Just heard a song on the radio where the guy was going on about how much his heart was burning for someone. I was sure I heard in the chorus the words:
My heart burns for you,
Can't get no insurance for my heart.
Upon listening closely I found I'd misheard. Pity.
It reminded me that I never did get around to posting the lyrics of my song for Meow Meow. In the song... it's all a bit twisted up really because although the song would be sung by the performer, it's sung from the point of view of her besotted admirer who is articulating the indifference or even contempt the singer feels for the admirer. (I think there's a bit of sado masochism going on in there somewhere).
So. The lyrics themselves are pretty Goddamned silly, and the entire concept and structure just doesn't make any sense, so my way of making more sense of it was to have Meow Meow herself sing the song while looking into a mirror... because to fully make sense the song would have to be sung by someone other than the singer herself. That she is singing a love song to herself is perfectly in keeping with her character, as anyone who has had the pleasure of seeing her perform will appreciate. But that it is a crooning song of loathing... no sense at all.
The imagined "no insurance for my heart line" reminded me of these couple of verses from Comatose With Desire...
My unrequited lust for you,
Has crushed my heart, it’s true,
And another vital organ or two,
And left me comatose with desire.
Comatose with desire,
Comatose with desire,
You make me
Comatose with desire.
I am a peaceful village,
That you rape and pillage,
My heart buuuuurns for you... because you set it on fire,
I am comatose with desire.
If enough of you tell me you think these are some of the most retarded song lyrics you've read and that you want more, I might consider finally posting the whole silly thing. Sending money will help the cause.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Mighty Thor Fucks Up A Bit. In The Post Office. Innit.
The queue in the post office reaches from the counter back to the entry door, then veers sharply to the left and back down until it almost reaches the counter again. Some days it goes to the right. It has a mind of its own.
I join the end of the queue and spend a thousand years waiting and shuffling forward. It is not the most fun I've ever had.
As I get to the bendy bit and turn back towards the counter just in time to celebrate my 76th birthday, a lady who is actually about 76 casually merges. She just kind of appears and then is part of the queue. We are standing side by side, but I am not in the mood for letting little old ladies push in front of me, no matter how crinkly the corners of their eyes are or how kindly they appear. I step forward and make it clear that in such situations, I am the entirely wrong man to meddle with. Quite simply, you do not want to fuck me around. Bitch.
For a while I am content with the situation because I have not lost my place in the queue and if anyone further back in the line feels an injustice has been done, it is up to them to sort things out. It's a dog eat dog world. Every man for himself. There ain't no Superman or Batman or Thor or Wonderwoman. Just the way it is.
But then I do what I should almost never do - I think to myself, "What would Thor do if he were standing in a post office queue and an old lady cut in and queue jumped?"
He would stand up for the little people, is the answer. So.
I turn on this old woman with her endearingly crinkly eyes and her powdery scent as she acts so innocent and grandmotherly and I say to her, "You do realise you've just cut in on all these other people, don't you."
"Pardon?"
"The queue," I tell her. "It goes all the way over there and turns and goes all the way down there. You've cut in front of all those people."
"No I didn't. I wouldn't do that."
Right now I am pretty sure Thor would be donging this selfish old bitch over the head with his hammer, but I am a more reasonable superhero than that - even if my intolerance of injustice dwarfs that of all superheroes combined. I glance down the line and see that the entire queue's population is watching my defense against this heinous wrong-doing.
"I just saw you push in - "
Hell Granny says nothing because a chorus of others leap to her defense and tell me, "No, she didn't push in. She's fine. She was standing there all along. You just didn't see her. You were a million miles away off in your own little world like you always are, Lee."
The entire fucking queue is nodding its support.
I'm not sure what Thor would do in such a situation, but I apologise profusely and pout and go a bit red in the face and shuffle a lot and wish I was The Invisible Man instead of Thor who is, apparently, a bit of a twat.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Arsedance At Earthdance 2007
I am at a doof. It is a sunny morning. The hill is crowded, but pleasantly so. There are smiles and there is exuberant stomping as the speaker stacks charge the air with thumping, pulsing, squelchy psytrance goodness. The strongest chemical I have had is coffee, so I close my eyes, burrow in and try to find that place in the music... ah yes, there it is, and I am dancing.
Something intrudes on my newly-found hit of daytime bliss. Something soft and round.
I open my eyes and the intrusion is a pair of reasonably yummy buttocks. A girl is moving her arse against me in a very obvious way. She turns to face me, clearly wondering what I thought about that hot piece of action. I look at the girl and smile, my smile clearly saying, “Look, thank you. It’s really very flattering and it’s really a very nice bottom and everything, and on another day or under other more intoxicated circumstances I might do something like, you know, gently take you by the hips and rub up against your sensational arse with my totally awesome pants bulge. But right at this particular point in time I really just want to lose myself in this music.”
No sooner am I back in the music than Arse Girl is at it again. She is lap dancing me in a way that will not be ignored. I open my eyes just as she runs both hands through her hair and does a smoldering hair flick, her sultry over-the-shoulder smirk clearly saying, “Good, huh? Want some? Yeah... you want it.”
This time my smile takes a sterner approach: “Look here. Um – yes, very good. Possibly the best arse grinding action I’ve experienced in half my life. But right now at this point in time all I really really really want to do is dance by myself to this music. Please?”
Her smoldering smile changes. “You prick. What are we all doing here if it’s not to get horny on the dancefloor? What are you – some kind of deviant?”
My smile twitches and says. “Look I just –“
“Fuck you,” her smile tells me. “You selfish prick.”
And she is gone.
I close my eyes and try to block out the memory of her her wiggly bum. I try to find my place inside the music but it just doesn’t work. Because try as I might, I really just don’t get why so many of you women have to think with your vaginas.
Something intrudes on my newly-found hit of daytime bliss. Something soft and round.
I open my eyes and the intrusion is a pair of reasonably yummy buttocks. A girl is moving her arse against me in a very obvious way. She turns to face me, clearly wondering what I thought about that hot piece of action. I look at the girl and smile, my smile clearly saying, “Look, thank you. It’s really very flattering and it’s really a very nice bottom and everything, and on another day or under other more intoxicated circumstances I might do something like, you know, gently take you by the hips and rub up against your sensational arse with my totally awesome pants bulge. But right at this particular point in time I really just want to lose myself in this music.”
No sooner am I back in the music than Arse Girl is at it again. She is lap dancing me in a way that will not be ignored. I open my eyes just as she runs both hands through her hair and does a smoldering hair flick, her sultry over-the-shoulder smirk clearly saying, “Good, huh? Want some? Yeah... you want it.”
This time my smile takes a sterner approach: “Look here. Um – yes, very good. Possibly the best arse grinding action I’ve experienced in half my life. But right now at this point in time all I really really really want to do is dance by myself to this music. Please?”
Her smoldering smile changes. “You prick. What are we all doing here if it’s not to get horny on the dancefloor? What are you – some kind of deviant?”
My smile twitches and says. “Look I just –“
“Fuck you,” her smile tells me. “You selfish prick.”
And she is gone.
I close my eyes and try to block out the memory of her her wiggly bum. I try to find my place inside the music but it just doesn’t work. Because try as I might, I really just don’t get why so many of you women have to think with your vaginas.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Time Out
I've lost all my links because the template went weird on me and the whole thing is giving me the shits. I'll dick about with it at some stage I guess and try to find the blogs I was reading each day, but for now I think it's a sign to take a break. Statcounter flat-lined it for me too. Oh yeah, it's a sign.
Take care. Back later.
Take care. Back later.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
C-90 Review
Gotta go hit the dancefloor at Earthdance while the sun is shining, but first here is a review of a comedy performance I saw last night. Might add more later, but this is the 350ish words the mag allows me. He tours, so keep an eye out for him. Lovely and funny stuff.
C-90
Daniel Kitson’s C-90 is an unusual blend of story-telling and stand-up comedy. It’s exactly the kind unexpected performance you expect to see at The Playhouse’s Adventures season. It’s eccentric, it’s off-kilter, it’s funny, warm and snurgy. (Someone had to invent a word to replace quirky, so there you have it).
The Yorkshire comedian takes to the stage and launches immediately into the story of Henry who works in the dusty anachronism of a lost mixtape archive. He is fascinated with the idea of mixtapes, the love and care that has gone into them, the fact that someone has invested so much time and thought creating this unique musical gift for another individual human being. He’s categorised and archived thousands of these lost gems without ever having listened to a single one of them, because he doesn’t care much for music. He receives the first mixtape that has ever been personally addressed to him and a Pandora’s box opens; a strange little place filled with misfit characters unfurls before our ears.
Isolate some sections and you’d swear you were listening to pure stand up comedy with the gags hitting the comic sweet spot with precision timing. Isolate yet others and you were being fed the thoughts and ideas of an old time story teller. Through it all you get the impression that Daniel Kitson spends a lot of time looking around at the peripheral people who populate our world. For example the other main character is the lollipop lady at a school kids’ crossing who left university to become a lollipop lady because she sees it as a good and noble job despite what others think. Like Henry, she is a gorgeous creation, her character a slow moving kaleidoscope of endearing foibles.
In a jagged and cynical world the laughs that performers like Daniel Kitson give to us are to be treasured.
At The Playhouse, Sydney Opera House until 30 September.
LEE BEMROSE
C-90
Daniel Kitson’s C-90 is an unusual blend of story-telling and stand-up comedy. It’s exactly the kind unexpected performance you expect to see at The Playhouse’s Adventures season. It’s eccentric, it’s off-kilter, it’s funny, warm and snurgy. (Someone had to invent a word to replace quirky, so there you have it).
The Yorkshire comedian takes to the stage and launches immediately into the story of Henry who works in the dusty anachronism of a lost mixtape archive. He is fascinated with the idea of mixtapes, the love and care that has gone into them, the fact that someone has invested so much time and thought creating this unique musical gift for another individual human being. He’s categorised and archived thousands of these lost gems without ever having listened to a single one of them, because he doesn’t care much for music. He receives the first mixtape that has ever been personally addressed to him and a Pandora’s box opens; a strange little place filled with misfit characters unfurls before our ears.
Isolate some sections and you’d swear you were listening to pure stand up comedy with the gags hitting the comic sweet spot with precision timing. Isolate yet others and you were being fed the thoughts and ideas of an old time story teller. Through it all you get the impression that Daniel Kitson spends a lot of time looking around at the peripheral people who populate our world. For example the other main character is the lollipop lady at a school kids’ crossing who left university to become a lollipop lady because she sees it as a good and noble job despite what others think. Like Henry, she is a gorgeous creation, her character a slow moving kaleidoscope of endearing foibles.
In a jagged and cynical world the laughs that performers like Daniel Kitson give to us are to be treasured.
At The Playhouse, Sydney Opera House until 30 September.
LEE BEMROSE
What The Fuck Happened To My Blog?
This faggy new look probably shits you almost as much as it does me. What can I say. My old template was taken away for whatever reason and I grabbed this one in haste because I'm buggered if I can be bothered spending any more time tweaking shit than I have to.
Had some funny stuff to share but spent the time instead trying to figure out what happened to the look of this blog.
Earthdance soon. Freedom. Not work. Psytrance. Smiles on a grassy dancefloor. Stompiness.
Had some funny stuff to share but spent the time instead trying to figure out what happened to the look of this blog.
Earthdance soon. Freedom. Not work. Psytrance. Smiles on a grassy dancefloor. Stompiness.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Earthdance 2007
Here is a short feature about Earthdance as it appears in the current issue of Drum (minus the weird edits someone at the magazine made). The party happens this coming Sunday, simultaneously all over the world. It's a great event that welcomes everyone. It could have been a very straight story, but I chose to have a bit of fun with it.
WORLD PARTY
Live bands, dance music, market stalls and open arms; this is Earthdance 2007. LEE BEMROSE interrupted festival organisor RAF GIMELSTEIN’s breakfast to find out what makes this year’s party different to previous years.
THINK GLOBAL
I could start this story like everyone else and talk about how much Earthdance has grown each year, how it was started by Australian Chris Dekker, mention the number and diversity of countries it takes place etc etc, but I’m not going to.
I might mention all that stuff later, but right now what concerns me most is that Earthdance 2007 could well freak out the whales. And we have to ask ourselves: do we really want to deal with the repercussions of a world population of totally freaked out whales? Stay with me here...
At 10am local time on Sunday September 16 The Earthdance Prayer For Peace will take place. At the exact same moment at about 350 locations in more than 50 countries around the world, the same thing will be happening. The simultaneous global Prayer For Peace is at the heart of Earthdance and has been since its inception 10 years ago. However this year there will also be a global Om taking place above the surface of the waters as well as below the waters. The importance water plays in life on Earth is being celebrated with underwater speakers being placed beneath the surface of selected major waterways such as The Ganges, the Nile and the Mississippi and belting out a simultaneous “Ommmmmm...”
Whale 1: “What the hell was that?”
Whale 2: “No idea, but it was freaky. I am so outta here.”
Then again maybe the conversation will go like this:
Whale 1: “What the hell was that?”
Whale 2: “It’s the humans. Global Om. A good thing. Chill, dude, you’re so uptight.”
Depending on how you view things you might think the global Om is kooky or cool. This devout not-morning person attended last year’s prayer for peace and I happen to think it’s pretty cool.
DANCE LOCAL
What is also pretty cool is that Earthdance – taking place in Sydney Park in Petersham for the fourth year – is probably the best multi-stage dance party Sydney will see. Last year it pulled an estimated crowd of more than 20,000 punters from all walks of life, and with seven stages featuring live acts and DJs from all genres, Earthdance 2007 is set to be even bigger. And there’s no cover charge. That’s right – it’s free.
However, Festival director Rafael Gimelstein says that we should expect something a little different this year.
“This year we’re really re-designing the whole festival site. This year when you come into the festival you don’t walk into a dance party, you walk into a community festival. There’s live music, a kid’s area... I think this year you’ll see a big change in terms of getting the message out there. This year we’re really working on inviting families... there’s no glass and you can bring your dogs and run barefoot, there are eco-living workshops. We’re really not promoting the festival at all to the dance crowds because they are already aware of the festival. This year it’s about delivering the message to the community. It’s not a dance party as such, it’s a well-behaved community for everyone.”
If you’ve been in the past and danced your nuts off, don’t be put off by the open arms Earthdance is extending to the wider community; there will be lots of dance music, both live and of the DJ kind. The lineup includes Infusion, Rastawookie, Groovelands, Stick Figures, Deepchild, Ken Cloud & Simon Caldwell, Potbelleez, Basskleph and a whole lot more. Genres include rock, electro, reggae, house, techno, drum & bass and – the one that started it all - psytrance.
Earthdance is a charity event, this year raising money for Oasis Youth Support Network. It’s also a great opportunity to get the warm and fuzzies about humanity. Although numbers are down in Sydney during the prayer itself due to the relatively early time of day (elsewhere throughout the world, parties are brought to a stop for the global link up, thus ensuring maximum impact), there will be a reproduction of the link up on big screens at the close of the festival.
Whether or not the global link up during the prayer for peace or the global Om actually achieve anything, it is heartening to pause and realise that all around the world so many human beings are uniting to celebrate the good that we are capable of through music and dance.
Even if it is at the risk of scaring the crap out of the whales.
WHAT: Earthdance Global Dance for Peace.
WHEN & WHERE: Sydney Park, Petersham Sunday 16 September. Also in Perth and Melbourne.
WORLD PARTY
Live bands, dance music, market stalls and open arms; this is Earthdance 2007. LEE BEMROSE interrupted festival organisor RAF GIMELSTEIN’s breakfast to find out what makes this year’s party different to previous years.
THINK GLOBAL
I could start this story like everyone else and talk about how much Earthdance has grown each year, how it was started by Australian Chris Dekker, mention the number and diversity of countries it takes place etc etc, but I’m not going to.
I might mention all that stuff later, but right now what concerns me most is that Earthdance 2007 could well freak out the whales. And we have to ask ourselves: do we really want to deal with the repercussions of a world population of totally freaked out whales? Stay with me here...
At 10am local time on Sunday September 16 The Earthdance Prayer For Peace will take place. At the exact same moment at about 350 locations in more than 50 countries around the world, the same thing will be happening. The simultaneous global Prayer For Peace is at the heart of Earthdance and has been since its inception 10 years ago. However this year there will also be a global Om taking place above the surface of the waters as well as below the waters. The importance water plays in life on Earth is being celebrated with underwater speakers being placed beneath the surface of selected major waterways such as The Ganges, the Nile and the Mississippi and belting out a simultaneous “Ommmmmm...”
Whale 1: “What the hell was that?”
Whale 2: “No idea, but it was freaky. I am so outta here.”
Then again maybe the conversation will go like this:
Whale 1: “What the hell was that?”
Whale 2: “It’s the humans. Global Om. A good thing. Chill, dude, you’re so uptight.”
Depending on how you view things you might think the global Om is kooky or cool. This devout not-morning person attended last year’s prayer for peace and I happen to think it’s pretty cool.
DANCE LOCAL
What is also pretty cool is that Earthdance – taking place in Sydney Park in Petersham for the fourth year – is probably the best multi-stage dance party Sydney will see. Last year it pulled an estimated crowd of more than 20,000 punters from all walks of life, and with seven stages featuring live acts and DJs from all genres, Earthdance 2007 is set to be even bigger. And there’s no cover charge. That’s right – it’s free.
However, Festival director Rafael Gimelstein says that we should expect something a little different this year.
“This year we’re really re-designing the whole festival site. This year when you come into the festival you don’t walk into a dance party, you walk into a community festival. There’s live music, a kid’s area... I think this year you’ll see a big change in terms of getting the message out there. This year we’re really working on inviting families... there’s no glass and you can bring your dogs and run barefoot, there are eco-living workshops. We’re really not promoting the festival at all to the dance crowds because they are already aware of the festival. This year it’s about delivering the message to the community. It’s not a dance party as such, it’s a well-behaved community for everyone.”
If you’ve been in the past and danced your nuts off, don’t be put off by the open arms Earthdance is extending to the wider community; there will be lots of dance music, both live and of the DJ kind. The lineup includes Infusion, Rastawookie, Groovelands, Stick Figures, Deepchild, Ken Cloud & Simon Caldwell, Potbelleez, Basskleph and a whole lot more. Genres include rock, electro, reggae, house, techno, drum & bass and – the one that started it all - psytrance.
Earthdance is a charity event, this year raising money for Oasis Youth Support Network. It’s also a great opportunity to get the warm and fuzzies about humanity. Although numbers are down in Sydney during the prayer itself due to the relatively early time of day (elsewhere throughout the world, parties are brought to a stop for the global link up, thus ensuring maximum impact), there will be a reproduction of the link up on big screens at the close of the festival.
Whether or not the global link up during the prayer for peace or the global Om actually achieve anything, it is heartening to pause and realise that all around the world so many human beings are uniting to celebrate the good that we are capable of through music and dance.
Even if it is at the risk of scaring the crap out of the whales.
WHAT: Earthdance Global Dance for Peace.
WHEN & WHERE: Sydney Park, Petersham Sunday 16 September. Also in Perth and Melbourne.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Wird
I have a friend I don't see anymore, may never see again. Life just picks you up and carries you along at a terrifying speed. You go to a few dark and strange places and you realise that anything, quite literally, can happen. You assume the lover you see in the morning will come home again at night. You assume there will always be time to say sorry you had that fight. You assume there will always be another dance, another drink, more laughs to be had. But these assumptions have the substance of clouds. Foolish, foolish assumptions.
So anyway, I have this friend I don't see anymore, may never see again. She's a memory. She's a world away. She's the memory of laughter. She's words on a screen. She's a duck nailed to wooden spoons. She's a penguin. She's a bruise on my arm. She's laughter like a song. She's silly. She's smart. She's got this thing she does with words. When her fingers are lemony, I get things in my eyes.
Do you ever get that? When you read something and it just devastates you with its perfection? A collection of words we all have access to, but this someone has arranged them in such a way that there is a beat, and there is beauty and they've somehow made this perfect wordthing.
This memorybeing does this. She does it so well. And yet she frets about not being a good writer.
Which makes me laugh.
She is my favourite writer.
So anyway, I have this friend I don't see anymore, may never see again. She's a memory. She's a world away. She's the memory of laughter. She's words on a screen. She's a duck nailed to wooden spoons. She's a penguin. She's a bruise on my arm. She's laughter like a song. She's silly. She's smart. She's got this thing she does with words. When her fingers are lemony, I get things in my eyes.
Do you ever get that? When you read something and it just devastates you with its perfection? A collection of words we all have access to, but this someone has arranged them in such a way that there is a beat, and there is beauty and they've somehow made this perfect wordthing.
This memorybeing does this. She does it so well. And yet she frets about not being a good writer.
Which makes me laugh.
She is my favourite writer.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Oysters Are No Aphrodisiac
Recently while faux chefing at The Big Pointy Building, a very important function was taking place. There was a lull in service while speeches took place. Chefs and kitchen hands milled about restlessly. Head service peole joined us. Hushed chatter, a few stifled laughs.
Guy in a tux walks through our makeshift kitchen area with a glass of wine, obviously on his way outside for a cigarette or something. I recognise him as the frontman of a pretty well-known Australian band. He spots a platter of leftover oysters sitting on a table I am standing next to.
"Do you mind if I have an oyster?" he asks. "I'm one of the guests."
"Sure," I reply. "Help yourself."
This is the entirely wrong thing to say because the head chef has a rock solid policy of no one eating in the kitchen area, aside from chefs who must try the food from time to time. Wait staff - forget it. Guests? Fuck off back to the guests' area to eat. I'm just a little more casual about it all, which is wrong. I always shrug and figure it's food that's going to waste anyway, someone wants an oyster they can have an oyster. But this is wrong because I am only a faux chef, not a real chef and certainly not the Head Chef.
I turn around to ask Famous Singer if he is performing tonight and see that he has settled his glass on the table and is hunched over the oyster platter eating a lot more than an oyster.
Not good.
I then glance over just as the head chef looks up from the food he is putting the finishing touches on and sees Famous Singer eating the oysters - only he doesn't see a famous guy, he just sees some wanker in a suit making a pig of himself and I realise that a total innocent is about to suffer the consequences of my slackness.
"OI!" Head Chef snarls as he crosses the room. He's a pretty big guy. Forceful presence that can ooze menace. "The fuck do you think you're doing? I don't like you coming into my area and eating my food. Fuck off somewhere else to eat food!"
Famous Singer looks like Withnail in that pub scene when the red-neck local is threatening him and 'I' ("I have a heart condition. If you hit me it's murder...").
"I did ask," Famous Singer simpers and the glowering head chef, "but yes of course I'm so sorry."
Later, there is another lull in proceedings, this time for a musical interlude. It's an all too familiar whining voice with piano accompaniment. We're all a bit stir crazy by this time because we just want to get on with the function and get out of there. We're talking in hushed tones again. At one point there is talk of the singer and Head Chef asks who it is.
"That," replies one of the service people in his very dry Scottish accent, "is the man you were so rude to earlier."
Head Chef is amused. He denies that he was rude, says he just didn't want him to eat in this area and invited him to go elsewhere. There is much stifled sniggering because everyone saw exactly what happened and it was pretty damned funny.
"Even funnier," I say, deciding to fess up, "is that he did actually ask. I said yes and five seconds later you're ripping the poor bastard's head off."
From out in the function area Famous Singer gets a round of applause and starts on another song, much to our dismay.
"Fuck me," Head Chef says. "Where's that platter of oysters? Might take it out there now and say 'here, want an oyster now? Lee says you can have one."
It can be such a stressful job, but it does have it's nice little moments too.
Guy in a tux walks through our makeshift kitchen area with a glass of wine, obviously on his way outside for a cigarette or something. I recognise him as the frontman of a pretty well-known Australian band. He spots a platter of leftover oysters sitting on a table I am standing next to.
"Do you mind if I have an oyster?" he asks. "I'm one of the guests."
"Sure," I reply. "Help yourself."
This is the entirely wrong thing to say because the head chef has a rock solid policy of no one eating in the kitchen area, aside from chefs who must try the food from time to time. Wait staff - forget it. Guests? Fuck off back to the guests' area to eat. I'm just a little more casual about it all, which is wrong. I always shrug and figure it's food that's going to waste anyway, someone wants an oyster they can have an oyster. But this is wrong because I am only a faux chef, not a real chef and certainly not the Head Chef.
I turn around to ask Famous Singer if he is performing tonight and see that he has settled his glass on the table and is hunched over the oyster platter eating a lot more than an oyster.
Not good.
I then glance over just as the head chef looks up from the food he is putting the finishing touches on and sees Famous Singer eating the oysters - only he doesn't see a famous guy, he just sees some wanker in a suit making a pig of himself and I realise that a total innocent is about to suffer the consequences of my slackness.
"OI!" Head Chef snarls as he crosses the room. He's a pretty big guy. Forceful presence that can ooze menace. "The fuck do you think you're doing? I don't like you coming into my area and eating my food. Fuck off somewhere else to eat food!"
Famous Singer looks like Withnail in that pub scene when the red-neck local is threatening him and 'I' ("I have a heart condition. If you hit me it's murder...").
"I did ask," Famous Singer simpers and the glowering head chef, "but yes of course I'm so sorry."
Later, there is another lull in proceedings, this time for a musical interlude. It's an all too familiar whining voice with piano accompaniment. We're all a bit stir crazy by this time because we just want to get on with the function and get out of there. We're talking in hushed tones again. At one point there is talk of the singer and Head Chef asks who it is.
"That," replies one of the service people in his very dry Scottish accent, "is the man you were so rude to earlier."
Head Chef is amused. He denies that he was rude, says he just didn't want him to eat in this area and invited him to go elsewhere. There is much stifled sniggering because everyone saw exactly what happened and it was pretty damned funny.
"Even funnier," I say, deciding to fess up, "is that he did actually ask. I said yes and five seconds later you're ripping the poor bastard's head off."
From out in the function area Famous Singer gets a round of applause and starts on another song, much to our dismay.
"Fuck me," Head Chef says. "Where's that platter of oysters? Might take it out there now and say 'here, want an oyster now? Lee says you can have one."
It can be such a stressful job, but it does have it's nice little moments too.
Pugilist Specialist Review
I'm just copying and pasting on this blog lately, aren't I. latest review to come out in Drum.
PUGILIST SPECIALIST
Pugilist Specialist is a fast play. It is very written. Pity that real life conversations are not this rapid fire, ideas and comebacks this kick arse. Solid writing for sure, but until the characters have established themselves in your mind, you’d better pay attention or you’ll lose the plot. In a way I wanted the writing to slow down a little... but then again it is set in a place where adrenaline is eaten for breakfast.
Four U.S. soldiers are sent on a mission to assassinate a target known as The Bearded Lady. Four specialists in their own field who rely on the others. All part of a well-oiled machine, all with different motivations and ideals. By the play’s end we are left questioning – as we do in real life – just what the hell is really going on.
The military needs drones, and the four characters presented in this play are mostly drones. They obey orders without question, but this does not mean they get along together or that they don’t silently question the orders they are given. I think this is what the play was looking at – how the entity that is military force doesn’t respect individuals or life at all.
Sam Haft pretty well stole the show with his portrayal of swaggering, testosterone-fueled sniper Freud. He had some damned funny lines and his acting was nothing short of superb. I overheard two other audience members comment on his performance. That he stood out from the others says a lot because all characters had some genuinely funny lines and were well-drawn characters heading full tilt into a mission that was always going to implode in one way or another.
Staging was simple and striking, and towards the end especially it took on a slightly surreal feel as the four soldiers were flown into enemy territory and dropped on their mission. There was something a bit bent about it all, something slightly insane as personal politics really came into play and things became even more nightmarish.
Adriano Shaplin’s 70 minute play is fast, funny, disturbing and, you’ll suspect, depressingly real.
Darlinghurst Theatre until 15 September.
LEE BEMROSE
PUGILIST SPECIALIST
Pugilist Specialist is a fast play. It is very written. Pity that real life conversations are not this rapid fire, ideas and comebacks this kick arse. Solid writing for sure, but until the characters have established themselves in your mind, you’d better pay attention or you’ll lose the plot. In a way I wanted the writing to slow down a little... but then again it is set in a place where adrenaline is eaten for breakfast.
Four U.S. soldiers are sent on a mission to assassinate a target known as The Bearded Lady. Four specialists in their own field who rely on the others. All part of a well-oiled machine, all with different motivations and ideals. By the play’s end we are left questioning – as we do in real life – just what the hell is really going on.
The military needs drones, and the four characters presented in this play are mostly drones. They obey orders without question, but this does not mean they get along together or that they don’t silently question the orders they are given. I think this is what the play was looking at – how the entity that is military force doesn’t respect individuals or life at all.
Sam Haft pretty well stole the show with his portrayal of swaggering, testosterone-fueled sniper Freud. He had some damned funny lines and his acting was nothing short of superb. I overheard two other audience members comment on his performance. That he stood out from the others says a lot because all characters had some genuinely funny lines and were well-drawn characters heading full tilt into a mission that was always going to implode in one way or another.
Staging was simple and striking, and towards the end especially it took on a slightly surreal feel as the four soldiers were flown into enemy territory and dropped on their mission. There was something a bit bent about it all, something slightly insane as personal politics really came into play and things became even more nightmarish.
Adriano Shaplin’s 70 minute play is fast, funny, disturbing and, you’ll suspect, depressingly real.
Darlinghurst Theatre until 15 September.
LEE BEMROSE
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Shagged
Shagged. Just finished two 15 hour reasonably hectic shifts with a five hour nap separating them, so I don't really trust myself to write anything that makes sense. So instead here is my next Grumpy column as it appears in Tsunami mag.
Commencing intense alcohol wind down. Night night... Ooh - Nick Cave special on the telly. Sweet.
Grumpy
Lee Bemrose
Sometimes my working lives are so far apart from each other it does my head in. For example, I am somehow part of the team of chefs at The Sydney Opera House that will be feeding George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard during this fiasco called APEC. Various spook organisations have apparently done background checks on us to ensure that no matter how much we might not like these storm-trooping world leaders, we’re not going to attempt to assassinate them. Brilliant idea, isn’t it? Get some of the world’s most unpopular leaders together in a building that doesn’t exactly blend into the background, shut down the city, close private businesses, commandeer private carparks in the surrounding area, spend squillions on defence so that the leaders of various countries can... can do what exactly? Talk about stuff. Oh yeah – and last night on the news it was announced that the public will be denied access to nearby public areas to watch the massive fireworks display being put on for George & Johnny. I’m glad they get to watch the fireworks in private. It’s so romantic it makes me shit in my pants. With all the security and undercover going on, we keep making nervous jokes about how we should be paid danger money. But you know, I kind of think we should be paid danger money.
At the other extreme, I have this very cool clothing shop called Psydeways. It’s a great little place that pulls all sorts of party people. International visitors drop in to find out about the local scene. I meet like-minded party people all day long, talk about various parties and DJs... you call this work? Also, I get to dress the mannequins and girliquins. And I’m fucking good at it too. As good as any gay guy I know.
Also, the other day a customer came out of the changeroom wearing a cute little top. Checked herself out in the mirror. Turned one way, then the other. She looked hot. She looked pleased, then frowned. She jutted out her perky chest a little and said, “Is the top see-through?” I looked at her breasts but couldn’t tell. So I moved closer and squinted while she jutted... and yeah, it was kinda see-through. “But in a good way,” I reassured her. She looked pleased again and bought the top.
The job with danger money or the one without? Hmm. Think I’ll take both.
Commencing intense alcohol wind down. Night night... Ooh - Nick Cave special on the telly. Sweet.
Grumpy
Lee Bemrose
Sometimes my working lives are so far apart from each other it does my head in. For example, I am somehow part of the team of chefs at The Sydney Opera House that will be feeding George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard during this fiasco called APEC. Various spook organisations have apparently done background checks on us to ensure that no matter how much we might not like these storm-trooping world leaders, we’re not going to attempt to assassinate them. Brilliant idea, isn’t it? Get some of the world’s most unpopular leaders together in a building that doesn’t exactly blend into the background, shut down the city, close private businesses, commandeer private carparks in the surrounding area, spend squillions on defence so that the leaders of various countries can... can do what exactly? Talk about stuff. Oh yeah – and last night on the news it was announced that the public will be denied access to nearby public areas to watch the massive fireworks display being put on for George & Johnny. I’m glad they get to watch the fireworks in private. It’s so romantic it makes me shit in my pants. With all the security and undercover going on, we keep making nervous jokes about how we should be paid danger money. But you know, I kind of think we should be paid danger money.
At the other extreme, I have this very cool clothing shop called Psydeways. It’s a great little place that pulls all sorts of party people. International visitors drop in to find out about the local scene. I meet like-minded party people all day long, talk about various parties and DJs... you call this work? Also, I get to dress the mannequins and girliquins. And I’m fucking good at it too. As good as any gay guy I know.
Also, the other day a customer came out of the changeroom wearing a cute little top. Checked herself out in the mirror. Turned one way, then the other. She looked hot. She looked pleased, then frowned. She jutted out her perky chest a little and said, “Is the top see-through?” I looked at her breasts but couldn’t tell. So I moved closer and squinted while she jutted... and yeah, it was kinda see-through. “But in a good way,” I reassured her. She looked pleased again and bought the top.
The job with danger money or the one without? Hmm. Think I’ll take both.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Groovy Day
I'm sitting here in my little shop on King Street and everyone who walks by looks kind of groovy. They've all got their groovy shoes on, there's a groovy little bounce in their walk, a groovy smile on their groovy lips as they talk to their groovy friends about groovy little things.
The goths, the emos, the grungies and the hippies and the skater dudes, groovy one and all. Even the bland ones today, somehow they've got a little bland groove going on.
It's like the radio man said, "Hey groovy people, wake up and get out of bed, and be as grrrroovy as you can because it's International Groovy Day."
And every one jumped out of bed and said hey yeah, let's get groovy today.
Makes me wish I hadn't slept in.
The goths, the emos, the grungies and the hippies and the skater dudes, groovy one and all. Even the bland ones today, somehow they've got a little bland groove going on.
It's like the radio man said, "Hey groovy people, wake up and get out of bed, and be as grrrroovy as you can because it's International Groovy Day."
And every one jumped out of bed and said hey yeah, let's get groovy today.
Makes me wish I hadn't slept in.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Under A Blood Red Moon
Just over one year ago The Dreaded One and I had traveled to Turkey to see a full solar eclipse in a national park just outside Antalya. Tonight there was a full lunar eclipse in Australia that turned the moon red. Not sure if the red business happens during all lunar eclipses, but it was pretty special.
I thought I was going to miss the whole show because I was working, but I managed to slip out through one of the Opera House back doors and it was a great sight. I grabbed a couple of the Bangladeshi kitchen hands and an apprentice on the way so they could see the eclipse too. Loads of people were out there all looking up. The Bangladeshis chatted quietly in their language, English being a constant struggle, and after about 5 minutes one said to me, "Chef... what is happening?"
I explained what an eclipse was all about, pointed at the moon and then where the sun was (it obviously looked like I was pointing at the ground), I winged it about the redness and said it was some weird kind of light refraction phenomenon.
The kitchen hand looked at me blankly the whole time and half nodded when I stopped making words at him. We went back inside.
"That explanation," the apprentice said to me, "went so far over his head."
Guy probably thinks I'm totally mad.
Pretty moon though.
I thought I was going to miss the whole show because I was working, but I managed to slip out through one of the Opera House back doors and it was a great sight. I grabbed a couple of the Bangladeshi kitchen hands and an apprentice on the way so they could see the eclipse too. Loads of people were out there all looking up. The Bangladeshis chatted quietly in their language, English being a constant struggle, and after about 5 minutes one said to me, "Chef... what is happening?"
I explained what an eclipse was all about, pointed at the moon and then where the sun was (it obviously looked like I was pointing at the ground), I winged it about the redness and said it was some weird kind of light refraction phenomenon.
The kitchen hand looked at me blankly the whole time and half nodded when I stopped making words at him. We went back inside.
"That explanation," the apprentice said to me, "went so far over his head."
Guy probably thinks I'm totally mad.
Pretty moon though.
Tanja Liedtke
I've written quite recently about that feeling of living on borrowed time. Fuck me if stories like this don't make me feel even more like that. This was really sad.
There's lots of newspaper stuff about it, but I like how Chris handles the story. Google for more info.
There's lots of newspaper stuff about it, but I like how Chris handles the story. Google for more info.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Typical Day At The Office
Today everything about my shop was giving me the shits. I just didn't want to be there.
Still, it's quiet and I have to write a story about Earthdance. I do a lot of background reading and get started, and suddenly my story about Earthdance has talking whales in it. This amuses me a lot. I start to wonder if the new editor will let me get away with as much as the old editor did.
A good friend who won't let me call her by her name logs on and we have an extensive discussion about minions and how cool it would be to have them. I decide that minions will be the topic of my next Grumpy column.
But then I start to wonder if maybe something to do with my involvement with APEC might have better comic potential than minions. Did I mention my involvement with APEC? I'm going to be working as one of the chefs at the Sydney Opera House where the Asia Pacific Economic Community conference is being held - a building that may as well have a big bullseye on the side. Fucking hell, they really chose a hard to pick target, didn't they.
Anyway, if my background is cleared by ASIO and the CIA and whoever else is doing the security checks, I'll be part of the team feeding the likes of George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard. Regular readers will find this amusing because you know how qualified I am. And if you're an ASIO or CIA first time reader, I hope you find the Australian girlfriend line as amusing as it's meant to be.
The Earthdance story is going well, but I am interrupted by a promoter/DJ friend who comes into the shop to pick up ticket sales. In the course of the conversation he wonders if it was a bad thing to have a joint before having his massage. His face is all mooshy from putting it in that doughnut pillow thing but he is as hyperactive as always, and a bit grumpy that he is not doing the closing set on the psytrance stage at Earthdance like he usually does.
He leaves. I go back to the talking whales. I have a feeling I won't be able to make it to the theatre so I email the relevant person to change my tickets to Saturday night.
Lucky because a guy comes into the shop around about the time I decide to close up and leave. He stays. And Stays. And stays. By this time I really am not happy. It's been an okay day sales-wise, but I just want to not be there.
Then the guy starts to buy stuff. And more stuff. And, like, a ridiculous amount of stuff. We start talking. He is going to Burning Man. I mention Soulclipse, the eclipse festival I went to in Turkey last year. He was there. We chat. We get along okay. I ask what he does for work because he has an American accent. He tells me he is with the CIA.
That last bit was a joke. The Customer From Heaven is with a company called something like Giggle? Gaggle? Google! It's Google, and he is setting up a Sydney office. I think Google people must have nice pay packets.
So anyway, long and short of it, what with minions and talking whales and stoned promoters and Men From Google, I had a total mood swing. I loved the shop again.
Still, it's quiet and I have to write a story about Earthdance. I do a lot of background reading and get started, and suddenly my story about Earthdance has talking whales in it. This amuses me a lot. I start to wonder if the new editor will let me get away with as much as the old editor did.
A good friend who won't let me call her by her name logs on and we have an extensive discussion about minions and how cool it would be to have them. I decide that minions will be the topic of my next Grumpy column.
But then I start to wonder if maybe something to do with my involvement with APEC might have better comic potential than minions. Did I mention my involvement with APEC? I'm going to be working as one of the chefs at the Sydney Opera House where the Asia Pacific Economic Community conference is being held - a building that may as well have a big bullseye on the side. Fucking hell, they really chose a hard to pick target, didn't they.
Anyway, if my background is cleared by ASIO and the CIA and whoever else is doing the security checks, I'll be part of the team feeding the likes of George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard. Regular readers will find this amusing because you know how qualified I am. And if you're an ASIO or CIA first time reader, I hope you find the Australian girlfriend line as amusing as it's meant to be.
The Earthdance story is going well, but I am interrupted by a promoter/DJ friend who comes into the shop to pick up ticket sales. In the course of the conversation he wonders if it was a bad thing to have a joint before having his massage. His face is all mooshy from putting it in that doughnut pillow thing but he is as hyperactive as always, and a bit grumpy that he is not doing the closing set on the psytrance stage at Earthdance like he usually does.
He leaves. I go back to the talking whales. I have a feeling I won't be able to make it to the theatre so I email the relevant person to change my tickets to Saturday night.
Lucky because a guy comes into the shop around about the time I decide to close up and leave. He stays. And Stays. And stays. By this time I really am not happy. It's been an okay day sales-wise, but I just want to not be there.
Then the guy starts to buy stuff. And more stuff. And, like, a ridiculous amount of stuff. We start talking. He is going to Burning Man. I mention Soulclipse, the eclipse festival I went to in Turkey last year. He was there. We chat. We get along okay. I ask what he does for work because he has an American accent. He tells me he is with the CIA.
That last bit was a joke. The Customer From Heaven is with a company called something like Giggle? Gaggle? Google! It's Google, and he is setting up a Sydney office. I think Google people must have nice pay packets.
So anyway, long and short of it, what with minions and talking whales and stoned promoters and Men From Google, I had a total mood swing. I loved the shop again.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Eyes Wide Shut
Saturday night at the party was your perfect party night (for an indoor party). So many good people, so much good music.
However the highlight for me was missed by me. I didn't see it happen, just caught the tail end as my eyes were opened, and it has made me laugh.
I frequently lose myself in the music. Sometimes I like checking others out, other times I close my eyes and totally get lost in the music.
At one point this very cute girl decides to dance with me. She stomps and raunches and wiggles and smiles and is very hot and eventually wonders... why is this guy dancing with his eyes closed when I am doing all of this?
I open my eyes just as this very cute girl turns and stomps and wiggles and smiles her way to another part of the room.
The Dreaded One later tells me she thought about tapping me on the shoulder and telling me what was happening but it was just too damned funny.
Tee. Fucking. Hee.
However the highlight for me was missed by me. I didn't see it happen, just caught the tail end as my eyes were opened, and it has made me laugh.
I frequently lose myself in the music. Sometimes I like checking others out, other times I close my eyes and totally get lost in the music.
At one point this very cute girl decides to dance with me. She stomps and raunches and wiggles and smiles and is very hot and eventually wonders... why is this guy dancing with his eyes closed when I am doing all of this?
I open my eyes just as this very cute girl turns and stomps and wiggles and smiles her way to another part of the room.
The Dreaded One later tells me she thought about tapping me on the shoulder and telling me what was happening but it was just too damned funny.
Tee. Fucking. Hee.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Shopping
Although the shop has been a drag lately, it just rocks today. Today is the reason we stuck with it through tough times. It can be such a silly amount of fun. It's obviously good when it's been busy and there have been sales, but it's the other stuff that really makes it so cool. This week I chatted to a couple of Goths visiting from interstate who loved the shop, an emo girl with green hair who said she hoped the shop was not going to close, and a visitor from the suburbs of the Central Coast who was amazed that such a shop existed and walked around for ages like she thought she was on another planet.
Recently I had this conversation with a customer:
Him: So that's two expensive items I'm going to buy - will you give me a discount?
Me: No.
Him: Come on. Just knock ten bucks off.
Me: Why would I do that? You're going to buy them anyway.
Him: Yeah, but I just want a discount.
Me: You're an arsehole. I can sell them to someone else without giving a discount but in any case you're fully going to buy them regardless.
Him: Yeah but you're going to give me a discount anyway because you're a good guy.
We were laughing through all this and I gave him his discount and he left the store a happy customer, surprise gift for his girlfriend tucked under his arm. It was a funny little encounter that left me smiling - such a small discount that it obviously wasn't about the money. And I'll bet he'll be back.
Also, I've had Vancouverians in all week. They googled Sydney psytrance and discovered the shop and man do they love it. They've been back three times during the week, bought loads of clothes, shown me pictures from back home, brought friends to the shop, told me they're coming back with a CD they meant to bring to give to me... and while they're in the shop other customers I don't know tell me how sad they are that we're trying to sell the shop because they love it so much, a friend calls in and I tell him about Jocey falling over in the park and we stand there in the middle of the shop having a really good laugh, then plan to catch up for a beer at the party tonight.
I look around and realise that the Canadians are going to be at the party and they're going to have a blast and make loads of friends, and I know already that I am probably going to become a friend and that they are going to totally adore The Dreaded One... and this is a day at work.
The shop is empty now and I'm typing this while Sirius Issness is belting through the speakers, and I am really sad that we couldn't make the shop work. But I'm also pretty chilled about it because of the good parts.
Like, what other environment are you going to have someone walk up to you and say, "Hey Lee, this is my friend Ben. He's Megatron."
Days like this, I know that I am really, really going to miss the shop.
Recently I had this conversation with a customer:
Him: So that's two expensive items I'm going to buy - will you give me a discount?
Me: No.
Him: Come on. Just knock ten bucks off.
Me: Why would I do that? You're going to buy them anyway.
Him: Yeah, but I just want a discount.
Me: You're an arsehole. I can sell them to someone else without giving a discount but in any case you're fully going to buy them regardless.
Him: Yeah but you're going to give me a discount anyway because you're a good guy.
We were laughing through all this and I gave him his discount and he left the store a happy customer, surprise gift for his girlfriend tucked under his arm. It was a funny little encounter that left me smiling - such a small discount that it obviously wasn't about the money. And I'll bet he'll be back.
Also, I've had Vancouverians in all week. They googled Sydney psytrance and discovered the shop and man do they love it. They've been back three times during the week, bought loads of clothes, shown me pictures from back home, brought friends to the shop, told me they're coming back with a CD they meant to bring to give to me... and while they're in the shop other customers I don't know tell me how sad they are that we're trying to sell the shop because they love it so much, a friend calls in and I tell him about Jocey falling over in the park and we stand there in the middle of the shop having a really good laugh, then plan to catch up for a beer at the party tonight.
I look around and realise that the Canadians are going to be at the party and they're going to have a blast and make loads of friends, and I know already that I am probably going to become a friend and that they are going to totally adore The Dreaded One... and this is a day at work.
The shop is empty now and I'm typing this while Sirius Issness is belting through the speakers, and I am really sad that we couldn't make the shop work. But I'm also pretty chilled about it because of the good parts.
Like, what other environment are you going to have someone walk up to you and say, "Hey Lee, this is my friend Ben. He's Megatron."
Days like this, I know that I am really, really going to miss the shop.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Imagine Toi Review
Just a quickie - saw former Cirque du Soleil clown Julien Cottereau last night. What a magical performance it was. His style is a bit like the Umbilical Brothers (who were in the audience), a mime act with vocal sound effects, only where the Australian duo are full-blown slapstick comedians his act is one of charm and wonder. Hilarious stuff that makes you use your imagination to realise what he is doing with his imagination. I had been concerned about the number of kids in the audience but I soon realised that there are few sounds more pure and joyous and totally infectious than that of a child in raptures of laughter (yes I did say that AND meant it). This was a funny and warm experience and I left the theatre feeling more happy than I have in a long time.
I haven't managed to get review space for this one so I think I am going to start a separate theatre review blog after all.
Meantime, if you live in Sydney the show is on in The Playhouse, Sydney Opera House until September 1. Go see it.
PS, Update, longer review here.
I haven't managed to get review space for this one so I think I am going to start a separate theatre review blog after all.
Meantime, if you live in Sydney the show is on in The Playhouse, Sydney Opera House until September 1. Go see it.
PS, Update, longer review here.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Happy August 9
Your senses heighten. This is extreme. The best. Emotion becomes almost more than you can bear. Best feeling ever. Total bodymindfuckwow.
Then black. Really black. Just nothing.
More time than you are aware of.
Then white. Really white. Just white and alien voices. Tubes. Machinery. Numb kind of pain. Vague understanding that the aliens are angels.
Or nurses.
Did I mention the confusion? The lack of memory? The total absence of self? Who you are, it's just not there.
Some memory.
Gaps.
And then maybe it tumbles in and it turns out you are a lucky one. You've survived because someone loves you and because strangers have done their job.
That and a whole lot more was August 9 a handful of years ago. Is it five? I think it's five.
Have been living on borrowed time ever since.
PS - six years from now the full Men's Health article will be published on Your Friends House.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Treading Water At Turtle Bay
Tired. Lazy. Here is a short story of mine that appeared in a very nice book (Southerly) about seven (?!) years ago.
These stories may as well go up here as be sentenced to the silence of pages in now unread magazines and books.
I hope you enjoy.
TREADING WATER AT TURTLE BAY
"I think we should go to Turtle Bay."
This stops me mid-sentence. I close my eyes and feel my jaw muscles dance. Louise cannot see that my eyes are closed, not through the book, not through the sunglasses. I have not heard of Turtle Bay, but I do know I don't want to go there. Not when I am so content here. For several moments I fantasize that Louise has not spoken at all. I feel some sweat trickle down my back. I want to reach for my drink but don't dare move for fear of spoiling my fantasy.
"Pat? Did you hear me? I said I want to go to Turtle Bay."
I dog-ear the page and put the book on the ground beside the deck chair. I lean forward for my drink. The brown neck above the foam cooler is warm against my lips, the beer inside is cold.
"Where is it?” I ask, “and why do you want to go there?"
Louise tells me that it's near a place I've heard of but know nothing about. I think I’ve seen the name on sugar packets or bottles of cheap rum. She tells me that turtles go there to lay eggs on the beach. She tells me it would be really interesting.
I nod slowly, but not in agreement. I watch one of the other hotel guests pull herself from the pool and walk across to her deck chair where she settles without bothering to towel her glistening skin; second fantasy of the day.
"Pat? What do you think?"
"I don't know. I'm just as happy to stay here. What is it - two, three hours' drive?"
"About that."
"North?"
Louise nods.
"It'll be hot."
"It's hot here."
"Yes but ... we're here already."
"The turtles aren't."
I couldn't be less interested in the turtles, but I can't say no. That would be selfish. She must be made to realize for herself that it's a bad idea.
"We might go all that way,” I caution, “and there might not be any turtles.”
"This is their season." Louise holds up the brochure she's been reading.
"Anyway, we won't get any accommodation. You need to plan ahead for these things."
"If I get accommodation can we go?"
"If it's a tourist attraction we won't get any accommodation."
"But if I do ...?"
"It’ll be booked out. It gets really crowded during turtle season.”
Louise smiles as she stands up. "I'll make some calls and see if I can get us in somewhere."
I give her a suit-yourself shrug and a don’t-get-your-hopes-up smile as I aim my face to the sun.
Should have just said no, I tell myself, scowling darkly. And somewhat pointlessly, I acknowledge. But it makes me feel better, so I continue to scowl and berate myself for not having the balls to say no.
We've been on the road for three and a half hours and there's still another sixty two kilometres to go and the air conditioning's broken and Louise The Turtle Queen is sleeping like a baby. I consider jumping on the brake for no other reason than waking Louise, but that would be childish, so I just entertain myself by thinking about it. I also think about turning around and trying to make it back to the hotel before she wakes, but that would be foolish. Almost there now, I think gloomily. Soon my scowl starts to soften. Almost there. And it's only for a couple of days anyway. I shrug. At least we haven't broken down. At least we haven't had an accident. I sigh into the heat and think about turtle eggs on toast.
"You're lucky," the manager tells us in a thin, dry voice as he takes the key from the peg board. "This was a last minute cancellation, otherwise we're all booked up."
"That was lucky," I say. "Lucky us."
The man is old - seventy years or more - and thin and leathery. His face is angular with large, dark eyes like wet gemstones. He tells us to follow him in the car, he'll take his push bike.
"Do you suppose," I ask Louise when we are back in the stifling atmosphere of the car, "that everyone in Turtle Bay looks like a turtle?"
Louise giggles and slaps me casually on the shoulder.
We follow the manager as he leads us leisurely along a winding path through the caravan park. He rings the bike's bell from time to time and waves one large hand loosely at his guests. Kids are everywhere, playing games, bombing each other in the pool. I realize that although I have not set foot in a caravan park since I was their age, it is all so familiar it could have been here, just last week.
The manager waves us to our caravan and keeps riding. I pull into the car space and switch off the engine. We sit and look at our caravan, a relic, I suspect, from everyone's childhood. Already I know that the interior is fake wood grain, chipped chrome and green vinyl. Somewhere in the distance is the ping of a tent peg being driven into the ground.
"Not exactly five stars," I comment.
"It's all I could get. Besides, what do you expect for $12 a night?"
The humidity at this place is something I've never experienced before. I feel short of breath as we walk to the front door. I can imagine going mad in such heat. There are a few more caravans near ours and some aluminum cabins with air conditioners humming. There is a path leading down to a low, scrub-like forest beyond which is the beach. A father and son are walking along the path armed with fishing tackle.
Louise unlocks the door and we step into our $12 a night accommodation. I actually gasp.
"Unbelievable," I say. "Someone's left the air conditioner on hot."
After a brief inspection I am dismayed to find that this is not the case; there is no air conditioner. Our caravan is simply hot. Suffocatingly hot. Hot in red, shimmering letters. We open all the windows, winding the little crank handles furiously, and quickly escape to the comparatively cool heat outside. There is no breeze, no relief at all.
"You could go mad in this heat," I mutter. "Completely - "
"Let's go for a swim," Louise suggests. "Let’ cool off."
Images of heat-induced madness grow more vivid as we walk along the worn track through the scrub. Louise walks silently in front, and I wonder what she is thinking. It is generally unwise to intrude on such silences, especially with the observations, suggestions and recriminations I really want to make. I decide to save these for later.
On the other side of the scrub the track dips down before rising to a sandy crest covered sparsely with tough sand grass, and once over this there is at last some relief. The breeze, though warm, is soothing, almost intoxicating. I am stung with happiness. I stand with my eyes closed and feel the breeze wash around me. I am aware that I am smiling foolishly, but I am too happy to care. My comfort is sublime. I dream I am alone, drifting through eternity, a single, utterly content being caressed by this divine breath ...
"Better?" Louise asks.
I open my eyes. I am me again. At this place. "Yes," I say. "Better."
The beach is surprisingly deserted. I guess that everyone is reluctant to leave their air conditioners. We stop at a random place, spread our things and shed most of our clothes. I sit cross-legged like some guru.
"Aren't you coming in?"
I am content to sit and enjoy the breeze. I do not want to be wet. I do not want salt drying on my skin.
"Come on," Louise says playfully. "Come in with me." She tries to tug me to my feet. I force a smile and tell her maybe later. She pulls my hand once more before releasing it, her smile vanishing in an instant. She looks at me blankly for a moment before turning sharply and heading down to the water. She walks over the dark sand and dives into the water without hesitation, and while submerged the only evidence of her existence is her small pile of things. I stare at her things, and then I start to bury them. I bulldoze the sand over them, and when they are completely buried I sit back and it’s as if Louise has never existed. I am truly alone, as free as the last living creature.
Louise’s head and shoulders break the surface and sits like flotsam on the rise and fall of the swell. She looks up into the hard, blue sky, then out to the horizon. She is refusing to look in my direction in case I see her looking. I sigh and smirk. I stand and adjust my swimmers.
The water is like the breeze, somehow cool and warm at the same time. I walk lazily into the water, and soon the rolling swell is lifting me from the earth and setting me gently down again. I find this easy rhythm quite hypnotic. I close my eyes. I could almost fall asleep.
“Nice, huh? Glad we came?”
“Yes,” I agree, “nice. But where are these turtles?”
“They come out at night. They come up onto the beach at night and lay their eggs.”
“Oh.”
I am surprised by the number of people who want to see some turtles lay some eggs at 11 o’clock at night. Hundreds of them. Or a hundred, anyway. At least a hundred. Or maybe it’s only fifty. Or eighty. Or one hundred and thirty six. If there were only four people I would still be astonished that they would want sit up all night waiting for something to lay an egg. We are sitting on the ground waiting to be dispatched in small groups as each reptile is spotted making its way onto land. We have been through the turtle museum and have looked at shells and eggs and back-lit photos of turtles laying eggs and even dead babies in jars. People are talking in murmurs. Some - other city folk like us - are looking awe-struck into the vast depths of the brilliant night sky. An old man nearby has brought along a folding canvas chair in which he is sitting, slumped over, snoring gently. I look around and think that I am probably the drunkest turtle watcher present. Perhaps I am the drunkest turtle watcher who has ever lived. What in God’s name, I wonder, am I doing here?
“It’s kind of exciting, don’t you think?” Louise whispers. “It’s like an invasion or something. It’s like being a kid again. I remember when my parents got me out of bed at three in the morning to look at the comet. It’s a bit like that.”
“Did you see the comet?”
“I can’t remember. I just remember that sense of excitement. They said it was a once in a lifetime experience.”
“Getting out of bed at three in the morning?”
“You know what I mean.”
Another turtle has been spotted. Another group is dispatched. By my count, the next turtle is ours. If there is a next one. What if there are no more turtles? What will the troops do then? A constant stream of people is still trickling through the museum and joining the expectant crowd. Why do they assume there will be more turtles? The arrogance, I think. What is it with people?
“What are you shaking your head at, Pat?”
“What?”
“You were shaking your head again. What were you thinking about?”
“Shaking my head?”
“You do it all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do.”
She could be right. Maybe I was shaking my head. People sometimes tell me I frown too. I frown as I consider this.
“Well?” Louise prompts.
I scratch my head and shrug and wish that I was uncouth enough to open one of the beers I have in my shoulder bag. I just want to get drunker or go to sleep.
“Oh I don’t know, just something that guy said in there,” I lie, referring to the museum curator.
“Mm?”
“Um ... when he told us that the sex of the baby turtles is determined by how deep in the sand the mother buries the eggs. I mean, yeah right. Guy’s got his wires crossed, for sure. It’s just too bizarre.”
Then I think about drinking beer and smoking cigarettes in a crowded pub every Thursday night, from a turtle’s point of view.
The longer I sit and wait the more restless I become. I want to go, but having waited so long it would appear churlish to leave now. Nearby, a fellow turtle hunter is deploying a volley of the most malicious weaponry devised by humankind. The two syllabled -
“Mar-arm?”
“Sh!”
“But Mar-arm?”
“I said sh!”
“Bud I don’t care about the turdles. I wanna go home. Mum? Mar-arm!”
I despise him whilst embracing him as a kindred spirit. I tip my head back and lose myself in the starry sky.
“Did you hear me Pat?”
I cannot tell how long I have been away.
“What?” I say as I close my eyes and roll the stiffness from my neck.
“I just wondered why you did it.”
“Sorry, must have dozed off or something. Did what?”
“Buried my things in the sand.”
I frown as I ponder this. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I don’t think I knew I was doing it.”
“It just seems a strange thing to do.”
Her knees are drawn up under her chin. She is gazing at a twig she is twirling slowly between her thumb and forefinger. Strangely, she looks lost. I wince as feelings stir. I know I love her. I really know this.
“Okay folks,” comes a hushed voice infused with excitement, “we’ve got another one. I’ll take everyone up to ... here -“
“But Mar-arm ...”
“And the little boy too. Everybody follow me.”
Louise tosses the Twig Of Infinite Mystery casually to the side and stands. She waits for a few moments before falling in behind the group as it makes its way into the darkness. I swear quietly as I climb awkwardly to my feet. Using the cover of darkness and movement I fumble about in my bag. I twist the top off the bottle and silently toast the cosmos.
There are people everywhere, shadows moving through the darkness. Here and there torches cut the darkness, beams of light dancing madly across the sand. And after waiting for so long in relative silence the noise comes as a surprise; the white hiss of the surf washing over the wet sand, talk, laughter, the occasional shout. At various points along the beach, far into the distance, groups of people are huddled around pools of light, esoteric rites taking place. I stumble along over small dunes and hollows, entranced by the strangeness of it all. I have lost Louise. I have no idea where my group is.
I come across a small procession slowly making its way down to the water’s edge. At the front of the group there is a woman aiming a torch at the sand just in front of a large turtle which is clearly weighed down with ineffable weariness. A kid wants the torch but the woman grips it with dogged determination.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly.
“What does it look like? I’m leading it back to the water.”
The turtle is not walking or even crawling; it is shoving itself over the sand. Each lurch forward is followed by a few moments of rest.
“Come on baby,” Torch Woman coos, “you can do it. Come on.”
If Louise was here she would be telling me not to say a thing.
“I don’t get it,” I tell the group. “Why ...?”
“Weren’t you listening to the ranger?” the woman admonishes in a matronly tone. “They follow the light. It looks like the moon and they follow it to the water.”
“It’s the breakers, darling,” comes a voice from the entourage. “He said the white light resembles the white of the breakers..”
“It’s the moon, Dad. Of course it’s the moon.”
“But they’re prehistoric creatures,” I point out. “They’ve been doing this sort of thing since ... well since prehistoric times. Don’t you think it’s heading to the water in spite of you and not because of you? Do you really think that waggling a torch about in its face -”
“Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re from this group at all.”
“No. Sorry. Excuse me. I’ll go and find my group, but you keep up the good work. All of you. You’re all doing excellent turtle work. “
I decide to wander aimlessly, drinking as I soak up the balminess, but almost immediately I bump into someone whose job is, it seems, to patrol the beach for stragglers like me.
“Are you here for the turtles?” the man asks in an earnest monotone.
“Yes,” I tell him in my own secret agent’s tone, ”I’m here for the turtles.”
“Then come this way. This one’s laying.”
The man leads me by the arm to a nearby group before vanishing phantom-like into the darkness. I look around at the under lit faces while a park ranger speaks inconsequentially about the number of eggs and the high mortality rate of the hatchlings. Louise is not present, but as no one has yet accused me of being an infiltrator from another group I decide to stay. I look down at the turtle. Its expression seems one of both intense concentration and desperate boredom as soft, shiny eggs fall from its rear end into a sandy pit. The ranger is on her hands and knees trying to angle a beam of light up into the egg-producing orifice.
“And ... yes, here comes another one!”
Another soft egg drops gently into the pit.
“So there’s a lot of job satisfaction, then, in shining a torch into a lizard’s private parts and stating the eye-glazingly obvious?” is a question I decide, inexplicably, to keep to myself. At least for now. I look around at my fellow spectators and am impressed by the range of expressions - everything from the awed to the bored. One little boy is openly disgusted by such a vulgar display. A young girl sitting next to him is not interested in what is happening at the other end; she is content to gaze lovingly into the ancient, glassy eyes. She is muttering to herself, or to the creature, perhaps marveling at the wonderful things those eyes have seen.
“Jesus.”
“Shit.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Oh my god I’m blind!”
“Please don’t take photos,” the ranger requests politely. “It’s not good for the turtle’s eyes.”
She continues to speak, but I am preoccupied with rubbing and blinking the spots from my eyes.
“You sir? Would you like to put out your hand?”
“Wha.. .? I reply as I instinctively put out my hand.
“ .. . to really experience it. Feel how soft it is? Feel the mucusy covering? Pass it along for everyone to experience.”
When I realize what I am holding I cannot pass it on for others to experience quickly enough. I shake my head, baffled by this woman’s behavior, as I flick the remaining warm slime from my hand. Others are apparently getting some thrill out of holding the egg. I am baffled by this too.
“All right,” the ranger calls as the turtle starts to use its thick, leathery fins to flick sand over the nest. “I need the egg back now.”
The egg is not forthcoming.
“Can I have the egg back please. I need to return it to the nest now.”
Milky light illuminates facial shrugs. We look at each other and frown in concern.
“Look, this is serious. If that egg isn’t put back in the nest now it will die. Now whoever has the egg, hand it over. You sir - I gave the egg to you. Who did you give it to?”
“I gave it to him,” I tell her, pointing.
“And who did you give it to?”
“I dunno. Her, I think.”
“Maam?”
“I haven’t got the egg.”
“Then who has?”
“Jason have you got the egg?”
“Why would I steal a stupid turtle’s egg?” is the belligerent defense.
“Because if I find out that you have …” hangs the threat.
“Frisk Jason,” I suggest helpfully. “He sounds like an egg thief to me.”
“Get stuffed mate.”
I wince at the sharp crack of flesh against flesh. “How many times have I told you not to talk like that?”
“Ow. Ya got me on the eye again. This sucks.” Jason marches angrily into the night, shouting back at us, “I haven’t got the stupid egg, and if I did I’d squash it and throw it in the bin with all the smelly rubbish!”
Jason’s mother runs after him. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to get you in the eye. I meant to get you on the side of the head. You must have moved. Jase?”
“This is too much,” I mutter as I turn to leave.
“Sir - where are you going? No one leaves until I have the egg back. That egg … if that egg isn’t put back in the nest it will die. Whoever has the egg please think about the baby turtle. It doesn’t stand a chance out of the nest. It’s .. . it’s not fair.” Her voice is trembling with emotion now, and this fills me with contempt.
“Look, forget about it,” I tell her. “It didn’t have much of a chance anyway. You told us that most of them get eaten by seagulls or sharks - what’s the difference?”
“But that’s nature. This just isn’t .. .”
“It isn’t what?”
“Pat? Is that you? What’s going on?”
“Someone,” the ranger accuses in italics, “stole a turtle egg.”
“And who was the genius who took the egg out of the nest?”
“Pat, did you steal that egg?”
I am more depressed than angry that Louise would as such a foolish question.
“For god’s sake, Louise. You must be joking. What the hell would I steal a bloody turtle egg for? Why do you say things like that? I mean, you think someone knows you .. .”
The light is so weak that I cannot make out Louise’s expression. We stand there for several moments, looking blindly at each other.
“I was joking,” Louise tells me as she turns to walk away. “I was only joking.”
The night is long and hot and deathly still. I lay in the darkness with my head tipped back, my mouth gaping. I am desperately tired, but hour after tortuous hour is spent skimming across the surface of sleep. Occasionally I drop below the surface and almost dream, but this does not last and I am back in this box, clammy sheets rippled about me, head tipped back, drinking the hot, still air.
Beside me, Louise is sound asleep. From time to time she will snuffle and snore quietly. She might mutter slurringly. She grinds her teeth throughout the night, a sound so familiar it no longer bothers me. Our naked bodies touch, move apart, touch again.
This will do it, I think, another hour of this will kill me or drive me completely mad. I must fall asleep. I just can’t take any more of this. Not another minute.
“You’re up early,” Louise says from the doorstep of the caravan where she is sitting, brushing her hair. “Did you sleep well?”
“You’re kidding,” I reply as I look down at the large blisters of moisture on my forearms. I have returned from the shower block and cannot tell if the water is from the cool shower or if it is sweat. It is not full light yet and already the temperature is into the high twenties.
“You didn’t sleep well?”
“I didn’t sleep. I was murderously tired and I just couldn’t sleep.”
“I wonder what that means - murderously tired.”
“I don’t know. I’ll leave you to ponder my parlance while I drag my carcass down to the beach. I have to get out of this.”
I make my way to the beach plodding along the narrow path, arms hanging loosely by my sides. I trudge up the sandy crest and stare at a glorious, golden sunrise through stinging, half-closed eyes. My squint intensifies as I see, far out to sea, a giant waterspout. I have never seen one before. I look around for someone to share it with but the only other person on the beach is an old fisherman, and hell, he probably sees giant waterspouts every day of his life. I walk over the sand, vaguely aware of the chaotic mess of footprints, and down to the water’s edge. The sea bed drops away quite sharply and the water level quickly reaches my waist, my shoulders, and then I am swimming into the rolling swell. I remain focused on the waterspout, dancing and swaying on the horizon, as I swim farther out into deeper and darker water. My arms and legs ache as they sweep and scissor. I am in poor condition and am soon exhausted, but I push on regardless. I feel a desperate need to keep going. I want to be far out to sea. I need to make it to that watery vortex. I swim on and on, lost in my obsession.
I am jolted from my folly as true exhaustion sets in. I slip below the surface. My limbs are heavy. I sink further and further down, convulsing as I resist the urge to breathe. My wide eyes scream into the darkness. I see things. Shapes. Shadows. Things moving towards me and away from me. Something brushes against my leg. It feels rough, like shark skin. I tip my head back and look up at the vast halo above and know that I am doomed. This knowledge is terror in its purest, most blissful splendor. I reach out to the light. I can breathe this light. I can breathe it.
The halo shatters as some animal lust possesses me, propels me up with unexpected violence. The light is suddenly hard and dry. I retch into it, drink from it. I hear a strange barking noise and realize that it is my own desperate breathing. My arms and legs, though cramping with pain, have found the life to flail heavily through the water, and I continue to breathe, my breath gradually falling from desperate to merely exhausted.
Using a clumsy series of kicks and strokes I manage to spin by degrees until I am facing the shoreline. I am appalled (and vaguely impressed) by just how far I have managed to swim. I know that I cannot make it back; I can barely keep my head above the surface. I simply cannot make it. I laugh a little and feel hysteria close by. There is no logical way to explain this, I think. How did I - how did this happen? How did I get myself into this?
Through stinging eyes I look at the white ribbon of sand. Even from this distance I recognize the small figure walk down onto the beach. I know she is looking for me. She looks first one way along the beach, then down the other before doing a double salute to the horizon. I smile and want to wave to her but I don’t have the strength. Besides, if one limb ceases moving I know I will sink again.
She sees me. She runs to the water’s edge. She doubles over. Is she laughing? Is she laughing at me? No, she is not laughing. The fisherman runs to her. There is pointing and waving. The fisherman runs from the beach towards the caravan park.
Louise and I look at each other across this seemingly impossible expanse of water, and we wait for something to happen.
These stories may as well go up here as be sentenced to the silence of pages in now unread magazines and books.
I hope you enjoy.
TREADING WATER AT TURTLE BAY
"I think we should go to Turtle Bay."
This stops me mid-sentence. I close my eyes and feel my jaw muscles dance. Louise cannot see that my eyes are closed, not through the book, not through the sunglasses. I have not heard of Turtle Bay, but I do know I don't want to go there. Not when I am so content here. For several moments I fantasize that Louise has not spoken at all. I feel some sweat trickle down my back. I want to reach for my drink but don't dare move for fear of spoiling my fantasy.
"Pat? Did you hear me? I said I want to go to Turtle Bay."
I dog-ear the page and put the book on the ground beside the deck chair. I lean forward for my drink. The brown neck above the foam cooler is warm against my lips, the beer inside is cold.
"Where is it?” I ask, “and why do you want to go there?"
Louise tells me that it's near a place I've heard of but know nothing about. I think I’ve seen the name on sugar packets or bottles of cheap rum. She tells me that turtles go there to lay eggs on the beach. She tells me it would be really interesting.
I nod slowly, but not in agreement. I watch one of the other hotel guests pull herself from the pool and walk across to her deck chair where she settles without bothering to towel her glistening skin; second fantasy of the day.
"Pat? What do you think?"
"I don't know. I'm just as happy to stay here. What is it - two, three hours' drive?"
"About that."
"North?"
Louise nods.
"It'll be hot."
"It's hot here."
"Yes but ... we're here already."
"The turtles aren't."
I couldn't be less interested in the turtles, but I can't say no. That would be selfish. She must be made to realize for herself that it's a bad idea.
"We might go all that way,” I caution, “and there might not be any turtles.”
"This is their season." Louise holds up the brochure she's been reading.
"Anyway, we won't get any accommodation. You need to plan ahead for these things."
"If I get accommodation can we go?"
"If it's a tourist attraction we won't get any accommodation."
"But if I do ...?"
"It’ll be booked out. It gets really crowded during turtle season.”
Louise smiles as she stands up. "I'll make some calls and see if I can get us in somewhere."
I give her a suit-yourself shrug and a don’t-get-your-hopes-up smile as I aim my face to the sun.
Should have just said no, I tell myself, scowling darkly. And somewhat pointlessly, I acknowledge. But it makes me feel better, so I continue to scowl and berate myself for not having the balls to say no.
We've been on the road for three and a half hours and there's still another sixty two kilometres to go and the air conditioning's broken and Louise The Turtle Queen is sleeping like a baby. I consider jumping on the brake for no other reason than waking Louise, but that would be childish, so I just entertain myself by thinking about it. I also think about turning around and trying to make it back to the hotel before she wakes, but that would be foolish. Almost there now, I think gloomily. Soon my scowl starts to soften. Almost there. And it's only for a couple of days anyway. I shrug. At least we haven't broken down. At least we haven't had an accident. I sigh into the heat and think about turtle eggs on toast.
"You're lucky," the manager tells us in a thin, dry voice as he takes the key from the peg board. "This was a last minute cancellation, otherwise we're all booked up."
"That was lucky," I say. "Lucky us."
The man is old - seventy years or more - and thin and leathery. His face is angular with large, dark eyes like wet gemstones. He tells us to follow him in the car, he'll take his push bike.
"Do you suppose," I ask Louise when we are back in the stifling atmosphere of the car, "that everyone in Turtle Bay looks like a turtle?"
Louise giggles and slaps me casually on the shoulder.
We follow the manager as he leads us leisurely along a winding path through the caravan park. He rings the bike's bell from time to time and waves one large hand loosely at his guests. Kids are everywhere, playing games, bombing each other in the pool. I realize that although I have not set foot in a caravan park since I was their age, it is all so familiar it could have been here, just last week.
The manager waves us to our caravan and keeps riding. I pull into the car space and switch off the engine. We sit and look at our caravan, a relic, I suspect, from everyone's childhood. Already I know that the interior is fake wood grain, chipped chrome and green vinyl. Somewhere in the distance is the ping of a tent peg being driven into the ground.
"Not exactly five stars," I comment.
"It's all I could get. Besides, what do you expect for $12 a night?"
The humidity at this place is something I've never experienced before. I feel short of breath as we walk to the front door. I can imagine going mad in such heat. There are a few more caravans near ours and some aluminum cabins with air conditioners humming. There is a path leading down to a low, scrub-like forest beyond which is the beach. A father and son are walking along the path armed with fishing tackle.
Louise unlocks the door and we step into our $12 a night accommodation. I actually gasp.
"Unbelievable," I say. "Someone's left the air conditioner on hot."
After a brief inspection I am dismayed to find that this is not the case; there is no air conditioner. Our caravan is simply hot. Suffocatingly hot. Hot in red, shimmering letters. We open all the windows, winding the little crank handles furiously, and quickly escape to the comparatively cool heat outside. There is no breeze, no relief at all.
"You could go mad in this heat," I mutter. "Completely - "
"Let's go for a swim," Louise suggests. "Let’ cool off."
Images of heat-induced madness grow more vivid as we walk along the worn track through the scrub. Louise walks silently in front, and I wonder what she is thinking. It is generally unwise to intrude on such silences, especially with the observations, suggestions and recriminations I really want to make. I decide to save these for later.
On the other side of the scrub the track dips down before rising to a sandy crest covered sparsely with tough sand grass, and once over this there is at last some relief. The breeze, though warm, is soothing, almost intoxicating. I am stung with happiness. I stand with my eyes closed and feel the breeze wash around me. I am aware that I am smiling foolishly, but I am too happy to care. My comfort is sublime. I dream I am alone, drifting through eternity, a single, utterly content being caressed by this divine breath ...
"Better?" Louise asks.
I open my eyes. I am me again. At this place. "Yes," I say. "Better."
The beach is surprisingly deserted. I guess that everyone is reluctant to leave their air conditioners. We stop at a random place, spread our things and shed most of our clothes. I sit cross-legged like some guru.
"Aren't you coming in?"
I am content to sit and enjoy the breeze. I do not want to be wet. I do not want salt drying on my skin.
"Come on," Louise says playfully. "Come in with me." She tries to tug me to my feet. I force a smile and tell her maybe later. She pulls my hand once more before releasing it, her smile vanishing in an instant. She looks at me blankly for a moment before turning sharply and heading down to the water. She walks over the dark sand and dives into the water without hesitation, and while submerged the only evidence of her existence is her small pile of things. I stare at her things, and then I start to bury them. I bulldoze the sand over them, and when they are completely buried I sit back and it’s as if Louise has never existed. I am truly alone, as free as the last living creature.
Louise’s head and shoulders break the surface and sits like flotsam on the rise and fall of the swell. She looks up into the hard, blue sky, then out to the horizon. She is refusing to look in my direction in case I see her looking. I sigh and smirk. I stand and adjust my swimmers.
The water is like the breeze, somehow cool and warm at the same time. I walk lazily into the water, and soon the rolling swell is lifting me from the earth and setting me gently down again. I find this easy rhythm quite hypnotic. I close my eyes. I could almost fall asleep.
“Nice, huh? Glad we came?”
“Yes,” I agree, “nice. But where are these turtles?”
“They come out at night. They come up onto the beach at night and lay their eggs.”
“Oh.”
I am surprised by the number of people who want to see some turtles lay some eggs at 11 o’clock at night. Hundreds of them. Or a hundred, anyway. At least a hundred. Or maybe it’s only fifty. Or eighty. Or one hundred and thirty six. If there were only four people I would still be astonished that they would want sit up all night waiting for something to lay an egg. We are sitting on the ground waiting to be dispatched in small groups as each reptile is spotted making its way onto land. We have been through the turtle museum and have looked at shells and eggs and back-lit photos of turtles laying eggs and even dead babies in jars. People are talking in murmurs. Some - other city folk like us - are looking awe-struck into the vast depths of the brilliant night sky. An old man nearby has brought along a folding canvas chair in which he is sitting, slumped over, snoring gently. I look around and think that I am probably the drunkest turtle watcher present. Perhaps I am the drunkest turtle watcher who has ever lived. What in God’s name, I wonder, am I doing here?
“It’s kind of exciting, don’t you think?” Louise whispers. “It’s like an invasion or something. It’s like being a kid again. I remember when my parents got me out of bed at three in the morning to look at the comet. It’s a bit like that.”
“Did you see the comet?”
“I can’t remember. I just remember that sense of excitement. They said it was a once in a lifetime experience.”
“Getting out of bed at three in the morning?”
“You know what I mean.”
Another turtle has been spotted. Another group is dispatched. By my count, the next turtle is ours. If there is a next one. What if there are no more turtles? What will the troops do then? A constant stream of people is still trickling through the museum and joining the expectant crowd. Why do they assume there will be more turtles? The arrogance, I think. What is it with people?
“What are you shaking your head at, Pat?”
“What?”
“You were shaking your head again. What were you thinking about?”
“Shaking my head?”
“You do it all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do.”
She could be right. Maybe I was shaking my head. People sometimes tell me I frown too. I frown as I consider this.
“Well?” Louise prompts.
I scratch my head and shrug and wish that I was uncouth enough to open one of the beers I have in my shoulder bag. I just want to get drunker or go to sleep.
“Oh I don’t know, just something that guy said in there,” I lie, referring to the museum curator.
“Mm?”
“Um ... when he told us that the sex of the baby turtles is determined by how deep in the sand the mother buries the eggs. I mean, yeah right. Guy’s got his wires crossed, for sure. It’s just too bizarre.”
Then I think about drinking beer and smoking cigarettes in a crowded pub every Thursday night, from a turtle’s point of view.
The longer I sit and wait the more restless I become. I want to go, but having waited so long it would appear churlish to leave now. Nearby, a fellow turtle hunter is deploying a volley of the most malicious weaponry devised by humankind. The two syllabled -
“Mar-arm?”
“Sh!”
“But Mar-arm?”
“I said sh!”
“Bud I don’t care about the turdles. I wanna go home. Mum? Mar-arm!”
I despise him whilst embracing him as a kindred spirit. I tip my head back and lose myself in the starry sky.
“Did you hear me Pat?”
I cannot tell how long I have been away.
“What?” I say as I close my eyes and roll the stiffness from my neck.
“I just wondered why you did it.”
“Sorry, must have dozed off or something. Did what?”
“Buried my things in the sand.”
I frown as I ponder this. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I don’t think I knew I was doing it.”
“It just seems a strange thing to do.”
Her knees are drawn up under her chin. She is gazing at a twig she is twirling slowly between her thumb and forefinger. Strangely, she looks lost. I wince as feelings stir. I know I love her. I really know this.
“Okay folks,” comes a hushed voice infused with excitement, “we’ve got another one. I’ll take everyone up to ... here -“
“But Mar-arm ...”
“And the little boy too. Everybody follow me.”
Louise tosses the Twig Of Infinite Mystery casually to the side and stands. She waits for a few moments before falling in behind the group as it makes its way into the darkness. I swear quietly as I climb awkwardly to my feet. Using the cover of darkness and movement I fumble about in my bag. I twist the top off the bottle and silently toast the cosmos.
There are people everywhere, shadows moving through the darkness. Here and there torches cut the darkness, beams of light dancing madly across the sand. And after waiting for so long in relative silence the noise comes as a surprise; the white hiss of the surf washing over the wet sand, talk, laughter, the occasional shout. At various points along the beach, far into the distance, groups of people are huddled around pools of light, esoteric rites taking place. I stumble along over small dunes and hollows, entranced by the strangeness of it all. I have lost Louise. I have no idea where my group is.
I come across a small procession slowly making its way down to the water’s edge. At the front of the group there is a woman aiming a torch at the sand just in front of a large turtle which is clearly weighed down with ineffable weariness. A kid wants the torch but the woman grips it with dogged determination.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly.
“What does it look like? I’m leading it back to the water.”
The turtle is not walking or even crawling; it is shoving itself over the sand. Each lurch forward is followed by a few moments of rest.
“Come on baby,” Torch Woman coos, “you can do it. Come on.”
If Louise was here she would be telling me not to say a thing.
“I don’t get it,” I tell the group. “Why ...?”
“Weren’t you listening to the ranger?” the woman admonishes in a matronly tone. “They follow the light. It looks like the moon and they follow it to the water.”
“It’s the breakers, darling,” comes a voice from the entourage. “He said the white light resembles the white of the breakers..”
“It’s the moon, Dad. Of course it’s the moon.”
“But they’re prehistoric creatures,” I point out. “They’ve been doing this sort of thing since ... well since prehistoric times. Don’t you think it’s heading to the water in spite of you and not because of you? Do you really think that waggling a torch about in its face -”
“Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re from this group at all.”
“No. Sorry. Excuse me. I’ll go and find my group, but you keep up the good work. All of you. You’re all doing excellent turtle work. “
I decide to wander aimlessly, drinking as I soak up the balminess, but almost immediately I bump into someone whose job is, it seems, to patrol the beach for stragglers like me.
“Are you here for the turtles?” the man asks in an earnest monotone.
“Yes,” I tell him in my own secret agent’s tone, ”I’m here for the turtles.”
“Then come this way. This one’s laying.”
The man leads me by the arm to a nearby group before vanishing phantom-like into the darkness. I look around at the under lit faces while a park ranger speaks inconsequentially about the number of eggs and the high mortality rate of the hatchlings. Louise is not present, but as no one has yet accused me of being an infiltrator from another group I decide to stay. I look down at the turtle. Its expression seems one of both intense concentration and desperate boredom as soft, shiny eggs fall from its rear end into a sandy pit. The ranger is on her hands and knees trying to angle a beam of light up into the egg-producing orifice.
“And ... yes, here comes another one!”
Another soft egg drops gently into the pit.
“So there’s a lot of job satisfaction, then, in shining a torch into a lizard’s private parts and stating the eye-glazingly obvious?” is a question I decide, inexplicably, to keep to myself. At least for now. I look around at my fellow spectators and am impressed by the range of expressions - everything from the awed to the bored. One little boy is openly disgusted by such a vulgar display. A young girl sitting next to him is not interested in what is happening at the other end; she is content to gaze lovingly into the ancient, glassy eyes. She is muttering to herself, or to the creature, perhaps marveling at the wonderful things those eyes have seen.
“Jesus.”
“Shit.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Oh my god I’m blind!”
“Please don’t take photos,” the ranger requests politely. “It’s not good for the turtle’s eyes.”
She continues to speak, but I am preoccupied with rubbing and blinking the spots from my eyes.
“You sir? Would you like to put out your hand?”
“Wha.. .? I reply as I instinctively put out my hand.
“ .. . to really experience it. Feel how soft it is? Feel the mucusy covering? Pass it along for everyone to experience.”
When I realize what I am holding I cannot pass it on for others to experience quickly enough. I shake my head, baffled by this woman’s behavior, as I flick the remaining warm slime from my hand. Others are apparently getting some thrill out of holding the egg. I am baffled by this too.
“All right,” the ranger calls as the turtle starts to use its thick, leathery fins to flick sand over the nest. “I need the egg back now.”
The egg is not forthcoming.
“Can I have the egg back please. I need to return it to the nest now.”
Milky light illuminates facial shrugs. We look at each other and frown in concern.
“Look, this is serious. If that egg isn’t put back in the nest now it will die. Now whoever has the egg, hand it over. You sir - I gave the egg to you. Who did you give it to?”
“I gave it to him,” I tell her, pointing.
“And who did you give it to?”
“I dunno. Her, I think.”
“Maam?”
“I haven’t got the egg.”
“Then who has?”
“Jason have you got the egg?”
“Why would I steal a stupid turtle’s egg?” is the belligerent defense.
“Because if I find out that you have …” hangs the threat.
“Frisk Jason,” I suggest helpfully. “He sounds like an egg thief to me.”
“Get stuffed mate.”
I wince at the sharp crack of flesh against flesh. “How many times have I told you not to talk like that?”
“Ow. Ya got me on the eye again. This sucks.” Jason marches angrily into the night, shouting back at us, “I haven’t got the stupid egg, and if I did I’d squash it and throw it in the bin with all the smelly rubbish!”
Jason’s mother runs after him. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to get you in the eye. I meant to get you on the side of the head. You must have moved. Jase?”
“This is too much,” I mutter as I turn to leave.
“Sir - where are you going? No one leaves until I have the egg back. That egg … if that egg isn’t put back in the nest it will die. Whoever has the egg please think about the baby turtle. It doesn’t stand a chance out of the nest. It’s .. . it’s not fair.” Her voice is trembling with emotion now, and this fills me with contempt.
“Look, forget about it,” I tell her. “It didn’t have much of a chance anyway. You told us that most of them get eaten by seagulls or sharks - what’s the difference?”
“But that’s nature. This just isn’t .. .”
“It isn’t what?”
“Pat? Is that you? What’s going on?”
“Someone,” the ranger accuses in italics, “stole a turtle egg.”
“And who was the genius who took the egg out of the nest?”
“Pat, did you steal that egg?”
I am more depressed than angry that Louise would as such a foolish question.
“For god’s sake, Louise. You must be joking. What the hell would I steal a bloody turtle egg for? Why do you say things like that? I mean, you think someone knows you .. .”
The light is so weak that I cannot make out Louise’s expression. We stand there for several moments, looking blindly at each other.
“I was joking,” Louise tells me as she turns to walk away. “I was only joking.”
The night is long and hot and deathly still. I lay in the darkness with my head tipped back, my mouth gaping. I am desperately tired, but hour after tortuous hour is spent skimming across the surface of sleep. Occasionally I drop below the surface and almost dream, but this does not last and I am back in this box, clammy sheets rippled about me, head tipped back, drinking the hot, still air.
Beside me, Louise is sound asleep. From time to time she will snuffle and snore quietly. She might mutter slurringly. She grinds her teeth throughout the night, a sound so familiar it no longer bothers me. Our naked bodies touch, move apart, touch again.
This will do it, I think, another hour of this will kill me or drive me completely mad. I must fall asleep. I just can’t take any more of this. Not another minute.
“You’re up early,” Louise says from the doorstep of the caravan where she is sitting, brushing her hair. “Did you sleep well?”
“You’re kidding,” I reply as I look down at the large blisters of moisture on my forearms. I have returned from the shower block and cannot tell if the water is from the cool shower or if it is sweat. It is not full light yet and already the temperature is into the high twenties.
“You didn’t sleep well?”
“I didn’t sleep. I was murderously tired and I just couldn’t sleep.”
“I wonder what that means - murderously tired.”
“I don’t know. I’ll leave you to ponder my parlance while I drag my carcass down to the beach. I have to get out of this.”
I make my way to the beach plodding along the narrow path, arms hanging loosely by my sides. I trudge up the sandy crest and stare at a glorious, golden sunrise through stinging, half-closed eyes. My squint intensifies as I see, far out to sea, a giant waterspout. I have never seen one before. I look around for someone to share it with but the only other person on the beach is an old fisherman, and hell, he probably sees giant waterspouts every day of his life. I walk over the sand, vaguely aware of the chaotic mess of footprints, and down to the water’s edge. The sea bed drops away quite sharply and the water level quickly reaches my waist, my shoulders, and then I am swimming into the rolling swell. I remain focused on the waterspout, dancing and swaying on the horizon, as I swim farther out into deeper and darker water. My arms and legs ache as they sweep and scissor. I am in poor condition and am soon exhausted, but I push on regardless. I feel a desperate need to keep going. I want to be far out to sea. I need to make it to that watery vortex. I swim on and on, lost in my obsession.
I am jolted from my folly as true exhaustion sets in. I slip below the surface. My limbs are heavy. I sink further and further down, convulsing as I resist the urge to breathe. My wide eyes scream into the darkness. I see things. Shapes. Shadows. Things moving towards me and away from me. Something brushes against my leg. It feels rough, like shark skin. I tip my head back and look up at the vast halo above and know that I am doomed. This knowledge is terror in its purest, most blissful splendor. I reach out to the light. I can breathe this light. I can breathe it.
The halo shatters as some animal lust possesses me, propels me up with unexpected violence. The light is suddenly hard and dry. I retch into it, drink from it. I hear a strange barking noise and realize that it is my own desperate breathing. My arms and legs, though cramping with pain, have found the life to flail heavily through the water, and I continue to breathe, my breath gradually falling from desperate to merely exhausted.
Using a clumsy series of kicks and strokes I manage to spin by degrees until I am facing the shoreline. I am appalled (and vaguely impressed) by just how far I have managed to swim. I know that I cannot make it back; I can barely keep my head above the surface. I simply cannot make it. I laugh a little and feel hysteria close by. There is no logical way to explain this, I think. How did I - how did this happen? How did I get myself into this?
Through stinging eyes I look at the white ribbon of sand. Even from this distance I recognize the small figure walk down onto the beach. I know she is looking for me. She looks first one way along the beach, then down the other before doing a double salute to the horizon. I smile and want to wave to her but I don’t have the strength. Besides, if one limb ceases moving I know I will sink again.
She sees me. She runs to the water’s edge. She doubles over. Is she laughing? Is she laughing at me? No, she is not laughing. The fisherman runs to her. There is pointing and waving. The fisherman runs from the beach towards the caravan park.
Louise and I look at each other across this seemingly impossible expanse of water, and we wait for something to happen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
