and the crater was big enough to fit a London double decker into, which must be a very early memory indeed.
Perhaps because of a troubled home life, or the impact of the war on his childhood, Dad didn’t achieve much at his schooling, though became passionate about scouting. At 16 he went on a solo holiday to Spain, and at 18 signed up with ‘the big brother’ movement, an organization that exported young British men to help populate Australia. It was not the greatest of voyages, though Dad only really remembers the excitement of it. There were some problems on the ship, and because of his beard and the maturity his experiences had given him, he was unofficially delegated by the other boys on board as their spokesman. When they arrived in Sydney, they were all taken out to a farm at Cabramatta, at that stage still a rural area. Dad protested at being used as slave labour, a charge the ‘big brother’ movement represented as agricultural training, and told him to get stuffed,
On the word of a bloke that he met in a pub in England, he hitchhiked all the way up the east coast to Townsville, through the wet season. The road was unpaved back then, and I can recall Dad describing the difference between the two sorts of mud: black and red. The Red was the worst and easiest to get bogged in, as it was so slippery.
He arrived in Townsville in the middle of a recession. Luckily, the last lift he got into town was with a decent fellow, who, after establishing with Dad that his connection didn’t exist, gave Dad a bed for the night and use of a shower. The next morning Dad was driven to the labour exchange, where he was told of a job as a cowboy, on a station near Cloncurry, a remote township near Mt Isa. He couldn’t believe his good fortune: it was the dream job of his childhood. After reassuring the employment agency that he wouldn’t have any troubles sharing his quarters with a black, not sharing the incipient racism most Australians bore at the time, he made his way to the train station.
As he tells it, this was the first of many cultural shocks. The plan was to catch the train to Mt Isa, then hop a lift with the postman out to Cloncurry and the station. Dad had in his mind ‘English’ distances and standards. The train was effectively a goods train that never sped up and took forever. The postman was not a little red van but a road train. A cowboy in Australia mucks out the cow stall; those that ride the horses we call stockmen. After a few months, Dad begged the station manager to let him be a stockman too, which was granted, provided he maintained his previous duties, which he did.
After some time at this, dad and Ray, another stockman of the same age he’d befriended, took off round the country working on a carnival. After a further while at that, he and Ray set off in 1962-3 to go to England overland through Asia, the middle East, Eastern Europe (where they had a run in with the secret police), and Western Europe. When they got to the UK, they were pretty crook with hepatitis, though Ray kept sneaking out to the pub. When he was better, Dad looked up Mum first of all his old crew, as she was the only one who’d maintained contact with him through his adventures.
One thing followed another and in 1965 my older brother was born. After a couple of years in the UK, my parents became 10 pound Poms, and migrated to Australia. Dad says he’d been feeling a growing desperation in England, where the freedom of spirit he’d gained had been worn down by the relentless slog of being in England, and putting up with the English, so for him it was a great relief to arrive in Surfers Paradise.
Looking for the riches that the frontier of Australia had to offer, Dad went fossicking for opals in SW Queensland for six months with an English bloke who claimed to be ex WW2 SAS. At the end of the trip, they were ready to kill each other, and split the prospected boulder opal between them.
My parents moved to Sydney, where Mum got a job and Dad went to Uni. I was born toward the end of his degree.

short play: 10 minutes

This was supposed to be a period specific piece, utilising the art movement of the time as inspiration and writing within the movement's approach. I chose absurdism, looking more at Harold Pinter than Beckett. One thing Pinter does really well is a 'comedy of menace', (especially in The Caretaker) which I strove for, but didn't quite reach. . . Despite this, the piece works in its own right, and is due to be preformed at Uni pretty soon.


The Custom

by Josh Avila 2005

Characters:

Paul casually dressed mid 20s to early 30s
Katrina smartly dressed mid 20s to early 30s
Waitress casually dressed in black early 20s
Steve smartly dressed mid 20s to early 30s


The Cafe should be set up with a number of tables and chairs. White table cloths, a little vases with posies. The door to the street is off stage, the kitchen opposite. Paul and Katrina should barely look at each other while they sit at their table. Katrina sits alone at a table, looking out aimlessly into the audience. She does not see Paul enter from the street.


PAUL: G’day, g’day

KATRINA: Paul!

PAUL: Sorry I’m late, have you been waiting long?

KATRINA: You’d be late to your own funeral, so no, I haven’t been waiting long. I came
late myself.

PAUL: I don’t mean to be late.

KATRINA: It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.

PAUL: Well. . . this is a nice spot.

KATRINA: Where?

PAUL: Here. This café. I like it.

KATRINA: Yes. I often have lunch here. It’s close to my work.

PAUL: Wooden tables, comfy chairs. Pot plants, pretty waitress. I like it. So how
long has it been again? About a year and a half?

KATRINA: I guess so. About that.

PAUL: Everything’s changed a lot since then.

KATRINA: It certainly has.

Pause

PAUL: You know, one time he told me, it would have been at a place like this, I
mean not this café, but one like it. Maybe with the tables on the street,
yes, that was it, anyway, he was walking past it, this café: he’d just been to
another one, I think he’d had lunch with Steve, you remember Steve, at a different
café, it was probably a bit like this one too, I mean they’re all a bit the same aren’t
they. . . I don’t know if he ate, but they would’ve had coffee, anyway he was walking
past this café on his way to his girlfriend‘s, when he heard yelling from across the
street, from this café—

KATRINA: I thought he was walking past it.

PAUL: What?

KATRINA: This café.

PAUL: What, here?

KATRINA: No, the Café.

PAUL: No, he was on the other side of the street to it. The other side.

KATRINA: He loved a good coffee.

PAUL: Yes.

KATRINA: They make a good one here.

PAUL: I hope so. . .

KATRINA: When was all this again?

PAUL: It would have been about two years ago.

KATRINA: Not long before then. . . before . . .

Pause

PAUL: Yes. I guess you could say it was symptomatic.

Pause

What he did, see, was there was this yelling from across the street, from this
café with the tables outside, what do you call it? Al, al fresco, al fresco. . . so
this guy was screaming at the waitress on the footpath, I don’t know what
about, but really angrily, like, just full of rage, I think it was about the service, or the
food, or something, and he had a bad headache, from being in the city he said, you
know how he loved the country, I mean he was living there wasn’t he, so anyway he
waited until there was a gap in the in the traffic and a. . . pause in the torrent of
abuse and called out for the guy to shut up, and that he should be polite, and then
the guy came over the road at him, and screamed at him and swung a punch that
he dodged, and then another that he said he mostly dodged, but it kind of grazed
his ear a bit, and then he said he looked the guy in his eyes and said ‘You punch
like a girl.’ He said the guy turned purple with rage, purple, and started to belt him,
but some other blokes who were friends of the waitress came over the road and
started fighting with the guy, so he went across the road and talked to the waitress
and she gave him a coffee.

Pause

And then a few hours later he was at a bookshop and someone who must
have seen the fight asked him if he was okay, and he said for a moment he knew
what it was to be a celebrity.

Pause

Yes, it pays to be polite.

Enter waitress

WAITRESS: Are you order to ready now?

PAUL: A long double black with a side serve of chilled milk thanks.

KATRINA: Could I have a latte, please?

WAITRESS: Okay. Do you want any thing to eat? The soup’s good today.

PAUL: What sort of soup?

WAITRESS: Tomato. It’s good.

PAUL: Alright then. You’ve sold me.

KATRINA: Could I have the BLT today, please?

WAITRESS: Sure.

Exit waitress

PAUL: So have you seen Steve at all?

KATRINA: No, not since. . .

PAUL: No, me neither. Yes, it was a sad day. But there were signs. In hindsight.

KATRINA: So reckless.

PAUL: She’s quite fetching, isn’t she?

KATRINA: I suppose.

PAUL: Yes. And chivalrous.

Pause.

KATRINA: He was that too.

PAUL: But a real risk taker. Like you say, reckless.

KATRINA: Yes.

PAUL: One time I remember, it was, oh, years ago. We were all very drunk, me Steve and
him, and we went down into the train tunnels, because it was late, and we didn’t’
have any money for a cab, those were the days, free. . . we could see what we
were doing well enough, but we thought the trains had stopped running only they
hadn’t, and we felt that rush of air from an oncoming train, and had to run to the
spaces they make for people like us, so I went for the nearest, and Steve the one
after, but he, well, he ran past two or three before jumping into the shelter.

KATRINA: I guess you can see some connections. In hindsight.

PAUL: Yes.

Enter waitress with coffees

WAITRESS: Your latte—

KATRINA: Thank you.

WAITRESS: and a long black. (as the waitress places the coffee down she spills some in Paul’s lap)

PAUL: Bloody Hell!

WAITRESS: Oh dear! Here, let me—

PAUL: No, I’m alright thanks.

WAITRESS: Please—

PAUL: Don’t worry about it.

WAITRESS: I’m really very sorry.

PAUL: Look, I’m dry all ready.

Pause as waitress exits

PAUL: Well!

KATRINA: He was very important to me. We were going to. . . we had plans.

PAUL: And she’s forgotten my milk.

KATRINA: I miss him.

PAUL: Service like that in a place like this?

KATRINA: I really miss him. I’ve had. . . a hard time of it, you know.

Pause

PAUL: I don’t like to complain, you know, but it’s the principle. . . still, she’s easy on the eye. That’s probably how she got the job. Life’s easier for beautiful people.

KATRINA: There’s Steve!

PAUL: What?

KATRINA: Steve! (exits)

PAUL: (looking off) Why so it is. Fancy that.

Pause. Paul sips his coffee and grimaces. Enter Steve and Katrina

KATRINA: We were just talking about you—

PAUL: Fancy meeting you here.

STEVE: Hello Paul.

PAUL: Steve.

KATRINA: What have you been up to since we saw you last?

STEVE: Just the same old stuff.

PAUL: Typical.

STEVE: What?

KATRINA: Paul.

PAUL: I said typical. My life has been drastically changed since, since. . . and Katrina’s—
no don’t interrupt, this needs to be said— it’s just typical. You live your life in a
moral vacuum, Steve. And if anyone could have done something. . . You were the
one responsible! It was your fault he—

KATRINA: Paul!

Pause

STEVE: Yes. . . Well, it was nice to see you, Katrina. We should catch up some time.

KATRINA: Yes. Steve, I’m sorry for—

STEVE: You’re not to blame, Katrina.

PAUL: (rising to his feet) And I am, is that it? Well, stuff you Steve. You better watch it.
Stuff you. Go on, get out of it. We were doing fine before you appeared on the
scene. What do you want to hang around here for? Why couldn’t you just keep
walking? Go on, piss off, piss off then, you parasite.

STEVE: I see you haven’ t changed a bit. Katrina. (exits)

Pause. Paul sits down again.

PAUL: Don’t say a word.

KATRINA: I can’t believe you, Paul. It’s been over a year. You could have at least tried. . .

PAUL: Maybe you can forget. . .

Enter Waitress with food

WAITRESS: Here we are then, your usual BLT—

KATRINA: Thank you.

WAITRESS: and a tomato soup. (as the waitress places the soup, Paul turns and knocks the bowl, spilling some over himself)

PAUL: Bloody Hell! (rises, knocking his chair over)

WAITRESS: I’m so sorry! Please, let me—

PAUL: Just get out of it, leave me alone!

WAITRESS: I’m so sorry, it was an accident.

PAUL: It’s incompetence, that’s what it is.

WAITRESS: Look, I didn’t—

PAUL: You probably got this job on the strength of your looks, hey? What did you do, fuck
the manager?

KATRINA: Paul!

WAITRESS: I don’t have to take this.

PAUL: You stupid incompetent cow.

KATRINA: /Paul!

WAITRESS: /You overbearing pig!

PAUL: How dare you speak to me like that. I’m a customer, the customer is always
right.

WAITRESS: They don’t pay me enough for this.

PAUL: A customer.

KATRINA: Paul!

WAITRESS: I already apologized, not that you’ve noticed. What more do you want?

PAUL: I’m a customer! I pay your wages.

KATRINA: I’m so sorry.

WAITRESS: I think you should leave.

PAUL: I’ll leave when I’m ready. I’m a customer. I tell you what to do, that’s how it works.
I’m the customer. . . You can forget about a tip.

WAITRESS: I’m not your slave, dickhead.

KATRINA: I’m so sorry, I never meant—

PAUL: What did you call me? You can’t talk to me like that. How dare you?

WAITRESS: If you don’t call the police, I’m going to leave now.

KATRINA: I’m so sorry. (exits)

PAUL: (exiting) Who’d want to eat in a shit hole like this anyway? You’ll be lucky if I don’t
call the health department. Incompetence. Fucking incompetence.

WAITRESS: Don’t let the door hit you. . .

PAUL: Typical. Incompetence. It’s symptomatic.

stories that weren't as successful as I'd hoped (intrigued?)

this was written in late 2003.

A Long Walk Home

The light on the wavelets shone golden as they waited in the bay. Their boat oiled with the water's slow and heavy rhythms. Its deck was spattered with ash and carbonised leaves that had fallen, and continued to do so. Steven wiped at his eyes, stinging from the smoke that pulled the moisture from them. He coughed.
"Least we don't have to worry about sunburn," he said.
"Yeah," said Julie, squinting at the sky, "Or our eyes frying. Look at it."
She pointed to the sun hanging above them, large and red through the bushfire clouds. The sleeve of his shirt she wore ran down, exposing her arm to the shoulder. She moved it, examining the effects of the light on her skin's tones; bronze speckled with ash, greenish in the hollows. She rubbed its grit in her long fingers.
The stays and pulleys of the boat clinked as it swayed from a breeze.
"Ouch," said Steven, " —in my eye."
"Are you all right?" she asked, as he bent down, hands to his face.
"I think I'll need to wash this," he said and went below.
"Do you need a hand?" She asked his descending shock of brown hair.
"I'll be right."
Julie returned to examining the sun. For a moment, she imagined their boat a spacecraft, the orb Mars. Almost close enough to land on it. More ash and leaf-fragments fell, and she dropped her gaze from the sky. An answering red light rose from the source of the smoke, a way away inland. The hills around the bay seemed black, a solid wall, indistinct through the haze. Rounded shapes of trees silhouetted by the bushfires beyond lined their heights.

Last year it had been different, blue skies and clear sailing. Winds had billowed the sails as they cut along, the white streaks of the eucalypts along the shoreline blurring. Long lazy hours of sunbaking, phosphorescence in the waters when they skinny-dipped at night. His hands sliding between her thighs as a prelude to his hurried love-making. At first, then she'd slowed him down, taught a few tricks people don't talk about, and things had gotten better.
They'd bought the boat together; he'd saved all he could, and she matched it, but they still needed a loan from the bank. She found it difficult to tell, at the shipyard, that they were yachts. Without masts or rigging, up on skeletal legs, queued, they looked something like aeroplane fuselages.
"It's not exactly what I had in mind," she said.
"What's wrong with it honey?" asked Steven, turning away from the salesman he'd been chatting with.
"Well, it just doesn't look much for the price."
"But Julie, I thought we already talked about this," he whispered at her. "I think we can come to an arrangement," said the salesman, "If we leave out a couple of the extras, I could drop off about five thousand? How does that sound?"
"Which extras?"
"Oh nothing major. I understand you're just going to use it round the harbour?"
"Maybe up the coast to Pittwater, or down to Jervis," said Steven.
"Well, if that's all you're going to do, you'd be right with just a radio, so we could leave out GPS, that takes off four grand alone."
"What else?" Julie asked.
"Well, lets just call it five then," said the salesman, smiling from face to face. The extra cash she saved them came in handy. Their wedding was properly white, with orchid place settings. Her dress was sleek and accentuated her form. At the ceremony, all eyes were on her, and during the reception dances, whispers of promises if needed. Then the honeymoon sailing, down South. They'd found their own private bay, steep valley walls that cut off the Boxing Day Test, the outside world. Picnics by waterfalls.

They were in the kitchen when the topic of holidays came up.
"Should we go back," she asked, "can we step in the same river twice?"
"Oh come on," Steve said, "Who cares about all that philosophical crap? Let's just go and have fun."
"You just want the safety of familiar ground."
"Hello? We're going sailing."
"What about Tuscany this time?"
"Julie."
"Well why not?"
"I didn't buy that boat for nothing you know. If we don't use it, we're just throwing money away," Steven said as he stood with his hands on hips, head tilted the way that used to be endearing.
"Don't use that tone with me."
"What tone? Oh come on Julie. Let's go down to the bay for Christmas again, just you and me, like old times."
"Old times like last year?"
"You know what I mean."
It was funny how Steven tended to do all the talking while she did the actual work toward making events happen. Still, it was her forte. Manipulating schedules, moving meetings and tradesmen's appointments to other weeks. All done with a smile of warm love, an irresistible glow that would melt the most taciturn heart. Like he said, she could sure turn it on when she needed to. Besides, apart from the maintenance he did on the boat, it left him free to dream and bound him closer to her. There was the shopping and packing of provisions, the menus she planned for each night. For the last, a candlelit dinner. A nice wine, in the good glasses. It could work.

Julie glanced at her watch; how could it be so dark so early in the afternoon? The wind blew harder, curling over the surrounding hills, causing whitecaps to form on the water. The mast of the boat swung through a widening oscillation and the clanging of the stays increased in clamour. For a moment Julie looked about for snakes, before she realised the intermittent hisses she kept hearing were those of air-born embers extinguishing themselves in the bay. The heat of the wind scorched at her nostrils, dried the sweat on her skin without cooling.
"Steven," she called below, "I think we'd better get out of here."
"What's up? he asked, as he climbed up to the deck. His bloodshot eyes traced the path from her finger to the shore.
"I think the fire's coming," she answered, pointing at the smoke that now carried across the heights and down toward them, in a serpentine undulation, sparks and embers gleaming among black roilings. As they watched, fireballs rippled across the hilltops in a cascade of trees exploding.
"Wow!" he yelled, turning to Julie, "did you see—", only to have his words drowned as the roar of the fire hit, loud as jet engines, like a train overhead. Soot and ash, embers and burning leaves began raining into them, onto the deck, to be blown into the bay on the next gust. Through the flurries Steven pulled her down into the cabin.

Crouching down before the drinks cabinet, Julie pulled out a dark velvet covered box. She took out a glass and held it up to the light, catching the rainbow diffractions from its crystal edges. She tapped it on the rim, holding it up to hear the pure hum of its resonance. Only three of a dinner set left. Family heirlooms bequeathed at the wedding. Her mother would be so sad if she were still around to hear of it.
"You whore," he'd yelled in a voice she'd never heard before or since, though she can remember it like it was yesterday. Then he'd hurled that chair across the room, to smash into the drinks cabinet.
"It was your idea in the first place," she'd yelled back.
"What are you talking about?"
"You and your fucking threesomes!" She screamed, "You brought other people into this."
"Me!" Steve sputtered, "You were the one who said we should experiment."
"And you jumped at the idea; I was just testing you."
"So you were playing with me?"
"Yes, and I decided to do a little more experimenting on my own!" she jeered, and then he'd thrown more about, bellowing until the flat was a shambles and the police were knocking on the door. So much fuss when she'd only slept with George the once.
Julie replaced the glass in its lined hamper beside the remaining two of its kind. Well, only the once that Steven knew about.

A red light washed the smoky space of the cabin, exploding trees were visible through the small windows lining eye level.
"Look at that!" Steven yelled.
"We've got to get out of here," Julie said, pitching her voice through the roar, "You start the motor, I'll get the anchor, take the tiller and stop any spot fires."
Steven began coughing, still staring outside. The cabin's rocking increased in fervour, so that they had to stretch a hand to keep balance. He pointed outside to a miniature twister of fire that spiralled down the hillside and out across the water before dissipating into the smoke.
"A willy-willy! We've got to get out of here!" Steven yelled, pushing past Julie to the engine.
She made her way on deck, squinting against the wind and smoke, to the anchor, and pulled it in. The fires had crept over the crests all around the bay. Fierce winds whipped the flames sideways across the hillsides. Another willy-willy span off the fire-front, slithering down to the water, spreading the fire in its wake. She grasped the tiller in hand, swung it around for the heads while flicking the gear lever to drive. There was no lurch from the motor kicking in, the masts oscillations broadening as the boat turned side on to the swell. Amid the roaring and flying embers, Julie watched as the flames whipped around the bowl of the bay. What sky there was of smoke glowered a dense red cloud above them. She joggled the lever again; nothing. The boat began drifting toward the shore amid the wash.
Steven clambered up from the cabin's doorway.
"It was out of fuel," He said into her ear, "I've filled it up but I still can't get it to turn over."
"If there's an airlock we're screwed," she said as she started for the hatchway, "but you've probably just flooded it."
On the first rung down Julie could smell the petrol. A skein caught in the sway of the boat washed against her feet as she checked the engine. Letting in the choke, she pushed the ignition button. The light in the cabin flared a brighter orange. Julie looked out while the motor rumbled beneath her finger, at the flaming willy-willy bearing down on them, spinning out across the intervening gap that had grown so alarmingly small. The roar grew louder, and for a few moments the boat juddered while the windows cracked and popped from the flames that swirled against them.
For moments she stared, hand to mouth, until the motor's vibration brought her back to herself. Grabbing the fire extinguisher off the wall, she rushed to the deck. Flames licked the length of the boat. To port, the bushfire was right at the rocks lining the water's edge; she could feel its greater radiant heat against her face. Julie sprang past the burning sail, tied down so neatly to the beam, for the tiller, bore away to starboard and felt a satisfying jolt as the gear lever pushed into drive. Once headed, she turned the extinguisher onto the sail until it was mostly doused.
"Steven!" Julie called above the inferno, searching the nearby waters, to catch sight through the haze and sparks of his upraised arm a few meters to the stern. She waved and slipped the boat into neutral. While he swam to the boat she finished off the sail. She hauled him aboard.
"Steer," she yelled, pushing him aft, while with quick spurts of what remained in the fire extinguisher she saw to the lingering flames on the wood trimmings.
As they made for the heads, Julie looked at Steven. The skin on the half his face was an ugly red, the hair burnt from the same side of his head.
"Are you all right?" she asked, feet braced against the swell.
"I thought I was dead.".
"I did too," she said, "You need a doctor; I'm going to radio for help."
"You'll have to wait til we're out on the open water."
"Oh yes," Julie said beneath the fire's roar, "I forgot."
The sea beyond the heads held a different colour from the sun shining on it direct.
"It's changed to an onshore wind," Steven said as they breasted the entrance to the bay, the salt smell of the ocean coming to them, mingled with petrol, "that's weird."
As they gazed toward the horizon, a eucalypt leaf, incandescent among the ash and sparks, swirled at the entrance to the hatchway. For a moment it hung, caught in an eddy of crosswinds, before plunging into the space below.
"You spilled the petrol," said Julie, just before a gout of fire flared out the hatchway. They reeled back, out of the way. Down in the cabin the flames spread through the compartment. The extinguisher spat its last as Julie watched the velvet on her glassbox crisp.
"It's over," said Steven, "Abandon ship." They dove over the side and swam to the cunjevoi covered rocks. Watched as the flames licked from the cabin windows and consumed the yacht, while sparks and embers whirled on the winds from the bushfire behind them, the sea in front.


this was written early 2003; it's overwritten and under developed. At some stage I'll revisit the thing and blow it out to about 15000 words. . .

And they came down from the trees

Everybody's hair is blown askew, their coats billow. The wind slithers between the weave of my jumper to tease at my bare skin, raising goose bumps. Fragments of fallen raindrops dew my cheeks, glisten on my fur lined coat in the rays of the passing cars' headlights. I scan the buildings across the street, all grey and blurred, staring with vacant windows.
The traffic halts as the signals change. I look through the glass ceiling of the bus stop. The rain is falling against the roof, rippling out across the glass. On its underside, the reflections of the water in the gutter and on the road intersect the raindrops. Ripples on ripples and the rain is falling.
There is a buoyancy to my limbs. I am smiling as the cars begin to move. Tears from I don't know where are running down my cheeks — I want to hug someone and I look around, but no one meets my eyes. The wind disorders my hair, sprays my face with mist. I should be cold, but tonight there is a deep glow of warmth spread from my stomach. The traffic speeds by through the rain, sending droplets of water into violent eddies. As they whirl and spin, the street lamps and the beams of headlights catch their progress, transforming them into a maelstrom of iridescent sparks.
For a few spare moments there is a golden spark within me. My satchel slips off my shoulder. A taxi sweeps near, splashing me with gutter water as it goes. A wash of commuters pass by to mob the arriving bus. I am pushed away from the kerb as they jostle for the doors. It is my bus, though it fills before I can board. The bus leaves with a cloud of fumes. I walk and sit on a vacant seat; as I continue to wait the tears grow cold on my face.

They are gentle with me, which is a relief after Sasha's cruelty. They hold me fast, their breasts pushing against my arms through the charcoal vinyl of their uniform, leading me to the security office. Have I ever been touched this tenderly? I can almost draw comfort from their embrace. Only our footsteps break the silence of our passage, though behind me are murmurings. When we reach the doors; dull metal, dented from hail, my knees give way.
"Come on now, love," one says, "Almost there."
"Its all routine," says the other, "Nothing to be scared of," as they carry me into the corridor.
"Uhh," I exclaim, to my own surprise — am I drugged? I look up to see my reflection in their sunglasses, all bulbous eyes and gulping lips.

No one looks at my eyes as I walk. Through campus, through streets; no one will look me in the eyes. Toys are lying on the grounds outside the Uni's Creche. One step from the footpath and I bend, pick them up to drop them over the fence to the children. As they play and toddlers fall, scream or gurgle, I am unnoticed. The toys I return are ignored. The minders look elsewhere. Southerlies bring rain-heavy clouds, cumulously building great stacks to pour down on the town, flood down the escarpment.
Last month we had a storm, like one from the old days. Cars were washed into creeks, off cliffs; people died, houses were flooded, buried in mud. I just made it to the house before the worst of it fell. Even though I live on top of a hill the water seeped beneath the back door. It couldn't flow around the place fast enough. Trees fell, as well as fences; those remaining carrying detritus on their wires and boards, shouting the tide's mark. Tonight there is more rain forecast, and winds, fierce winds.
"Do you think there'll be gales again?" I asked Sasha just before class. Her hair was blowing with the breeze already. The cloud's shade jaundiced her tan. She scrutinised our approaching lecturer.
"Uh, yeah," she muttered, " Excuse me. Joan, about those chromosonal mutation rates—" and she hurried off. There isn't a day that I don't see without this grey light.
The panes of the windows in the lounge room face south, and bend under the force of the strongest gusts. It's not hard to imagine them breaking, showering the room with windblown slivers. They rattle and shake the rest of the time so that I can hardly hear the television. No one else is here tonight as this wind lifts the carpet around the feet of the settee I sit on. A blanket covers my knees and wraps my feet. I am still cold. It is always cold. Spatters of rain begin to slap the window. My flatmates never seem to be around any more, though they still leave piles of dishes.
I don't dream at night, or if I do, I never remember. It takes a long time to fall asleep, listening to the storm thrumming in the treetops, waiting for a flatmate's key to turn in the door. The bed is hard; in the morning as always I stretch and fail to crack my back and neck. Rubbing at the knots I turn to the mirror. I look at my reflection.

This machine scrapes, rather than hums. The scanner's light arrows a flickering beam along my inert body. I am trying to lie quietly, as they said, but small sobs keep escaping my lips. That I can't control myself makes me seethe with humiliation and frustration, and I sob all the louder. I am sealed in the tube while they pry me. Needles extend from the floor just behind my shoulder and jab deep into my muscles. I can hear pumps and vacuums. There is an eye, and gritty colours swim through me.

I can sit all day by the pig wallows at Uni. They all walk past me, the other students, tutors, gardeners. No one will sit next to me, though I take care to leave a space. Even the pigs will abandon the mash I throw for another's. They aren't really pigs anymore, so the monitors tell us, but we call them that anyway, just to maintain the illusion that we are where we belong. Pigs used to have to have snouts and a twirly tail, not these fragile bones that protrude at all angles.
I am not ashamed to watch them mate, in the wallows, among the trees, wherever their fancy takes them. They pile in, come one come all. Bones vibrating, skin pulsing colours in flashing displays, they call out in piggish passion, or so I imagine. I cannot know. I have never mated.
I don't think I'll ever pair bond, see my essences mixing on screen with another's, our nucleotide sequences combining to form new life. I can feel it deep in my too-wide hips; there is an emptiness in my womb. I see other students cavort, flirt, gaze at one another. No one will ever catch my eye. No one will ever caress my skin or make love with me. I don't even masturbate any more, it hurts to have my sexuality awakened. Some nights ideas of Sasha will cross me, redden my face as I flush.
I imagine we walk through forests, careful to avoid the trees' trailing wires that can cut in even the slightest breeze. Her face is pale ash against the black of their metal trunks. Perhaps we are running scans on the trees, plugging our portable computers into their access points; what are their growth rates, are they producing at optimum levels? Then we would find an arbour and — but these visions always end the same way. She doesn't even talk to me, her hands reach elsewhere, her smile reserved for another.
I woke at dawn this morning, to the silence of a stilled storm. My breath clouded, and loath though I was to leave the warmth of the bedclothes, I got up and parted the curtains. The night still coloured the higher reaches of my view, whilst along the horizon lay clouds of pollution. It turned the muddle of smog into a carpet of colours, through dirty reds to pinks to browns. As the sun rose, rays penetrated the upper layers of the murk, beaming elongated rainbows across the sky. Like searchlights they ranged, from far away winds caressing the smog. The derricks and smoke stacks of the industrial complex towered in silhouette.

We don't come from here. I've seen the Ark, we all do; the school excursion. You're not supposed to walk right up to it or feel the cool and pitted metal. The signs said it was hot, but being young I didn't know what that meant. In any case, Sasha dared me, her hand loitering on my shoulder as she whispered her plan in my ear.
Our ancestors are still inside: 'live' on the screens you can see them in their tubes, floating embalmed in the sleeping liquid. Ethereal beings with limbs thin enough they should snap. Half of them are mutants without breasts, with growths dangling between the legs.
This is an old planet. A dead planet. Its continents have lost their minerals, scoured by the continual rain. Before us, there was nothing. Bare rock and ceaseless storms. They made this place. Created all this life. We perch here, lost offspring, controllers of this grand design built on pig shit. Resources are still scarce and rationed, our population limited. With everything counted, nothing goes to waste, and nothing upsets the balance — or so it goes as we are taught.
"See if you can wake them," she said, pushing me toward the craft. It loomed tall through the rain across a long dark distance, "I'll keep watch." She didn't though; the guards caught me in their leaden gauntlets before I could enter.
I didn't manage to wake the old ones either, first with my screams of outrage, or pain as the burning began. Perhaps that's why Sasha never visited during my time in the hospitals. Lots of me fell away to the burns appearing, each time sheared off to reveal another layer of flesh that would burn anew. Skin grafts taken to fail again and again, leaving me with skin like melted wax. Most of my arms are fused with machinery.
If we have changed to adapt to this world, so it has to us. No longer do the storms come with quite the vehemence they used to, as though they were trying to wash us from the face of the planet. The wires of the trees slow the wind speeds and their roots crack rock to make soil. Since I was a child there are more vegetables, not just the stringy spinach. Even the Sun when it shines is warmer. Some day, the world will accept us as we are, and we will wake to know that we are home.

I'm near the genetics department when I see her, sitting on the chainsawed trunk of a wind damaged tree. Computer chips from its internal workings lay as confetti. The tree's wires stream along the ground, aligned to the storm of last night. Their tangled strands of metal resemble the platinum shades of her hair. There is no-one else to go to, it's as simple as that. It is already drizzling.
"Sasha,' I say, "please, I —"
"Look, I don't know what it is with you," she says, "You're always badgering me about something." Her hand waves at me.
"Sasha, please," I manage to say, "Please help me." I drop my head so that she won't have to look on my face; I know I'm ugly. They used to tease me, but now children will shy. I am becoming uglier with every passing day.
"Well, what is it?" she asks. I can tell by the tone of her voice that she's irritated with me.
"I need you to sign as my pair bonder," I tell her, in as even a voice and neutral a manner as I can manage. After a moment I steal a peek. At least she isn't laughing, though her lips are carved into a smile. Her eyes are open wide and are staring at me. I shiver with a sudden chill. I have made a mistake. Sasha will betray me.
"Now why would you need me to do that?" she inquires, making her way to the nearby campus phonelink. Under these overcast skies the whites of her eyes are grey. I raise my hand and reach for hers. She knows that I would never touch her without her permission, and so ignores it. There is nothing I can do, or would do, to stop her.
"We're," I say, and correct myself, "We were friends."
"Why would you need me to do that, fishy?" she asks again. Her hand loiters on the receiver. "It's very fishy, hey fishy?"
"I'm pregnant," I blurt out.
"What?" she asks, "Who'd waste their mix on your melted genes?"
"No-one," I say.
"You did it to yourself? That's illegal," she gasps, her mouth a perfect hole.
"No, it just sort of —" is there anything for me in her? "Happened. That's why I just need you to sign."
She laughs, a short abrupt little thing that forces its way between her smiling teeth. I look down as her fingers punch the dial tone.
"Security? Hi," she says, and I can feel her looking at me, "Look, you better get a team up here." I close my eyes, watching the spirals of light throbbing against my eyelids. The gravel under my foot will grind to sand, if only I stood here long enough.

My skin is ripping open; gaping tears stream down my face, my neck and beyond. Wires push out through the rents and into the machine that wraps me. Lights are flashing, sirens sounding. I am transcending my body. Fire sweeps along my wires as I insinuate the machine's scanners and circuits. They will not harm my baby. The air pressure changes as the hatch opens, and quick as thought I am uncoiling through.
Smoke billows from the aperture at my back, flames spit past what should be my shoulder. Everybody in the room looks at me, from their computers, from their clusters by instrument banks. They all open their mouths at the same time; I don't hear as much as sense the screams rippling through me. They can't tear their eyes free. Blood slides the length of my wires to the floor — I don't need it any more. Shreds of my sloughed flesh trail behind me, and fat, guts, all the rest.
I whirl about and lunge for the door. It is closed, shut tight. I claw sparks from its metal before I thread myself into cables and pry it loose. I throw it behind me into a bank of consoles as I enter the next room. Mirrors line one wall; a dentist's chair, straps hanging loose, sits in the middle. By it, a trolley holds various hooks and tools ready. Security cameras in the corners chart my progress as I move to whip against the mirrors.
I burst in a shower of shards and crazy wires into the hidden space behind. Slivers of my reflection fall in a frenzied tangle of glass and wire to rain across the floor. It is dark — I can sense rather than see. Ours is a big planet and for a moment I am flying above it; the floor's cement the earth, each fragment of mirror a forest. More sirens sound. They will come for me, these people who torure and deny and are no longer my people.
Guards rush at me, to be turned aside or pierced right through as I slink and coil through the passageways. I am roving, seeking the exit, my wires scraping trails through the concrete, stabbing out lights in bursts of electric pain. The blast doors can't stop me, nor the gases. They try guns, but I am steel; mostly they shoot each other. I spindle through to emerge in sunlight. The trees sing to me along the breeze.

The Window Cleaning Sequence

These poems form a cycle. They were written in the first half of 2003.


Work in the recession

So we fell into windows:
I'd never found a job after high school,
though I'd worked the benefits system.

Dad had his mid-life crisis, moved from
psychology to rubbish removal and dragged
me along with him.
We picked up some good crap,
but the real estates are slow payers,
and always wanted a cheap job —

Windows were a better choice, and
better reflected the qualities
my father preferred:
"Clean windows
make a clean house
immaculate."



Wastrel

to be read
one face of the die must always be
pressed against the floor.

Equality between the points, planes and numbers
only comes when thrown.
Inverted and spun,
standing through centrifugal force
the die can become other
half-seen in the blurred oscillations:
the next deal of pot, soft smack for the gutless.
It was bravery or inebriation, or something else,
that led Charles to climb the Chinese elms
growing about the tomb
oblivion,
and all I knew was the toilet seat,
vomiting into darkness.

Perhaps that's why I didn't fall from the
seventh storey ledge when the
sash broke and the window slammed down,
as fast as I might have,
onto my hand, which,
after the rest of the windows were clean,
stretched out to collect the lousy seventy
bucks already spent.



How to really clean windows.

Don’t work in the sun, wind or rain;
you will not do a good job.
Try not to use the ladder when you are tired;
Those moments when you lose balance and
have to grab to avoid falling will increase in frequency.
Always use a chock on uneven ground
You will need the right tools;
those that put water on,
those that take water off.

Fill the bucket with enough water to last the job,
but not so much that it spills at each step.
Don’t put too much detergent in; soap leaves streaks.
Don’t put too little detergent in; grease leaves streaks.
Be careful of the bucket, especially in carpeted rooms.
If you don’t keep in mind where the bucket is each instant,
you will step in it, or knock it over.
The bucket must be longer than the scrubber.

The lamb’s wool scrubber needs to be squeezed of excess
water when you are inside; stray drips are
unacceptable, unprofessional, unwanted.
Be sure the scrubber is not too dry or you will leave streaks.
Apply it to the window, get right into the corners.
Use the non-scratch scourer on the kitchen window,
or any other heavy with grease spots or the like.
To avoid washing it twice, feel as you go with your
fingers through the suds for aberrations and remove them.

Outside, more water is needed for
the dust on the window and its frame.
If dirty streams mark the wall below,
respond with a sluice from a soaking wet scrubber.
Don’t get too caught up or you may do the entire wall.
Don’t worry about cobwebs clogging up the wool,
they can be picked up easily enough.
When you come across the yellow spots or drips of insect excreta,
use those fingernails you’ve been growing to scratch them off.
It is quicker than scrubbing, scouring or scraping.

Avoid using the razor blade scraper:
paint spots don’t especially matter and
can be picked off by fingernails.
Don’t use the scraper on the first visit,
unless it is a builder’s clean or in fact should be.
Don’t test its edge with your thumb.
Watch for where an angle grinder may have sparked onto the pane.
The flecks and glass bond and will chip the razor.
If: the blade is rusted or chipped or blunt,
there isn’t enough water on the window,
the sun is full on or there is a hot dry wind;
you will scratch the glass.
Don’t tell anybody and you won’t be liable to replace it.

Be sure to have a number of squeegees;
windows vary in their dimensions.
When the glass is washed,
take the towel over your shoulder
and rub it along the top of the window.
Swipe the corner of the squeegee across the
partially dried glass so that there is no water remaining.
From this small area, slide the squeegee to the opposite edge.
Be careful of the drips of dirty water that dribble
from the squeegee when taken from the window.
Dry the rubber on your shoulder towel.
On successive sweeps, tilt the squeegee so the end
overlapping the dry glass is down most;
otherwise you will leave streaks.

You need a perfect right-angle on the
black rubber blade of the squeegee:
If the edge is worn to a curve it will leave streaks.
Be careful of the clips that hold the rubber in the channel,
they tend to lift the ends of the rubber,
so that, at the end of the stroke,
where the pane meets the frame,
a thin sheet of water may remain;
when it dries the shape of it will be seen.

There’s an old song of lechery that most
old women remember to quote. Tell them:
When you clean glass, you look at the glass.
If there are views that might be seen through it,
they remain as far away as their distance, or further.
You will walk through their home,
see their possessions, their photographs,
the paintings by famous artists,
break bread, drink and converse with them.
If they are happy with the job,
you will return, again and again.
You’ll learn how the sun moves around their house.
Together, you can chart a course across years.
Remember though,
you: are not their friend
are invisible—
are only their window cleaner.



When you’re working

On a good day, when the windows
are made for cleaning— single paned
and big, ground floor all the way—
it’s important to look for
moss in a secluded corner,
green against the slick black bricks, or
lorikeet feathers in spiderwebs,
rainbows floating in gossamer.

On a good morning, just after the big
skylight’s done— before the sun’s gotten round
and made the squeegee streak—
you can rest for a moment, think of coffee and
watch the view from the rooftop,
the kayakers and water-skiers in the bay below,
the trees creeping back across
that burnt out slope over the water.

The sun on your arm can feel warm,
the hairs illuminated in a golden glow
as they prickle up at a cool spring breeze.
The sky will be blue, deep enough to fall into.
Maybe gang-gangs will shriek and tumble nearby,
incredulous red crests, black against the canopy,
and you might think— these then,
these are the moments of beauty—



We couldn't see the Opera House for its windows

Dad came down to town, all the way from
Lismore, and we caught the ferry from Balmain
to Circular Quay — the wharves, the buskers, the tourists
and looming over it all the Cahill Expressway
where the cars take on the noise of the sea.

And we walked through the crowds as we'd done before
round past the reviled toaster, past The Lunch Set
talked about. . . well, we talked and then
there were the figs growing out of the bare rock,
the woman who sprained her ankle in the gutter,
the Harbour Bridge with those ant people climbing it.

And we talked windows, those three and half
years spent together, working. Before
Dad moved to Lismore.
We stood and looked out over the water at
Kirribili House, turned. The path further round was
blocked; renovations. So we looked at Utzon's masterpiece.

Like most architects, he hadn't designed for
window cleaners. The overhang from the shell,
its mirrored form in the glass below
all meant for no easy access.
Maybe an abseiler, if he could apply the necessary pressure —
a bitch of a job we agreed; also,
that with the bird shit and the other encrusted filth,
it couldn't of been cleaned since the day it was built.

And we caught the ferry back to Balmain,
back under the bridge, past Luna Park and
Blues Point Tower. . . there,
all along the shores, were houses we'd worked on
but which, and where was hard to tell.
Everything looked different from the ferry.



The Colour of Glass

Riffaterre, in his essay, the semiotics of poetry,
discussed the mimetic and hermeneutic and the significance
of poetry,
how it says one thing yet means another.

Mimetic means: you can see the word for itself.
Hermeneutic means: you can see past the word.
The significance of the poem: what makes it poetry.

Then there are distortion, displacement and creation:
the techniques employed;
soap suds may slide down the glass,
drying in the sun or wind to leave
a thin film that remains opaque.

You can see through a clean window.
You can see a clean window.
In that difference lurks
the significance:

if you touch it, it is gone.



Now I'm a telemarketer

Maybe it was:

the long drought;
without the humidity the dust wouldn't
stick, the returns stopped returning —

the brand new Chrysler Roadster;
just missed from a three storey fall and
no insurance —

the three weeks of rain, the grey
weather that settled and stayed
until all of the money ran out —

the timing belt, the rear
shock-absorbers, the alternator, the
bearing's hollow moans on every drive —

the back, and the right shoulder,
neck cracks each morning, the weakness
in the arm with the scrubber —

the three thousand dollar piece
of glass, scratched by a new razor,
scratched by a new razor —

It may have been any of these, any and more.
Possibly just
the reflections in a clean window.

Just to get noticed on google etc

josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia josh avila australia. Okay, that's probably enough. sorry to be so boring :')

the plans for the year

Well, back to Uni again. It totally didn't feel like a holiday: handing in the last of the work for Summer session on the 7th of Feb; come the 21st a fortnight later, back at uni. I had a couple of disquieting events occur yesterday: they shifted WRIT215 from Mondays to Fridays, so I have to attend two days a week now rather than one, and the lecturer I had been looking forward to studying under has left the uni. Also, I found out from a fellow student that the Education faculty won't recognize my creative writing degree as it stands: I have to have at least 12 credit points of English subjects to qualify. So it's looking like I'll be going down three days a week now; the joy of a 5 hour round trip wears thin quickly. Bugger.

Despite all this moaning, I'm excited about uni. The course for HIST217, Ancient Rome, looks cool, and the essay questions I'm confident about tackling. I still don't know what I will do for Spring session yet, but that's no bother. All is on track for graduation in December. At last. . .

Anyhoo, this is just an intro to the blog, to some extent. I plan to post writings of mine here: look for me amongst the member's sites at optus dot com dot au as well for links and photos. --> So much to do so little. . .

sayonara

my big play for writ214 (still a work in progress)

RAGNAROK
© Josh Avila, 2005


List of Characters:

Old man, a tramp

David, a warder at a detention centre, mid-thirties
Nina, David’s wife, late-twenties
Carl, David’s friend, mid-thirties

the Accountant, male, dressed in a black suit, carrying a briefcase.
the Doctor, female, dressed in a white coat with stethoscope
the Nurse, male, dressed as a nurse

Setting:

Australia, the near future.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
The Second Coming, Yeats

this is the way the world ends,
not with a bang but a whimper.
The Hollow Men, Eliot


Scene 1

Old man with only one eye, ruffled and stained clothing, disarrayed hair, sits on park bench centre stage, looking at his hands. Rubbish lays in small piles around the bench. Sounds of traffic from stage left.

OLD MAN: Where did it go? How did I lose it? I don’t know where I am. I know the
date. I know today is Wednesday. And I’m here. I was diligent, I did
everything they said to do, but it’s gone. All lost. To time, more than
anything. I should have gone to the bloody races, should have put it all
on the horses, the horses. I would have had fun losing it at least.

Sound stage right of a crow cawing. Enter Accountant stage right,.

Have you got a dollar mate? I did everything they told me to. I worked
the nine to five all my life. I put in the time, paid my taxes. I was
diligent. C’mon mate, how about a buck?

Exit Accountant stage left.

Strewth. (shouts after Accountant) You could have at least looked at
me!
I put it all in the Super. And I paid my taxes. But it’s gone.

Sound stage right of a crow cawing. Enter Nurse and Doctor, arm in arm stage right. They regard him, but continue apace

And I can’t even think of her anymore, because it was too horrible. I
loved her, you must understand. Thirty years we were married.
But there wasn’t enough in the Super for the bills, there were so many.
Can you give me a dollar? I’m hungry. All the doctors and the specialists
and the medicines and the looks on the nurses’ faces, and then the
accountants’ when the Super ran out, and the House, and her smell. Oh
God she stank.

Exit Nurse and Doctor stage left.

(shouts after them) I loved her and she stank!
I tried to look after her, but what did I know? (moans) What do I know?
It’s Wednesday. And I’m here. I was diligent.

Sound stage right of a crow cawing. Enter Carl stage right.

Have you got a dollar son? We couldn’t afford kids. We wanted them,
but there were too many bills. And then she was too old. You’d be the
right age though, if we had. We wanted kids. We wanted like you.

CARL: Fuck off you filthy old perv. (spits)

OLD MAN: Nah son, I didn’t mean anything, I just want a dollar mate, that’s all, I
wasn’t— just a dollar, have you got one mate, for an old bloke down on
his luck, could you help me out mate, please, I’m hungry—

Exit Carl stage left.

(Shouts after Carl) If you’re the representative I’m glad we didn’t
have any!
But we did want them. Like a hollow ache through the years.
That’s what did for her, my beautiful Frieda. Oh God, how she stank.
(moans) I don’t know where I am. Where did it all go? I did everything
right, the way I was supposed to. I paid my taxes. I was diligent. I put it
in the Super. I should have gone to the races and put it on the horses.
Had fun. (rises to his feet) I should have gone to the races. Seen the
horses. (moves toward stage left) Bright colours. Horses galloping. Hoof
thrown clods of earth.

Old man exits stage left. Sound of screeching brakes then a distinctive fleshy thump. Fade lights.

Scene 2

A Comfortable lounge room. A lounge suite, the chairs facing, the couch between facing the audience, between a wooden coffee table on a Persian carpet. Sidetables with lamps and framed photographs abut each end of the couch. The room is neat and tidy, with objects exact in relation to each other: cushions plumped and placed just so, magazines neatly aligned to the coffee table edges etc. The kitchen is off stage left. The front door is stage right. Nina is sitting on the couch reading a tabloid newspaper with enormous headline: ‘Outrageous!’. She is dressed conservatively.

Enter David stage right. He is dressed conservatively and looks sleep deprived, pale and harried.

DAVID: Hi darling, I’m home.

NINA: Hello.

DAVID: I don’t know why you read that crap.

NINA: (folds and puts newspaper down neatly) Skip lunch today, dear?

DAVID: How did you — sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I did miss lunch. I
couldn’t eat. I’m sorry I’m late. I saw something terrible this morning on
the way to work.

NINA: What would you like to eat for dinner, steak or lamb cutlets?

DAVID: I don’t know, you choose.

NINA: Steak or lamb cutlets? What do you want?

DAVID: The steak then. I couldn’t get it out of my brain all day. This morning, on
the way to work, I saw an old man run down by a car in front of me. It
was awful, I saw the wheel go right over his stomach, and he twisted and
rolled and flopped like—

NINA: David, not before dinner okay?

DAVID: I’m not really hungry.

NINA: You’ve got to keep your strength up. If you don’t eat you’ll get sick, and
then what will we do?

DAVID: Really, I’m not hungry. How could I be after—

NINA: Well, I am hungry. I’ve waited all night for you to come home and eat
dinner with me, and you didn’t even phone. Where have you been?
Don’t you think you’ve inconvenienced me enough already?

DAVID: I haven’t been anywhere! I just went for a freaking walk, alright? If I lost
track of time I’m sorry.

NINA: David. You’re so argumentative when your blood sugar is low. You need
to eat. Do we always have to fight?

DAVID: No. It’s just. . . I. . . you’re right, it’s been a long day and I’m overtired.
I’m sorry; the steak would be wonderful.

NINA: There. You see?

Exit Nina stage left to kitchen, whence food preparation and cooking noises can be heard. David sits in silence on the couch.
Fade lights.



Scene 3

The same comfortable lounge room. Nina is seated on the chair stage right. Her empty plate is placed on the coffee table. She stares at David. David looks at his half eaten meal of an enormous steak, broccoli and carrots. The Old man stands behind Nina. There should be no acknowledgement of the Old man; he does not exist.

DAVID: I’m stuffed. (puts plate on coffee table)

NINA: How was that?

DAVID: Well cooked indeed, my love, it was delicious.

NINA: If it was delicious you would have eaten it all. I suppose it doesn’t matter.
They were on special.

DAVID: Great. I really love living here, you know. With you. We’ve really made a
home together, haven’t we?

NINA: What is it?

DAVID: Pardon?

NINA: You’re keeping something from me. I can read you like book, David.

DAVID: That accident I saw this morning.

NINA: What about it?

DAVID: I had to hire an ambulance.

NINA: We can’t afford it, David!

DAVID: It was awful. Hit and run. So quick I didn’t get the number plate. I had
to stop. And then they all started beeping their horns. Swearing out their
windows at me. Late for work. He was so thin. And the last sounds he’d
have heard would have been the horns. He died before the ambulance
got there.

NINA: Are we going to pay for his fucking funeral too?

DAVID: Well. . .

NINA: Don’t tell me! We have to save for the future, David! You know that.

DAVID: I thought the gaol would pay for it, but. . .

NINA: Why did I have to fall for a soft-hearted fool like you. Damn it David,
you’ve got to be harder than this.

Pause. The Old man collects the plates and takes them to the kitchen, returning to stand behind Nina. Through the rest of this scene he slowly falls to the ground on the audience side of Nina and dies.

DAVID: Am I good man, Nina?

NINA: I’m not sure how much longer I can take it. For years you’ve been
going on about how bad shit is at your work, from the moment you walk in
to the moment you’re out the door, you moan, and whinge and whine. I
won’t stand for it any more. The negativity. I try to keep things orderly for
when you’re home, to make things easy, comfortable, so that you’ll be
happy, but you just can’t seem to do it.

DAVID: I imprison children, Nina. Children. I’m glad I don’t feel
happy.

NINA: Well, you don’t do anything about it. Why don’t you let them go?

DAVID: I can’t. You know that. They’d put me away too.

NINA: I’ve read that those children aren’t that innocent anyway. Terrorists,
some of them.

DAVID: Propaganda. Those rag sheets you read are full of it.

NINA: Some of them as young as three! Perish the thought.

DAVID: It’s not true. They’ve done nothing. And they’re not terrorists: they’re
refugees, running from people like the terrorists.

NINA: Well, I know what I’ve read. I say it’s their parent’s fault, or the UN, or
America’s, or England’s, for letting them come here in the first place.

DAVID: How is it England’s fault?

NINA: They were the one’s who stuffed the world up to start with. With their
colonism, and they drew lines on maps that had nothing to do with what
was really there. Bloody poms.

DAVID: Colonialism, darling.

NINA: Don’t patronise me. That’s what I said. Five years at Uni wasted. Why
don’t you use your degree? Get a different job?

DAVID: I’d have to accept a decrease in salary. There’s nothing in anthropology
that pays as well.

NINA: And that’s something you won’t do, David. Or pay for this funeral. That’s
our money; his family should.

DAVID: He didn’t have one.

NINA: There you go again. Why can’t you ever be cheerful, for Christ’s sake?

DAVID: Don’t you feel anything? The man’s dead.

NINA: Thousands of people die everyday. I didn’t know him, he’s not famous,
he’s not rich, he didn’t bequeath me one red cent. Why should I feel
anything?

DAVID: He died in my arms!

NINA: If he didn’t have his finances in order that’s his responsibility!

Fade lights

Scene 4

The comfortable lounge room. Clothing is spread about haphazardly. Carl’s wallet is on the coffee table. Nina is astride Carl on the couch, with her back to him; they are engaged in sexual congress. Though Carl cannot, the audience can see that there is no emotion on Nina’s face, apart from boredom.

CARL: /Yes, give it to me, Nina. Give it up, Oh God! (orgasms)

NINA: /(moans) Oh right there, right there, yes, yes, Ah! (fakes orgasm)

CARL: Oh yeah. Damn that was good.

NINA: Wow, you really know how to fuck a woman, Carl.

CARL: You know I can do it for you. And I’m a better lay than David.

NINA: (laughs) A dead snail wouldn’t have to try hard.

CARL: Cheeky. I should spank you.

NINA: That’s extra. How do you afford my rates?

CARL: Information is power.

NINA: I like power.

CARL: I’m the sort of bloke who people’ll talk to, you know, in a pub, club, disco:
you name it. There’s a bloke I know who likes to know some things
about some things. It’s grouse, I get paid to have fun.

NINA: A grass? You whore.

CARL: Nina, I think I’m in love with you, or something. David’s a loser, what
are you doing wasting time with him for? You think he can afford a four-
wheel-drive? How’s he going to get the money together for an investment
property? He’s given to charity, for Christ’s sake! The banks’ll never
touch him. He trusts people, Nina. And believes them: we’ve been doing
this for three years now and he doesn’t suspect a thing. Remember your
wedding night?

NINA: He thinks I’m a part time book keeper.

CARL: He’s gormless. You should savvy up, Nina; you’ve got to plan for the
future; once David’s dragged you both onto the streets, how long do you
think he’ll protect you? There are a lot of hungry people out there. You
should consider a merger of interests. Besides, I’m a bit fed up with
paying.

NINA: I’m worth it aren’t I? But you’re right. I used to think there was
something endearing in David’s manner, but over these years I’ve come
to hate his softness. Isn’t it funny how what can first attract you to a
person you can end up despising. I used to think he was cute, like a little
child. Ugh, how I hate kids. Thank God I got my tubes tied. Have you
heard he wants to pay for a derro’s funeral? You’re nothing like him, Carl,
(she strokes his thigh) devious, hard, taut, unforgiving. . .

CARL: Is that half hour up?

NINA: So soon and you’re ready? (looks at her watch) Two minutes ago. But
I’ll tell you what, Carl, as a valued customer, this time you get a discount.

Carl reaches for his wallet as the lights fade.

Scene 5

Carl, mid thirties, tanned and fit and David, are both in hiking gear. Carl has a mobile phone attached to his belt. They are standing around a campfire that has died to embers, beers in hand. There is an esky stage left and a tent stage right.

CARL: What a day, hey?

DAVID: I can’t remember the last time I’ve had one like it.

CARL: I’m glad I managed to get the Patrol this far up the track. Carrying the
esky all that way would have been a killer.

DAVID: And the rest of it.

CARL: I can’t believe I missed that Wallaby.

DAVID: It’s beautiful out here.

CARL: It was right in front of us. How could you have pulled the hand-brake?

DAVID: I said I was sorry. Full moons are so bright; I’d forgotten how they light up
a landscape.

CARL: Good time to hunt, if you can move quiet enough. You’ve been too long
without a break, mate. I try to get away at least once a month.
Bushwalking, camping, abseiling. Life’s too short mate.

DAVID: Yeah. . . You know, I usually prefer a good book. You could read a book
in this light.

CARL: I don’t bother with them. Take up too much time. Make you fat. I’d
rather go for a surf or something.

DAVID: The way the wind moves across the trees on the hillside there, (he points
out into the audience) they look like people. A whole crowd. In this
moonlight, under these stars. A whole heap. Just sitting there, looking at
us. Judging us.

CARL: Geez, Dave.

DAVID: They’re moving, look!

CARL: (looks) It’s just the wind, you goose.

DAVID: I guess. . . I wonder what they’re thinking.

CARL: Same as me; are you on mushrooms or something?

The Old man enters Stage left and stands at the campfire next to Carl. During the rest of this scene he slowly falls to the ground and dies.

DAVID: Shh, I can hear something.

CARL: (peering into the darkness) What? A Wallaby?

DAVID: I don’t know. I guess it was nothing.

CARL: No one comes out here. Too risky being so far from a road.

DAVID: I like it. No one about.

CARL: Reckon you’re going soft in the head, mate?

DAVID: Isn’t it illegal to hunt in a National Park, Carl?

CARL: Nah mate; spirit of Anzac and that. (pause) Ned Kelly. You think too
much, Dave. Where has it got you? Nowhere but miserable. You want
my advice? Don’t think. It’s unAustralian. Next time your brain starts
ticking over, just concentrate on, ah, a chick’s sweet firm peach shaped
arse, or the footy, or where the next ice cold beer’s coming from ay?
(goes to esky and removes two cans of beers, throwing one to David,
who fumbles the catch) Or something else, you know? Anything but
something. Works for me.

DAVID: I’ll give it a go, Carl, but you know, sometimes when you dive deep, it’s a
long road back to shallower waters. I just can’t stop thinking about this
guy I saw run down, it was a week ago today.

CARL: Yeah, Nina told me about that. Just don’t get involved in things,
mate. You gotta watch out for yourself. It’s dog eat dog.

DAVID: When was that?

CARL: The other day. She, uh, rang. Said that you weren’t coping too well and
could I have a talk with you.

DAVID: Well, I’m glad you could come on this holiday. It’s like old times.

CARL: How is it with you two?

DAVID: Stressful.

CARL: You should take an afternoon off, mate, and go shag some bored
housewife, or something. There’s plenty of them out there, just look in
the papers.

DAVID: No, it’s not like that. I love her. I think it’s. . . it could be my fault. . . and
I know I probably don’t help matters. . . we keep trying for a child, but. . .

CARL: You should have a proper go at it. Take a week off, hammer and tongs,
mate. That’ll see you right. How much of your sick leave have you used?

DAVID: Only two days so far. I’ve still got another three due to me.

CARL: One week a year? Wow, you got a deal with that package.

DAVID: Beggars can’t be choosers.

CARL: Users can’t be beggars! Cheers. (swigs from can)

Fade lights

Scene 6

Morning at the camp site. The tent is sagging. A dozen empty beer cans litter the stage, loosely ringing the campfire, from where Carl and David had thrown them the night before. Carl is tending to a billy. David is snoring in the tent. After checking the time on his mobile phone, Carl gets up and tip-toes over to the tent, takes the guy rope in hand then tip-toes as near to his earlier position as possible before letting go the rope. The tent collapses; exclamation and oaths from David. Carl, sitting back tending the billy, laughs.

CARL: It’s half past ten. Time to get up, Sunshine.

DAVID: (struggling to get out of the tent) What did you bloody do that for?

CARL: I didn’t do anything.

DAVID: (his head sticking through the entrance) Yeah, right. Another of your
‘jokes’ huh?

CARL: When I put a tent up it stays up.

DAVID: (disentangling from the tent) So that’s the game this morning. ‘Inept
townie’ — what does that make you then? Captain Starlight?
Bushranger Carl? Teach a city slicker how to live in the bush?

CARL: You’d have to get up early to be able to do that, mate.

Sound stage right of a crow cawing.

DAVID: I’ll show you how to put up a tent. Where’s my hammer?

CARL: (lifts lid of billy and sniffs) Cup of coffee first?

DAVID: Sounds good. It might make up for my rude awakening.

CARL: Well get it out of your pack then.

Pause. David begins getting his pack out of the tent.

DAVID: You know, I thought for a moment you’d actually done something
benevolent then. Something decent.

CARL: (Winks) Gotcha!

DAVID: Here you go then. (passes him a packet of coffee) Call of nature. (exits
stage right)

CARL: (tips coffee into billy and sits it on fire) You sure you’ll be alright? Need
me to hold your hand?

DAVID: (off) My saviour!

CARL: Watch out for the hoop snakes. (takes the billy by the handle and swings
it to settle the sediments)

DAVID: (Enters stage right) Hoop snakes. I haven’t heard of them since I was a
kid.

CARL: (Pours coffee and passes a cup to David) Yeah, and drop bears and
bunyips.

Sound stage right of a crow cawing. They sip at their coffees.

DAVID: I guess I should be grateful for the way you woke me. For the distraction.
Usually I wake up and wonder what the fuck I’m doing. What’s
happened, Carl? Where has the land of our childhood gone?

CARL: We’re camping in it, you nong.

DAVID: That’s not what I mean. Look around Carl, it’s all gone. They talk about
‘the fair go’, ‘Aussie battlers’, ‘the light on the hill’ but it doesn’t mean
anything. It’s like in Orwell’s 1984, ever read that Carl?

CARL: I saw the film. You get to see her tits. Scrawny though.

DAVID: It’s not about the tits, Carl. It’s about oppression and power. They take
the words away so you can’t say what you want, can’t say you love
anyone without it being a crime. Nobody says ‘G’day’ anymore, it’s all
hi, hey, have a nice day: but they don’t mean that, Carl. Nobody lifted a
finger to help that old man. They were screaming at me they were going
to be late for work while he died in my arms.

CARL: Look, David—

DAVID: What happened to compassion Carl? To morality? When did we all
become disposable? Remember universal health care? And unions?
Job security? God help you if you ever get sick. Ever wonder why they
don’t sing the second verse of the anthem/

CARL: /There’s a second verse?

DAVID: anymore? ‘For those who come across the seas, we’ve boundless plains
to share.’ Doesn’t ring too true when you’re setting up internment camps
all across the countryside. Fuck, they’re springing up like rabbits. And I
don’t do anything about it. . . I work for them instead; gaoling children,
that’s the worst. I mean, it’s all bad, but the kids. . . When did we all just
acquiesce?

CARL: There’s been a few too many syllables in the words you’ve been using for
me, mate. All sounds like garble. You’ve got to keep your head down,
mate. What you think I do when the cops come cruising past? You keep
your head down and just get on with it. Garbling about it’s not going to do
anything. Just get you noticed. You want an ASIO file? What’s this all
about anyway? Some dead old derro and a shitty job? You should be
laughing mate. At least you’ve got a job; there’s a lot out there that don’t.

DAVID: ‘We’ve sold paradise and put up a parking lot.’

CARL: What’s that supposed to mean?

DAVID: It’s just from an old song.

CARL: Well, you can garble and quote old songs, but you can’t put up a tent.

DAVID: Right, where’s that hammer? (retrieves it from his pack) I’ll bloody show
you.

David hammers the tent peg for the guy rope into ground, and moves around the tent, sorting it out, hammering tent pegs in. As he gets around to the back stage side, unseen by the audience behind the tent, sound stage right of a crow cawing. A moment later, David lets out a cry and furiously swings the hammer several times.

CARL: Don’t punish the peg for your poor aim.

DAVID: Snake. A fucking snake’s bit me. (Steps out from behind the tent,
cradling his right arm. The hammer is bloodied)

CARL: You’re done for.

DAVID: I’m serious, Carl.

CARL: So am I. You know how much an airlift costs? They’ll never get an
ambulance in here. This is going to clean you out.

DAVID: It hurts, Carl. I don’t want to die.

CARL: Yeah, yeah. Where’s your mobile? (Carl’s mobile, attached to his belt,
should be clearly visible to the audience)

DAVID: (voice slurring) In the pack.

CARL: What sort of snake was it?

DAVID: (Slumps to the ground) I don’t know. See for yourself.

CARL: (he pauses before using David’s mobile) Hello? Yeah, David’s been
bitten by a snake. You have to send a helicopter because— What’s
that? Right, David, hey David! (slaps him) Hey! Who’s your health
provider?

Fade lights

Scene 7

A hospital ward. All the beds are empty, except for David’s, centre stage. He lies there, feverish, moaning. Enter the Nurse and Nina stage right.

NINA: How is he?

NURSE: He’s a very lucky man. They say he flat-lined after they gave him the
antivenene. They hate it when that happens; you’re not supposed to
waste drugs on hopeless cases. Comes out of their pay. But after a
minute his heart just started again.

NINA: That’s probably what brought him back.

NURSE: Oh?

NINA: He wouldn’t have wanted to inconvenience the paramedics. To have left
them out of pocket.

NURSE: Well I hope he’s got a good health plan, or he’ll be out of pocket.
Intensive care’s not cheap. Neither is Pethidine.

NINA: How much?

NURSE: A hundred.

NINA: For that, you can do anything you want to me for half an hour.

NURSE: Some other time. My rent’s due .

NINA: (She pulls two fifty dollar notes from her cleavage, smooths them, and
hands them across) How is he now? How long is he going to be like
this?

NURSE: (He leans over David) It’ll probably wear off in about 10 minutes. I’ll
leave you alone with him.

NINA: Thanks.

The Nurse exits stage left. Nina sits on the side of the bed and takes out a sheaf of papers from her handbag.

NINA: David! (she slaps him) David, wake up!

DAVID: (his voice heavily slurred) Nina?

She pushes a pen into his hands and closes his fingers about it.

NINA: David, you have to sign these papers.

DAVID: (slurred) Nina, you saved me. You saved me. I love you.

NINA: Yes, yes, that’s lovely dear. But I need you to sign these papers. It’s just
a precaution, dear, a little insurance, yes that’s right, oops, careful dear.
Yes, sign here, and here, and here.

DAVID: (slurred) Insurance.

NINA: Yes dear, just in case, and here, and here, we both don’t need to be on
the deeds, do we? And here, it makes more sense this way, yes and
lastly the bank account, here and here, thank you darling.

DAVID: (a little less slurred) Nina, what’s happening?

NINA: Nothing, darling, you go to sleep now. I’m here. Just go to sleep.

Fade lights.

Scene 8

The hospital ward. David is propped up with pillows in his bed. At the foot of it stand the Doctor and the Accountant.

DOCTOR: You’re a very lucky man.

DAVID: I feel like crap.

DOCTOR: That’s hardly surprising. It’s the toxins in your blood. Your liver and
kidneys have taken ‘a bit of a beating’, and their function is impaired.
Time is of the essence in these cases, and I’m afraid there was a fair
length went by before the antivenene was administered.

DAVID: Am I going to die?

DOCTOR: Not just yet! Ha ha. No, with regular dialysis to begin with you should
recover within a year or so. You’re a young man in good condition,
considering the circumstances. Still, I wouldn’t advise any strenuous
exercise. Are you a union man?

DAVID: No, I work for American Detention Management. They don’t allow them.

DOCTOR: Ha ha. No, I meant rugby. What team do you follow?

DAVID: I don’t, I’m sorry.

Pause

DOCTOR: (She fidgets with the clipboard at the base of David’s bed) Yes, well, I
wouldn’t go playing any games in any case.

Pause

ACCOUNT: (Clears throat) There is a small matter. The cost. We’ve been in touch
with your health provider, your employer, and your bank. I’m sorry but
you’re not actually covered in this situation. The terms of your contract
clearly state that you are only covered for injuries incurred at the
workplace, in your home, or on your way to and from the workplace. I
understand you were five hours walk inside a national park some two
hundred kilometres from the detention centre you’re employed at?

DAVID: Yes, that’s right.

ACCOUNT: I’m interested to know how you’ll be renumerating the hospital for the
costs incurred.

DAVID: Once I’m up on my feet again I’ll—

ACCOUNT: We don’t accept promissory statements from those without an income.

DAVID: But I work for ADM, at the detention centre.

DOCTOR: We are obliged to notify your employer as to your potential work status.

ACCOUNT: As you are too ill to possibly work again within a cost efficient time frame,
your employer has terminated your contract.

DAVID: I’ve been fired.

ACCOUNT: (To the Doctor) No signs of confusion, that’s good.

DOCTOR: It’s our business to mend them.

ACCOUNT: Quite. (turns to David) And mine to collect the monies. Now, how are
you proposing to fund your medical expenses?

DAVID: I’ve got some shares in ADM, I guess I can remortgage the house, or
even sell it.

ACCOUNT: I’m afraid the credit check didn’t indicate any such assets, if it had, I
wouldn’t be here. It’s quite strange, really. You don’t appear to have a
portfolio at all.

DAVID: There must be some kind of a mistake.

ACCOUNT: I’m sure there is. But I’m afraid we’re not a charity hospice; this is a
business, and we rely on profit, not deficits, to remain of service to the
public. Whilst we are bound by certain regulations to actions that can
interfere with the balance sheet and for which we are inequitably
recompensed, such as saving your life, now that it is the good doctor’s
considered opinion that you are in no longer in immediate danger, we can
discharge you.

DAVID: What about my dialysis?

DOCTOR: I hope you can raise the cash by next Thursday. Otherwise you’ll, ah,
die. Not a very nice way to go, either.

ACCOUNT: Would you like to discuss some other options? We do have an organ
transplant programme for the financially challenged here. Of course, we
won’t be purchasing a kidney, but I understand your eyes are still in good
working order?

Fade lights

Scene 9

Half of the set is half of the comfortable lounge room, stage left. A third of the way down stage right is a wall with a window either side of the front door with a single step and path, bisecting a lawn, leading off stage right to the street.

DAVID: Why didn’t my key work?

NINA: I upgraded the locks.

DAVID: You could have told me.

Pause

NINA: I didn’t expect you so early. You don’t look well, David. You’re all yellow.

DAVID: I died, Nina. I was dead.

NINA: But you’re here now.

DAVID: You brought me back, Nina. I was in this tunnel, walking toward a white
light; my parents were there, and I was suffused with love, just, absolutely
filled with it, I was love, Nina, can you understand? But there was a hole
in me, something missing, and when I turned to look, it was you, at the
other end of the tunnel, and—

During this speech the Old man enters stage right and walks up the pathway to stare in through a window by the front door.

NINA: Why are you here so early, David?

DAVID: They wouldn’t keep me on at the hospital any longer. I’m not covered.

NINA: What about—

DAVID: I’m not covered for snake bite. Laughable isn’t it, in a country with the
most poisonous snakes in the world.

NINA: I suppose you’ve lost your job as well.

DAVID: Yes. I’m too crook to work.

NINA: You’re too sick to work?

DAVID: For a year or so at least.

NINA: Who’s footing the bills, David?

DAVID: Well, what with the helicopter, and the anti-venene, the week in hospital
and the ongoing dialysis I’ll need— we’ll have to sell the house.

NINA: Sell the house? My home? This is all I’ve got, David.

DAVID: We can still build a life together. I know it won’t be the dream mansion by
the harbour, but we’ll get by. We’ll move to the country. There’s sure to
be work at one of the detention centres you could do. They’re always
recruiting. I’ll look after the kids while you bring home the bacon, then
after a few years, when I’m better, we—

NINA: I’m not moving to some shit hole in the country.

DAVID: Nina, I’ve got it all worked out.

NINA: Grow up!

DAVID: We can make this work, darling.

NINA: And how do you propose to go about that?

DAVID: Once you’ve got a job—

NINA: You want me to look after you? I’ve got a mortgage to consider! I’m not
selling this house.

DAVID: It’s too small for kids anyway.

NINA: What do I want with children? Vile little parasites. I can’t have them
in any case.

DAVID: Baby, I’m so sorry, when did you get the test done?

NINA: You moron, I had my tubes tied when I was nineteen.

DAVID: All these years and you’ve never told me? Nina, what’s going on?

NINA: (Pulls a fifty dollar note out of her cleavage) This is what it’s all about,
David. This is all I wanted from you. Now you’re sick, useless.

DAVID: We love each other, for God’s sake. We’re married. You swore an oath:
“In sickness and—”

NINA: (She punctuates her speech by jabbing at David with the fifty dollar note,
forcing him towards the front door)That was the worst decision I ever
made. You’re so stupid! I’ll tell you this for the years we’ve ‘known’ each
other, David, because no one else will bother: it’s a dog eat dog world.
Did you ever stop to wonder how we can afford all this on your lousy
income? Or book keeping? Hah! I’ve been prostituting myself since our
marriage, just to make ends meet. Don’t look at me like that, everyone
does it. I’m normal. But with you it’s always ‘is this right? Or is this
wrong? What can I do to help? Am I a good man?’ You are so fucking
pathetic it makes me want to vomit! Listen up, David: forget those
twentieth century values — everyone’s out for themselves, and those that
aren’t get eaten. Marriage is a business proposition, ‘honey’, and this
one’s bankrupt. I’ve been wasting my assets on you for too many years,
and I’m not going to waste any more time or any more money than this,
(thrusts the fifty dollars into his hands) now get out!

She pushes him out the door and slams it shut, locking it. She goes to couch and reads a tabloid newspaper with enormous headline ‘Scandalous!’. David knocks on the door. She keeps reading. He peers through the windows. He knocks again. After a while he sits down on the front step and looks at the ground. The old man stands next to David, patting his shoulder. Carl enters stage right, pauses at seeing David, then reaches past him to open the door with a key. Stepping inside, Carl shuts the door. David looks at the audience.

CARL: Hi darling, I’m home.

NINA: Hello.

Fade lights.




THE END