Dear The Humans

Dear The Humans,

You gave me things to write about, with the funny things you did and said. Your quirky nuances that I sometimes felt I was the only one to notice and record. Your kindness sometimes melted my heart. The broken ones, I saw you and loved you. The few of you who really saw me, I loved you for that. Thank you. I hope you're all doing okay. I miss you. Let's catch up again soon and you do your thing and I'll write about you again and make you laugh or cry or just appreciate some tiny little beautiful almost unnoticed thing.

Much love,

Black Rainbow.

A Word Of Advice

Little dude - a word of advice. Don't go into hospitality.

I will go into hospitality, but only as a back-up.

A back-up. A back-up for...

I really want to be a poet.

Oh. Oh dear. You are so fucked.

done with that

done

i'm done
with the bitter aftertaste
of love
i'm done with the fake notion
of love
im done with people who are incapable
of accepting their faults
i'm done with sarcasm
and condescension
and that ugly patronising tone
you think is an argument
it isn't
i'm done with being looked down upon
i know my faults
i don't need you to point them out
in such a condescending way
point them out
attack me
savage me
challenge me
but do it with intellect
and integrity
and with the respect
that i show you.

Fake Alpha

Fake Alpha

Fiction

by Lee Bemrose


When the plane finally crashes, after all that drama and hysteria, when it finally hits the ground and bounces and skids and bounces and turns sideways and crumbles and burns and all the death starts to happen ... when all of that is done and he is flung from the whole catastrophe, he thinks wow. Just me. No one else. Just me. No one has ever done this before... I'm like Jesus or something, rising from the ashes of that bird or whatever it is. This is the best thing ever. No one has ever done this before. This is a good thing.

He turns his back on the wreckage even though there are lives to be saved, and walks across the sand, amazed at his good fortune. How great am I, he thinks, how magnificent am I? Hugely magnificent, that's how magnificent.

It's a jungle. He sheds the ashes of his suit because it's the jungle. How good is this? How primal is this? Just me and my nakedness. Better enjoy it while I can, before they come and get me.

He stumbles through the trees into a clearing and stops, taking in the heavy fug in the air. Monkeys, he thinks, great big monkeys.

They turn and look at him. One. Then another. And another. A whole peaceful, wary tribe look at this naked, orange intruder. They take in his repugnant scent. They will let him pass through if that is his intention. Such ugliness has no place in their lives.

A baby gorilla recognises a kindred spirit and runs towards his new play-friend.

The bloated orange one smacks this insolent infant in the side of the head. How dare you touch me you disgusting thing! The child falls and his skull cracks as it hits a half-buried stone.

Nostrils flare. Postures straighten.

He thinks about running away, but those heel spurs, my long-forgotten heel spurs. Also, don't you know who I am?

They run at him, and it's not those fake heel spurs that prevent him from running, it's just fear. It's the fear of reality. Not fake or alternative reality; just real reality.

An actual alpha male tears the throat out of this fake alpha male and spits the flesh out in disgust.

Some chest-beating happens, and that's okay, because suddenly the world is a better place.

The More I know, The Less I Understand

I don't understand anything. I devour so much information, but I don't understand anything. I just don't get anything at all.

I don't get religion. I'm just not religious. When I'm thinking logically, I just don't believe in a God, a creator. The stories in the books made up by men thousands of years ago, the division those stories have created... the fact that people let these stories rule their lives sometimes with violent consequences, I just don't get any of it.

And yet from time to time, walking through a quiet cemetery, looking at the names in Poets Corner in Westminster, thinking of Gaudi sleeping in his Sagrada Familia, I feel something. I don't know what it is, this feeling. It's emotion. I was holding back tears in Westminster and each time I've wandered awestruck in Gaudi's church, and I just don't understand what it is. What is this feeling?

I get the same feeling watching a documentary about life, the universe and everything. Invariably I find myself shaking my head thinking, I just don't get it – what is it? The universe is so vast and life is so mysterious that, you know, is it so strange to blame it all on a great creator? What is it all? What is existence and where did it come from?

In Indonesia a few years ago a guide told us, if anyone asks you about your faith, just say you are a Christian because they simply won't like it if you say you are atheist. I agreed that this is what I would do, in this largely Islamic country, but I wondered why I should have to lie. Why does it matter to someone else that I have a different way of thinking to them?

On the island of Lombok, I remember the palm trees and the cowbells and the call to prayer. I felt peace. I felt their peace. They were praying and, I presume, also feeling peace. It was pure and beautiful and although I don't get religion, what harm was it doing to me? If anything, their faith was giving them peace and on a superficial level, it was giving me peace. I didn't understand the words being sung in the call to prayer, but I respected the sound and the sentiment and I guess yeah, I was touched by it.

Our fruit and veg suppliers were Muslim. They used to call me brother. We got to know each other, told each other our stories, had many laughs and treated each other with kindness. I thought of my guide in Lombok and wondered if I would have to lie to these guys about my beliefs. I didn't think so. They called me brother every time and I thought I don't care about your beliefs and my beliefs, if you call me brother, that's good enough for me, we are brothers.

If someone wants to pray, if they need their rituals, we don't have to understand it to accept it. We're all the same, we just have different ideas, and that's totally fine.

What I really don't understand is why an extremist, fanatic coward unleashes on a peaceful group peacefully going about their own business. I don't get it. I don't understand anything at all.

Thespian

Recently at my Responsible Service Of Alcohol course... I hate these things. I hate any form of structured learning. I'm just shit at it. Always have been. I was shit at skool which is why I left at age 16. The skool thing was a joke, by the way. I know how to spel.

So anyway. Came to a point where we were told we had to role play. Confrontation situation where a drunk customer wanted another drink and the bar person had to refuse in the right way. I turned around to my team of two travelers, banged my palm down on the table and said, Giz a farking drink ya bastard.

The very polite Indian guy who was, in my mind, playing the bar tender, looked confused and asked my what I was doing.

Role playing. Like we were told to do. You're the responsible bar tender, I'm a drunk customer, and this French guy is the best man at my buck's night, so you know, Give us some fucking drinks ya prick. Another palm slapped down on the table. I was really getting into this. The Indian guy and the French guy, not so much. They just looked a bit confused.

I made the Indian guy play his role. The French guy was just silent, but that was okay because he was my best man and I was the belligerent one who had to be dealt with. There was conversational noise going on all around us. I looked around at the conclusion of our role playing bit and realised that absolutely no one else had done the role playing thing. They were just chatting. Even the instructor - who I had been expecting to be wandering through the room and taking notes, was just talking to a group about their travels.

I turned back to my Indian bartender and my French best man. Shit, I said sheepishly, sorry about that.

The Colourful And Curly Ride Of A Loser's Life.

I never thought I'd be this old. I look back and from this viewpoint, I thought I'd be dead already. Yet, here I am. In spite of my destructive ways, in spite of my hardcore partying days, I'm still, disappointingly, resolutely, reluctantly, still here.

So convinced was I that I would never make it to old age that I have never followed through with anything. One golden relationship, yes, but nothing else. No other life passions. Well yes, I am passionate about many things. My interests are infinite and ever increasing, fractals and kaleidoscopes of things and things and things of interest.

But career-wise, work-wise, nothing has sustained me. Why study one thing and devote your life to it when there are so many things. I admire people who can do this. I understand that this is the secret to success, but I have been completely incapable of doing it.

No formal qualifications and I've masqueraded as a chef, one time standing between Guilliame Brahini and Matt Moran at the Sydney Opera House, they having earned their chef outfits, mine merely a costume. I've been a magazine editor, freelance writer, interviewer of famous musicians and comedians, writers and actors. I've won a national award for my short fiction, been included in writing for academics and popular writers alike, have reviewed so much theatre as though I'm some kind of authority on all things drama. When in fact I'm just a bum on a seat who loves the magic of theatre.

But for all that, I am unqualified. I have no pieces of paper, and for the longest time this seemed to me life's ultimate joke. How the hell did I do this... how the hell did I get myself into this... how is it that I am coaching and teaching newbies in the way of coffee and seeing them go off into the world and become respected baristas in foreign lands... how... squint... how did that happen... how...

Now, however, it bites me in the arse, this lack of qualification. I am a journeyman. Knower of lots, expert at nothing.

I am old, unemployed, and seemingly unemployable. Looking back, what a colourful and curly ride it was. I think I just needed to have jumped off before now.

When You Are A Loser

When you accept that you have lost at life, it gets easier after that.

Once Upon A Time In A Banged Up Little Cafe

I had so much love from so many random encounters this late in my life, largely because of the now-closed cafe. This is one of them. It's Jodie, Ann's helper who finally I had the chance to work with more closely front of house. Man, the laughs. Such a wonderful co-worker. Such a great friend. Such a beautiful encounter. I have been lucky enough to have had many such wonderful encounters, all unique, all kinda loving and amazing. I feel so much gratitude for these random encounters that have meant so much to me. Thank you, Universe, you have been kind to me.

Making Contact With An Angry Stranger

Just had one of those public transport experiences you sometimes hear about, and I feel emotionally overwhelmed. Guy gets into a crowded tram in track pants and no shirt. Nuggety guy, clearly in trouble, anger oozing out all over the place. He's right next to me, muttering and clenching his fists. I just watch him, wondering what we're dealing with here. Suddenly he takes a wild swing and punches the perspex divider between the seats and the stairs. People jump up and scream. I more or less know what I'm dealing with now, and I put my hand on his shoulder and ask him, hey buddy - what's up. He tells me women, man, women will fuck you up. He smashes his head into the perspex divider, and I can hear the zen in my voice as I tell him, don't do that, don't hurt yourself. He looks at me, we have eye contact. Okay. Don't let them fuck you up, I tell him. He waits for me to elaborate. I'm so calm as I tell him, stay calm and strong in your mind and don't let anyone fuck you up. He softens and asks me what I do for work. I tell him that I make coffee for people and I make them happy and I like making people happy because making people happy is such a cool thing. He tells me I am a cool dude, bro, and we have the first of several handshakes, and we exchange names. We talk some more about our plans for the night. He lashes out again at the door. I tell him seriously mate, stop hurting yourself, it's not worth it. We talk some more and he gets off the tram, asking for my name again. He points at me and tells me, thanks bro. I sit down in the crowded silent tram, and then I just start to feel overwhelmed by what just happened. I just wanted the guy to stop hurting himself. I don't think he was going to hurt anyone else, but who knows. I'm alone on this crowded, now silent tram, processing what just happened. And then all this fucking beauty happened. As people left the tram, they came over to thank me. Thank you for doing that. Thank you. You handled that really well, thank you for keeping us all safe. So yeah, feeling a little emotionally overwhelmed right now.

St Julian And Hospitality.

Not much humour going on in Lee's head at the moment, but I did think this was funny... I just sent a poem off to a mag and at the end of the bio I said that I'd like to thank St Hospo, patron saint of hospitality, for supporting my less than impressive writing career. Then I googled patron saint of hospitality and found out about St Julian. 'St. Julian the Hospitaller is also the patron saint of clowns and circus workers, innkeepers, fiddle players, jugglers, childless people, and murderers.'

Yairp, that's hospitality.

Angel Whisper

The tassels at the back of my beanie
touch my neck
like an angel's fingertip's
gentle caress
and the angel tells me
it's okay, it's okay

I Cried

Today in the cafe... it was a good day. Busy, but more importantly, many laughs were had. I can't express how fortunate I feel to be working with the current Team Awesome. Ari and Jodie are amazing humans. It's really sad to think that our paths might never have crossed, given that I can't imagine them not being in my life.

At the end of this beautiful day, an older guy comes into the cafe. He's on the phone organising coffee for other people. He says into the phone - yes, that's where I am now. Does Veronica want a chocolate brownie too? No? All good then. See you soon.

He orders three coffees and the chocolate brownie. I think it's a bit odd that he's wearing sunglasses on this overcast day.

As I make the coffees he tells me brightly, "Your coffee is highly rated by my daughter. She loves your coffee. She thinks you're the best barista in the area."

Naturally I'm happy to hear this and ask who his daughter is, thinking she must be a regular, maybe one I know by name.

"Oh, we've been in here a couple of times." His tone suggests I wouldn't remember them. Not regulars then. "My daughter is in hospital."

I keep glancing at him in the mirror, trying to remember. There is something there, but those sunglasses make it difficult. Then it comes to me.

"Have you both been in her exactly twice? And did you sit at that table by the door both times?"

He smiles at me. "Yes, that's us."

I remember them clearly now. They made an impression. They struck me as a loving father and daughter. I remember her plain beauty and something about her presence, her vibe. She seemed to me to be enthusiastic and appreciative. I remember her mentioning hospital and thinking she doesn't seem to have any injuries and seemed in good health. Maybe she was referring to someone else, I thought at the time.

Back in the present, I asked the man if his daughter is okay.

"Well... yes," he says through sunglasses clearly not worn as protection against the glare. "She has mental health issues that she has to be hospitalised for sometimes."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that. I do remember you both. She seems like a lovely person."

"Oh you got that right. Lovely person." In that tone, I can feel the love. "There's just this thing we have to deal with. We just have to get through it."

The transaction done, I tell him that I hope his daughter is okay and that I hope he is okay. I tell him to take care. He thanks me with a smile and leaves the cafe.

I close the door and... I don't know exactly what it is... the fact there is so much care and love about him or the fact that he is doing this mundane thing like buying coffee and sweets before returning to whatever it is that they have to get through, but watching this basically very decent, loving, gentle old man cross the road, it breaks me. Alone in my banged up little cafe, I just cry. I really fucking cry.

If you are passionate
I will celebrate your passion.
If you re compassionate,
I will rejoice in your compassion.
If you are simple and kind
I will embrace your simple kindness.
If you give,
I will give.
If you take,
I will give.
If you love me,
I will love you.

If you are obnoxious
and hurt my friends
One day
I might forgive you.

Venom & Grace

Public announcement
of private thoughts
accusations claiming
grace over venomous voice.

Venomous voice was mute
until graceless actions
awakened dark voice
judging, judging
accurately.

But "Grace" is righteously claimed
in this public place.
but in another
private place
hey my boobs my boobs my fun boobs
my boyfriends dick in your face.

Grace.

I give to you my venom.
I take from you
your utter lack
of grace.

Boo

Out of the tangled ancient
history of humanity,
with my distant ancestors
and your distant ancestors
here we are,
me and you,
here in this modern place.

We talk of the days
and the days,
and the days
of mundane things,
and eventually we talk
of the meaningful things.

The things that are really important to us
right now.

Did you read that poem?
Did read that short story
Who is your favourite writer?
Did you see that movie?
Did you write that story
Did you write that poem?
Did you do that thing?

Did I mention,
how much I like talking to you?
And listening to you,
you with your distant ancestors,
and me with my distant ancestors,
here and now,
in this modern place.

Today In The Cafe... You Never Regret Kindness

Today in the cafe... An older couple came into the cafe just after the kitchen had technically closed. They wanted some hot food. They liked the look of the soup. Sometimes you get a feeling about people, they just need some soup and a warm and quiet place to sit. I said yeah, sure, of course we're still open. The husband thanked me and apologised, saying they would have been here three hours earlier, but they had been stuck in St Vincent's Hospital. They loved the soup. I don't know their story, but I do know they needed that soup and that time out in a quiet and warm place more than I needed to go home.

Short time later, a paramedic walks in, clearly ready to walk back out again because clearly, we are closed.

Are you closed? she asks.

Yes we are closed, I tell her, but what were you after?

Just a couple of coffees...

An imploring look.

Of course I can do you a couple of coffees.

She was so grateful because, she told me, she had had such a busy day and had been trying to get coffee for most of the day but just didn't get the chance.

A paramedic's busy day isn't quite the same as a barista's busy day.

I was happy to end the day on two acts of kindness, because as a friend just pointed out, you never regret kindness.

Almost Face To Face, Stephen House At Butterfly Club, Review

Almost Face To Face

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



It's difficult to determine who the real star is in this piece; the exquisite writing, or the equally perfect performance. That both are the work of the same person... truly impressive stuff.

Almost Face To Face is a one hour dramatic monologue – just one raw man on a bare stage - by master of the form Stephen House. It recounts his stories of his time in Dublin, living with an overweight prostitute/landlord. Don't be mistaken, these are stories of fringe-dwellers, the truly down and out, the broken ones we see on the periphery of our comfortable lives. Prostitution, drug addiction, alcoholism, sex with strangers... it's all here, and it all feels so very, unflinchingly real.

Using the word exquisite when dealing with such subject matter might seem odd, but the writing of these gritty stories is absolutely exquisite. At times the monologues actually morph into poetry, a form I suspect Stephen House enjoys quite a lot. There is tenderness at times in the words, sometimes sadness, often anger.

And the delivery is equally well-executed. As a performer, Mr House has an impressive range. He can be a gentle soul, a weary soul, a broken soul and an angry soul all in a very short time. Sometimes as he prowls the tiny stage at The Butterfly club, so real is his passion that you may find yourself in goosebumps.

There is an authenticity to Stephen's work that makes them important works we should pay attention to. In a review of another of his pieces (Appalling Behaviour, which is referenced in this piece), I think I said he gives a voice to those fringe dwellers we never really interact with. The fact that he has lived much of his material and is so eloquently able to share such gritty stories with us – and indeed that he is so willing to do so – is theatrically and personally impressive. If you're open to this kind of thing, you'll find yourself in a gentle state of awe, and you'll probably feel a sense of gratitude.

Not all is gutter and grime. There is actually much humour, in these stories of these broken humans. There are a few chuckle-out-loud moments, but there are many other moments where something is so tragically fucked up and kind of funny that rather than laugh, your heart melts. It's so funny, you'll think, but so fucking sad.

If you get out of your comfortable home for just one performance this week, make it this one. I promise, you will feel enriched.

At The Butterfly Club until 12th May 2018. Touring to other capitals afterwards.

Writing, Frustration & Solitude

Why wanting/needing to write - or indulge in any other creative endeavour - is frustrating...

You work a long week, 50 hours or more dealing with people and people and people, when you are a poster-boy introvert. But you cope and if you're good at it, no one really knows just how much you crave solitude. You enjoy the interaction, when you enjoy it, and you love some of the humans and want to look after the broken ones, but through it all you look forward to some solitude and reflection.

But the weekend comes and someone has a thing, let's catch up for a thing, some drinks, a meal, a barbecue in the backyard or a party in the bush. And you like these things, but you don't get the chance to be solitary and reflective during the working week, and you certainly can't do it when you're socialising, so when? You're tired at the end of a 10 hour day, you're tired at the end of a fifty hour week, and you're accused of being antisocial if you don't want to catch up with friends on the weekend. Catching up with friends is what they do for their not-working time. At the end of a long working week filled with humans and their wonder and their weirdness, some of us want to be alone and just write a poem.

But we have to catch up. Must catch up. We must socialise and socialise and socialise and talk about things.

Leaving no time for reflection and imagination.

A Silly Poem That Is Actually Quite Sad

I Love Silly Poetry Because

I love it when
You write a poem late at night,
And it's shit as pooh,
And so you go fuck it

And you think you deleted it,
But didn't,
And in the morning
You're all fuck me...
Seriously?
What?
Wot?
Wut?
WTF?

And then you don't even know what poetry is because really what is it? But you notice this line is waaaaaaay longer than the other lines of the really short lines of this fucked up and fucked up and this fucked up poem.

Yewp.
And that friend you thought
Knew you so well
Who never existed,
She tells you there there,

I really love that.