an open letter to AMP Capital

Dear AMP Capital,

Saturday 19 June was the date of my first visit to The Palms Shopping Centre. I'd been drinking, but then who wouldn't be, on a day like that. Probably the warmest all winter. The nor'wester was blowing, and it'd left the sky banded grey, white and blue, like the tricolour flag of some imaginary skyward republic. For reasons I'd rather not get into, I had to ride the bus that day. At first, it wasn't so bad - there was a cute girl with pink hair and a nose ring, sitting across from me. Just as I'd reached the point in my daydream where I was taking her to Tahiti on our honeymoon, I realised she was listening to 'My Way', by Limp Bizkit. Really loudly. Keeping in mind that the date in question was 19 June 2010, you can probably see why this became an issue.

In any case, it was with a head swimming with imaginary sky flags, the unfulfilled romantic potential of pink haired nu-metal throwbacks and the yeasty, head spinning drunk that only comes along when, in a move combining innovation and self hatred, you mix homebrew beer with good Scotch whiskey, that I arrived at the Palms. All I wanted was some food, and I'd heard that this mall had everything! The predictions were true. I'm glad the place decided to cheap out on those blue-shirted people who clear away the discarded food, because those food court tables were like some kind of dream buffet. Rather than 80 days, it took me a mere 30 minutes to traverse practically the entire world, in culinary terms. The sauces! The spices! the things people are willing to spend money on and then cast aside. The food court seems to make a fitting metaphor for these modern times. I'm still trying to work out how my getting asked to leave by security fits into this metaphor, but I'm beginning to think the answer to this question is bigger than I will ever grasp, and will probably refer back with several layers of ontology and rely on a complex yet perfect syllogism. This is all besides the point, which is that I was kinda drunk, kinda full and kinda happy while getting escorted out of the Palms. The sorta gratification that usually only comes when tall buildings collapse on my birthday.

I was carrying this feeling when I noticed the many advertisements throughout the Palms for the Champion family, to which an AMP Capital logo was appended. I spent many minutes at the time wondering what the significance of this proud and upright family was. Do they list amongst their (no doubt limitless) achievements the ownership of an entire shopping mall? Are they the subject of an upcoming TV drama or reality series, in the course of which their perfect facade will be torn asunder by drug use and interracial romance? Without any further explanations offered, the possibilities swiftly approached the infinite. John Locke, in his c1690 Essay Concerning Human Understanding, perhaps best explains the resulting conclusion that maybe these advertisements meant nothing at all:

Men, extending their Enquiries beyond their Capacities, and letting their Thoughts wander into those depths where they can find no sure footing; tis no wonder, that they raise Questions and multiply Disputes, which never come to any clear Resolution, are proper to only continue to increase their Doubts, and to confirm them at last in a perfect Scepticism.

In the spirit of Mr Locke, it seemed only fair to attempt to cure my scepticism through the rigors of empirical investigation. The internet at the local public library informed me that the Champion family were the product of AMP Capital's new advertising campaign. I was left to figure out the rest for myself, when my internet money ran out. I finally decided that there were two phases to the advertising. The first was where each member of the Champion family represented a key mall demographic. These ads were practically shouting to the world: rich white people! we want you! Labradors! you may shop here! As time passed, I thought more and more about the second phase of the advertising.

I decided that, because no one in their right mind could honestly believe that a stack of pictures of some retardedly wholesome and obviously fake family would somehow make people want to go to their mall, rather than stab their eyes out with a rusty coathanger, there must be some other reason behind all of this. I have called this phase the aspirational phrase. I have taken some liberties here, but I hope you will not lump me in with the hollow-earthers and David Icke types. The most likely explanation, of course, is that the association of the Champion 'family' with the AMP Capital brand was an exercise in aspirational advertising, whereby I would see these advertisements and realise my tragic and general lack off success in life, compared to Mr. Champion. I would tie this castestrophic failure to my lack of ownership of AMP Capital bonds or shares or whatever sort of financial derivative it is that people even own these days. I would think this is the only reason I have no patrician-chinned and gracefully aging wife, no daughter to jealously protect while secretly scheming to 'have intercourse with' her best friend, no son to make feel terrible for missing that tackle. The only reason my posture has slackened and my hairline receded.

Well, you got me. It worked. Since those ads, I've been seconds from suicide. Only the thought of investing in AMP Capital and thereby remedying my life have kept me in the realm of the living. I'm sorry for the long-winded introduction, but I thought you should hear it, in order to pass along congratulations to your advertising staff. I guess that brings me to the point of this letter. I would like to somehow invest in AMP Capital! I have about $70 in cash on me right now. Will this be enough? If this isn't enough, I would be willing to trade the following intellectual property, in exchange for a piece of your fine organisation:

i) A collection of photographs of elderly people wearing matching tracksuits and hugging. This would be perfect for your next advertising campaign! Everyone knows a partner wearing the exact same clothes as you is the 'perfect family' of later life, in terms of aspiration marketing!

ii) A list of every single person I know who regularly shoplifts from your 'The Palms'. I realise that some people might see this as 'selling my friends out' or 'back-stabbing'. However, as I am about to enter the business world in any case, I figured, why not get a in a little 'screwing over the poor' practice before I receive my interest in AMP. I'm sure you guys understand!

Finally, in terms of the family, will I get to select them from a catalog? Or is it more of a lucky dip type arrangement? I understand the necessity of woollen jumpers in heading up such a family, but is this an absolute necessity? Wool has caused problems with my eczema in the past.

I look forward to hearing from you!
George F. Mill, Vagrant.

needles

I always thought there was that whole unconditional love thing which went with parenthood, but it looks like I was wrong. Those fuckers aren't having a bar of it. Won't even open the door when I visit. I mean it's not like I took anything major last time. Just an iPod. Turns out an iPod is worth more than their love for their only daughter. I got a good price for it too. And it wouldn't have happened if they'd just lent me the money in the first place. They know I'll pay them back. One day. When I sort myself out, get clean. One day soon, I might add. Ah well. There are some bastards you can live without, and now my own damned parents are going on that ever growing list, I think, walking back down their stupid winding gravel driveway. Its like a medieval fort in here or something. Bourgeois wankers, anyway. Good riddance.

I start to shiver, waiting for the bus. Not sure if its cold shivers, or the withdrawls. Senses have started to blur lately. Its been a day since my last shot, and this winter's been hell. Coldest in twenty years, they're saying.

I don't bother smiling at the bus driver when I get on. I'm sure the greasy old creep is trying to catch a view down my top. Not for free, baby. Call me when your shift's over, maybe, if I'm desperate.

All of these well-painted houses, with their new fences, the leafy parks and the occupied shops over this side of town, rushing past out the window, remind me of how far from home this all is. So fake. So sterile. Christ, I need dope something real too. Not that fucked up homebake cut with shit knows what Anton's been selling either. I can almost taste that chemical fuck-up, and it's making me wanna spit.

I'm off the bus in town, thinking maybe I should eat. Getting too thin. I could be a model, though! A life of glamour, cocaine instead of the dope, maybe. Dreams are free. I'm in that bakery, where for some reason the rolls are opposite the cash register, outta sight. Its like an unintentional soup kitchen, without all the Christians. These rolls have been keeping me alive, I'm pretty sure. Nothing wrong with carbohydrates.

Walking home, I run into someone from school, I think. They know me, anyhow. “What've you been up to?” etc. I don't say sucking old man dick to get high. I don't say ripping off my parents. I say “not a whole bunch, you know how it is, you?” and listen to some bullshit about marketing out at the University or something, thinking the whole time that I must look like shit, like a role-model for how to fuck yourself up good. I walk away without asking her name.

“I'm worried about her, David. We should have let her in at least, to talk with her”.

“Look, Mary, I know it's hard, but I thought we decided enough was enough. Dr. Robertson said the treatment, the CADS or whatever it was, had to be voluntary. And she won't do it! So what are we supposed to do? Let her steal from us? Buy her drugs?”

“I don't even know here she lives any more. What if she's on the street again? What if something happens? It'd be on us”.

“It wouldn't be on us. It'd kill us, sure, but it wouldn't be our fault. That arsehole boyfriend of hers, those druggies and the ones that make money off them, it'd be their fault. Fuck! I'm sorry for swearing, honey, but it just gets me so mad”.

I arrive at Jason's room without realising I'd been walking there. I'm in a fucked up mood, and being here never seems to help. This giant rotting house, with its tiny rooms and smaller kitchens attached, somehow justifying the almost extortion-level rent. The smell of cat piss that never seems to leave, but gets worse when his neighbour passes out in the stairwell. Which is every other day. The fucked up mood part is nothing new. You never get used to feeling like the entire world's about to collapse inwards, squeezing your lungs and choking the life outta you, almost constantly except when I take the needle, the pipe, whatever, the Great Escape from all the bone-cold and surface tension built up in the grey clouds//grey faces of the city. A counsellor once asked me why I 'abuse substances'. I asked him “Why don't you need to get high? Why aren't you running away from all of this?”. “This is about you, Laura, not me”. All of the best questions go unanswered.

I knock on Jason's door, and stare its flaking paint, waiting for him to answer. Part of me is hoping he won't. This part is probably some evolutionary survival instinct, hoping to protect my liver, veins, head, whatever, from abuse. Good luck, instincts. Jason opens the door. Bob is standing behind him. They're almost twitching in unison, which is kinda cute. The more their faces sink and scab, the closer they resemble each other. One day, they'll merge together. I'm sure of it.

'Hi Lauuuraaa', goes Jason, in his messed up queer-junkie slur.

'Hi Jase. Looking good! What's new?'

'Oh the saame old, y'knoww?'. I know.

'Bit of a problem, Jase. I'm sorry to ask. I need sorted out. But I'm broke. Temporarily at least. Wondered if you could sort me out if I pay you back tomorrow or something, after I get some more work done tonight?'

'Uhhhhhhm. Suure, I guess. But chuuu gotta pay me back, cos I'm no ch-charity, right?'.

I must have come at the right time, because Bob's too outta it to object. Usually, he knows the chances of payback are slim at the best. Jase would know too, if he hadn't fucked his memory doing god knows what. They're good people.

The foil wrap's in my pocket and I'm thanking him before leaving. I'm thinking about friends and co-dependence and co-defendants and this wonderful sense of community and commonality that springs up because of the opiates. And how false it is. How every single guy I know would pimp me for a fix if I hadn't got there first, and how every girl'd rob their man just as easy. Bleakness, weakness, humanity and all of that. 'What a wonderful world' is playing in my head as I push through my own front door. So cold. So small. Single bedroom condensation hell. There's black mould on the roof. What kind of fucked up City Council builds houses from cinder blocks? Black mould covers the roof. Probably somehow toxic, and killing me slowly. I lie back in the bed, with my pipe. No more needles, I promised myself. I'm soon enough forgetting about cold and toxic moulds and enjoying the sweet relief of no thought at all.

'Maybe we could do one of those intervention things, you know? They have them on that TV show. Show how much we care, how much we want her better?'

'If she doesn't know how much people care by now, that's not gonna change. We gave her everything. All of those toys. That damned dog. The schools. $10,000 a year. For what? Its not like we were hard on her. And we were always there! Not alcoholics, not molesters, not gang members. I can't figure her out! Its like she's doing it outta spite or something, I think sometimes'.

'The doctor said you need to watch your stress, honey'.

I'm waking up in a weird clogging sweat and it's already dark. I don't have a clock and so the only way to tell the time is by the traffic volume. I never can get it right though. It doesn't matter. 'Night' is enough. Soon enough I'm dressed and out the door. Cold, so cold, but always it pays off. Walking out for work like this I'm only glad for the fact my parents don't go out at night any more. They'd die if they saw me. Maybe even literally. I talk to Tony, who's in his car watching the girls. Keeping An Eye Out, for a reasonable fee. Quiet night, he tells me, absentmindedly twirling an axe-handle, the modern pimp. Hourly rates, rather than commission. Income security. I stand by the Church, on the corner. Usually the spot's free. These girls know its mine, even if I'm late, and Tony'll sort out the ones who don't get it. The headlights are blinding, and sometimes I wish I could wear my glasses. I guess then I'd make out their faces, though. Greasy, sweaty white faces – like the school principle or the priest or the mail man or your father. The nights are easier when they're not much more than a dribbling pink blur.

I take my first guy behind the church, and he's cumming in minutes. Blowjob, $50. “A religious experience”, maybe that should be the slogan. He pays up, shuffling off away from the city. You never know the regulars if you can't see the faces. Maybe his cock tastes familiar. Fuck him. Exploiter. I'm shivering again and walking back over the bark to the street. Roadside, in the dirt, there's a golden light shining. Reflecting the headlights of a passing car, or something. I go to look. Maybe someone's dropped their watch, or something. Straight to the pawn shop. Maybe I'll get the night off! You spend enough time kicking around in the dirt, you're bound to strike gold eventually, I'm thinking. All that glitters isn't gold, I'm thinking.

Getting over there, its certainly golden but it isn't no watch. At first I'm not even sure what it is, and almost stick myself in the finger from the needle's spike. A golden needle, full of some kinda something. One of those reusable types, from old movies and stuff, with the double loops on the plunger. As tempting as it is, I'm not about to jam it into my vein and fire it home. How do you know what's inside? Could be rat poison. Maybe some asshole's tossing out golden needles full of rat poison to take out a few junkies. Thinks he's doing society a favour. Removing our sort from the gene pool, for God or for Darwin or for whoever. This all starts me thinking on science and evolution and how my brain's wired and why it just makes me 'fuck up' every day, why my body feels so god damned sick every morning I'm trying to quit, and it must be a strange sight for all the punters, a messed up junkie whore looking like she's trying to solve Fermat or something.

Thinking about the punters, though, reminds me of this story an old dero once told me and Tony, in the Square on night. One of those guys that somehow, after twenty years on the streets, has been left alone by Death. Alone to wander with lank hair, torn up jeans and a jacket held together more by grease than the tiny-handed stitches of Chinese children, or whatever. Anyway, I remember the story this guy told us, because it seemed so ridiculous. Far out, even for an old dero, which is stupidly wide—in normal terms. He reckoned that some time back in the day, which probably means the 80s, there was this rumor about a golden needle. He swore to God that his mate's ex wife's brother had this golden needle. And, no matter what, it was always full. Always the best stuff you ever had. A golden needle, full of magic and wonder. Like something out of a Walt Disney movie, if he'd traded his hatred of the Jews for a love of junk. Me and Tony, we were laughing around with the old guy. About his story, and about the fact that it'd taken six cops to get him down from the bridge he was threatening to throw himself off the week before. The drop from that bridge was about two meters. I spent a few nights thinking about that story. How it was that we were building our own mythologies, just like the Greeks back in Classics, maybe to give us hope. Salvation through golden needles. How the story couldn't be true, because Hume killed miracles and Science stabbed magic right in the god damned back. We have to above all be Rational, and there just isn't anything rational about the magic golden needle in my bag being a magic golden needle.

After finishing the shift and paying Tony, I'm walking home. Done 'selling myself' (as if everyone else who ever worked a job hasn't lowered themselves just as much), and ready to run some tests on the needle. Rigorous science, not magic, will facilitate explanations. At home, I've got the needle off the tube and I'm scraping it out. I'm knocking the bottom off a wine bottle in the sink, and the tinfoil and butane lighter are ready. Small doses. Lighting up, feeling fire, feeling fine. Shit. Maybe there is a magic in these humble streets, because oh man. Right before my eyes, the needle's bubbling back. Instant refill. There is no way. I might be high. I don't hallucinate, much, usually. Give it half an hour. Somewhere in my mind I know that in fifteen minutes it'll be sticking outta my leg, no matter what promises I've made to myself about needles or veins or anything, and I'll be outta here, maybe for good.

But certainly this is a bad thing because who the hell leaves their house when all they've ever needed is sitting right next to you when you sleep and when you wake up. Maybe this is Love. What some other jerks get from spending time with their best gal, or something. Three days later and all I'm left with is a view of the ceiling and an overactive brain and a Golden Ticket to oblivion. No more surprises, and no need to believe in the passage of time or the metaphysics of history. I feel each day seeping out of me, but it feels just like every other day and comes rushing in again in the morning. The same lifeless faces. The same dealers and the same tricks. The only things changing are the veins we're shooting off into. These are our calendars. The only marker of the 'time' I can't believe in, a reminder of days stretching backwards forever, and probably forwards too. I'm part way around the circle, with no way of knowing where it starts and ends. Maybe that's deja vu. Maybe the return to the beginning comes in an overdose or a hanging. All I know is that I've got a ticket out of this place, and away from the feeling that you're just another face in an endless guilt parade before God, and the lucky ones, the chosen ones, get to live it forever and eternally. Over and over. Total oblivion is a grand gesture in the face of it all – a penultimate expression of self and agency. People would care, though. Mum and dad, they'd want someone to blame. Its all they've ever wanted. Plus I owe Jason $20. Shit. My mind is jumping from practicalities to the metaphysics and possibilities of life's destruction and its on fiiire, baby and in the end it's 4am and I'm meditating on 'I Wanna be Sedated' and sleep seems far far off, as far away as God, and there's nothing to do and no where to go and I wanna be sedated over and over forever.

drums

Those traffic lights, they looked like supernovas in the rain. Light exploding in every direction. That was the only thing that could take the edge off my jitters, walking down the boulevard. This town, and this damned weather. The thunder was starting to wake me in the night. The sky-boom and window rattle had got me thinking about this far gone old drunk we used to know. He'd sit down on the boulevard, beating hell out of an old bucket and telling anyone who'd listen how he'd invented jazz. He was just like the thunder. Far off, no sense of timing and invasive as hell. If that man invented jazz, then I invented rain. If only that were the case. If I'd had the good sense to invent rain, I'd be collectin' royalties, and these last few months woulda been my retirement fund. Sometimes when the thunder wakes me, I wonder what happened to the drummer. Some things don't bear thinking on, though. Probably dead like the rest.

blowback pt 2

You feel the slow shudder of adrenaline release as you break down the rifle and return it to its canvas bag. No matter how many times you've been in the same god damned roof-creeping position, you start to shake. Well, I start to shake, anyway. Like Muhammed Ali. There's no helping it. Most everyone you'd ever run in to is smart enough to write it all off as nothing more than some shakin' dope sick blues in any case. I walked down the staircase shaking and high on the goodness of life, thinking about the twenty thousand I'd been promised just to save this city from even more tacky high-rises.

Feeling smaller and less like God down on the street level, I decided to ride a cab over to the Boss' club. A luxury I could afford. They buzzed me in and it was the usual scene of Boss and Jimmy and Pope sitting around the card table, no cards to be scene. I was leaning against the pillar, waiting for them to throw me the cash. Their faces were cut with the biggest grins I've seen, and looking back I should have known something was about to fuck me right then. These are not happy people.

Finally, after a cheshire grin eternity, the Boss finally decides to let me know what's up.

'You know who you just shot?' he says.

'Naw, some yuppie I guess, owed yous some money?'

And the fuckers started laughing.

'You know why I like this kid, Jimmy? Because he's so fuckin' thick. He'll fire without thinking. Hell, we could probably get him to shoot the president for a few speedballs, huh?'

This was not going well and right about now was that increasingly common of moments when high spirits and anticipation u-turned into outright fuckin' dread and cold sweats.

'Who... who was he boss? Who was the guy in the suit?'

'Since you're gonna find out soon enough, I'm gonna tell you. You know the Robinsons, right?'

'As in the north side Robinsons? The ones that car bombed those Chinese for tryin' to get that crack in?'

'Those very same fuckin' Robinsons. And that guy you just shot. Rob Robinson. I hope that name means something to you, or you're already dead'.

All the paper in the world couldn't fit the amount of fucks and shits and misfired neurons my brain was throwing out at this point in time. I probably woulda busted one of those fancy heart rate machines down at St John's Hospital too. Messed up as I was, I could see how bad this was gonna be.

'Here's the problem, kid. They find you, they're gonna beat hell out of you. And you, being the junkie piece of shit that you are, is gonna tell them who paid you to shoot that guy. Maybe they won't even have to beat you. Maybe they'll just wave a fat needle in your stupid god damned face, and let you choose between goin' out hard or easy, if you snitch. And we can't have you telling them shit. And on top of this, there's no doubt gonna be a bounty on the head of whoever was stupid enough to shoot our man by the end of the week. So, the way we see it, there are two paths open to you from here out. A plane ticket away from here and away from this horrible life of sin, which your obviously deficient brain has led you to so badly fuck up. Or, we shoot you, and give your body to the Robinsons. Maybe even put a bow tie round that fuckin' neck of yours. You're lucky though. I'm feelin' generous today. Pope's got your plane ticket here. How do you like Korea?'

This was where I got lucky. The fuckin' plane ticket thing. Last time Pope got me in was to help him stash the body of some some other ex-jerk who messed up. He couldn't stop talking about the plane ticket thing. Thought they were so clever, how they tricked the guy into thinking he was about to start a new life in sunny Mexico. Next thing, slam, 45 caliber to the brain and the only place the guy's headed is to an abandoned house down by the lake. Wouldn't shut up about the look on this guys face when he pulled the gun rather than some paper. I took it as my cue to split, and ran like hell for the door.

Reaching it, I heard the soft thud of metal on plaster. I didn't have to look back to know there'd be two guys standing, firing hell at me. I could even picture the sour fuckin' snarls on their faces as each slug somehow sailed too wide or too high. The pillar had covered me long enough, and somehow I'd made it out of that damned old hornets nest. As if that was enough.

I took off down King Avenue, still not looking back. Thank fuck, there was still a good number of day time shoppers around. Too many civilians for anyone chasing to risk getting trigger happy. By the time I'd cut across Castle Park and down two brick alleyways, my legs were burning. My heart was hammering even faster than earlier. Everything was a blur. I chanced a look around. There was no one around. A pigeon landing above me scared the hell out of me. I sat down, and it was as if my heart and my head were tryin' to out do each other in a foot race, both going far, far too fast.

blowback pt 1

I should have seen through their lies, but sometimes you just need the money so bad that when there's just one dead suit between you and it that you stop thinking things through. You start thinking about the sweet dopamine drift that will follow the work. And oh god you never, ever think about the suit. He's just a suit and nothing more because if he becomes something more than just a suit, or just a pair of grey eyes, that's when you start feeling bad about the whole deal. And if you start feeling bad, you start to shake. And if you're shaking, you might miss. Either that or you take the diazepam to stop the shakes and then you got no idea what's going on because the sky looks like somebody burst the sun and sent its insides spewing forth over the world, and fiery death is held out only by that thin ozone we've all been ignoring. Or something. They're never more than a suit, or a pair of eyes.

This guy was no different. Should have been no different, anyways. That's what the boss told me. Just your average nouveauriche property developer type. Turning brick buildings into apartments for young professionals. A king of the commodification of shitty vibes and making people feel 'urban', while they sit safe behind two alarms and steel-barred windows. Got himself into trouble with the wrong people, as it turns out. I'm not sure how, or why. They never tell us why – just where. Where and what time and how much, and maybe if you're lucky they'll tell you you'll get half in blow (at their wholesale prices) if you do a good job. And so you do a good job.

You show up early, and get up to the roof opposite the guys work. Where he comes in at around 8.30 every morning, leaving his car for the valet outside. Sometimes he'll have a hat on and maybe you'll miss him for the hat. Maybe it's just some other grey-suited jerk in a hat, and this is the kind of think you want to maybe have a little bit of certainty of before you pull the trigger.
I was feelin' a little jittery still. The night had not been a kind one and the wire sting to my nerves from altogether too much speed and maybe just not quite enough liquor wasn't exactly helping. The endless loop of nonsense thoughts I couldn't throw away had me on edge. I was screaming focus in my lungs but my brain wouldn't follow, it was caught up in the idea that the competitive feasting of primitive societies was often called “potlatch” without knowing why or how it knew this. I had nothing to pull myself together except the strange adrenaline which will flow every time you point a gun at another man from on top of a building and feel just a little bit like God.

Today there was no hat. That face, fat from years of 'business lunches', almost filled the telescopic lense. I waited until he turned his back from the car, passing the keys to the red-coated valet. I took a last look at the suit before squeezing the trigger.

I watched through the scope just long enough to see the two arcs of gristle and gore which had erupted from his head splash to the pavement. Sitting back with my eyes closed all I could see was that copper ten cent hole right through where our man’s most intimate thoughts used to live. That’s life, I guess. One minute you’re on top of the world, and the next minute you’re a pile of bones on a street corner, avoided by the mid-day shoppers and big business suit types, and not even the homeless will touch you for the easy dollars sitting in your back pocket.

TBC.

the chemistry of common life

Chemistry is just a word we use to describe what occurs when subtle changes in our minds make energy from common lives, I thought. My heart punched my rib cage for what seemed like the three-hundred and sixty-fifth time in an endless minute. We were walking hand in hand and we were all strung nerves and muscle tension.

In the gardens you said to me 'We should sit down', and I said 'Yeah, that would be nice', and so we sat in the ornate benches just staring wide eyed out at the world, as if we were seeing properly for the very first time. Vibrant flowers framed the water cascading from the fountain.

'Sometimes when I come here I like to look at this fountain and think about what it means. Right now I am thinking that it is a stand in for how you make me feel', you said.

We were big on metaphors around this time, like cryptologists making sense from some lost meaning.

'I mean, this fountain is beautiful and alive, and this is how you make me feel'.
'That is a wonderful thing to say. And I feel the same way. About you, I mean. Not about myself. That would be weird. I'm sorry.'
'It's okay. I knew what you mean'.

We were young and the awkward, self conscious anxieties that go along with that still hung over our heads. We were vaguely terrified of absolutely everything except each other, and you had a theory that this was the true definition of love in the modern world. Maybe 'I am not terrified of you' would be printed on Valentines cards in years to come.

We sat hand in hand, watching the water. It was probably cascading, although maybe it was more like gushing, or surging. We couldn't settle on the appropriate verb, so left it at that. We made promises to remember this forever, living in the endless moment, making great heaping piles of seconds in our minds, a pile of sixty to be called a minute and a far bigger pile to be called a memory. The sun was setting directly in front of us, and you asked me to tell you about my ex-girlfriend.

I am five years old and struggling for vision over the dashboard as we drive to the shops, learning the meanings of words like weekends and sunlight and the Bangles are playing on the radio. Suddenly, I am seventeen years old and struggling to see through blurred vision, learning the meaning of things like serendipity and the blues, as we drive home in this taxi, knowing that this is the last and final time this is going to happen, because things have changed. I am eight years old and throwing bark instead of kissing her, and learning the meaning of regret.

This is what I did not say about my ex-girlfriend.

These were my own 3am Tramadol meditations in F# A# (infinity) about her. These were the things I was not yet ready to tell you. I could have laid myself open to you, bearing all. I could have explained all of this, but instead I said 'She got fat. She has a kid, now. You're about 10,000 times better than her, in every possible, conceivable way', and this was, I think, what you wanted to hear anyway.

Sometimes 'romance' and the truth / memories / 3am meditations shouldn't cross paths, I thought. It is usually best this way.

With your arms around me and your eyes on mine, we felt eternal. We felt like were were running head first down steep hills, building so much momentum and energy that we were going to explode.

'Lets go'. You.
'But where to?'. Me.
'I dunno. We can take a walk'. You.
'I'd like that', and we took a walk. You were decisive, and I needed this. It was almost time for the park rangers to lock the sharp-topped gates – we could have been trapped.

Walking past the Art Gallery you told me how you don't like the sculptures above at night. How they seem so grand and looming and important, lurking in the sky. How they remind you of great extinct birds, ready to swoop. How you don't like to feel like the insignificant prey of giant imaginary animals. How you never got these feelings when we were together though. I told you that you were never insignificant, and that besides, I would protect you. You would protect me. Together we would be some sort of unstoppable super-hero duo, overflowing with the relentless energy of youth, running and believing and gasping for air, never stopping, in constant combat with the entire world. Taking on all six billion if we needed to. We both agreed that this, probably, was kind of over the top. Holding hands, we stopped to admire the Gatsby posters pasted to the theatre bollard.

'When I am with you', I said, 'I feel like this town is the ragged edge of the universe. Like we could be rolling champagne bottles down any avenue, under the light of a wanton moon. I feel like I want to give in to the world in all its cliched and romantic glory'. This was back when we were big on metaphors. Back when we were tragic and embarrassing, caught up in waves and tides of feeling, abandoning the Puritan restraint of previous years and lifetimes, as if this time around we'd been born feet first and never bothered trying to put ourselves right, or find out how it was supposed to go.

We walked towards the Square, bright lights surrounding us down Worcester Street. The quantity of streetlights meant we each had four shadows, in varying shades of darkness, and we weren't afraid of a single one of them. We stopped on the Bridge in view of the sell-suited drunks down the Strip, their heads all ethanol and property figures. The caged doors of the Our City gallery reminded me of a prison, and I had to fight the urge to offer you a private performance of Free Bird, grateful you didn't even hear me humming. Insecurities blooming, as we leaned against the same prison gate, pressing lips. Hearts racing, skipping to the same rhythms, without the need for the intoxication of the bars, or the choking commerce of the glass fronted buildings. Feeling drunk off of each other. Feeling like right then and there we needed absolutely nothing but each other, still absolutely terrified of the world, but no longer scared of ourselves. Discovering that maybe this is what love is, and maybe, just maybe, this is the most important thing that will happen to us, breaking free and offering ourselves up to the world, proudly offering our necks to the world, screaming 'come and get us, come and get us, you fuckers' because we are ready, we are ready and we are never looking back.

in this story i ripped off- fucked up, cold world, the great gatsby, every cliche 'love story' ever.

letting go

Thomas Packman sats in his room, making a new list. This was a list which he would pin next to all the others, on the cork board, next to his computer desk. He would (probably) use a red or a blue pin to put the list up – these two seem to be the dominant colours in the most recently purchased pin bag. This new list would probably go under the weeks shopping list, and beside the long unaltered Girls I Have Had Sex With list. Lists mean order, and we need order, thought Thomas, putting the final touches (having decided to turn the -'s into +'s) on his new To Do list. On final inspection, everything seemed to be in order:

+ Buy groceries

+ Pay phone bill

+ Letter of Resignation

+ RSVP

Thomas, with the sense of satisfaction that comes from having truly achieved something for the morning shining in his mind, decided that he could take the rest of the morning off, and get started on the list in the PM. 'Might as well spend the morning jerking off to porno thumbnails on Google Images. Why not. Treat myself. I have earned a break'. Etc.

As 1pm rolled around, Thomas is feeling increasingly nauseous. Could be the result of three hours over-stimulous and relentless self-abuse, but is more likely a side effect of the new sleeping pills his doctor has him on. Big, obnoxious looking red pills, but christ, they lay out out flat. The entire ordeal would be better titled temporary coma, rather than 'sleep'. Closing his eyes, fluorescent colours swam like spilled oil in rainwater.

“Those fuckers” he thought.

“Oh Christ” he thought.

“I should go to the store” he thought.

Walking to the supermarket, he feltnothing but anger towards everyone he saw. Fucking kids in their weird baggy clothes. Old people and their sense of entitlement, their free bus rides. Middle aged mid-day drunks picking up cigarette butts out of the gutter to re-roll. Obese teen mums sweating over their children.

“There is something wrong with me. We should love our neighbours, or something”.

Bearded women. Handicapped me choking themselves at bus stops and screaming 'let me out'.

Thomas can at least empathise with the last group.

The supermarket was crowded, but seemed like a bastion of calm civility compared to the manic, overpowering streets surrounding, where humanity overflowed.

There are rules to supermarket shopping, and rules mean order. You line up, and you're polite. Because otherwise, the whole god damn thing falls apart, and everyone has to go back to hunting our own potato chips and juice boxes. This is the kind of regression we need rules to avoid, thinks Thomas, standing in line.

The checkout girl smiled at Thomas. She was kind of cute, and Thomas smiled back, wondering if smiling was in their contracts, as some sort of explanation, before realising that even if it is, who cares.

“Have a nice day”

“You too!”

Walking home, Thomas ignored almost everything, staring fixedly at the pavement. Even the broken glass and asphalt cracks provided minimal distraction, as he went about mentally composing his letter of resignation. By the time he was kicking his stuck front door, the letter had arrived at its final form.

Dear Sir / Madam,

Please take this letter as notice of my intention to cease employment, effective two weeks from the date of this letter. I thank you for the employment opportunity you have provided, and feel that things have gone well. It has been a pleasure working for your company. This is an “it's not you, it's me” kind of resignation. By way of explanation – I am simply no longer in need of employment. I would appreciate it if my accrued holiday pay could be included in my next pay cheque, if this is possible.

Regards,

Thomas Packman.

'This is a good letter', he thought.

'Maybe my best effort yet. Saves me having to talk to them, too, which is a bonus'.

Carefully reaching over the humming computer, Thomas unpinned his to-do list and black lines through two of the items. Letter and shopping. Done. Five minutes later, another black line. The phone line would stay connected for the next month, at least.

Thomas stared for a few minutes at the list's final item. Just four letters – R.S.V.P. These four letters had made it through the last three Saturday's to do lists. His head hurt just thinking about it, but he knew what was required. He had to get it in the post tomorrow, or it would be too late. He could feel his brain pounding at his skill as he pulled the invitation from the desk's drawer. The familiar crest at the top meant more headache.

“These cowards”, thought Thomas.

Class of '99. Ten year reunion!

His vision narrowed as he tore the perforated bottom off the letter. His glasses slid down his nose as he ticked the form's “Attending” box.

It is important that you R.S.V.P BY WEDNESDAY 16 MAY to ensure we can book for the correct numbers.

For weeks, the invitation had been pinned to the cork board. Sitting right under the “List of People Who Fucked Me Over”. This was the longest list, amongst a large collection. It was a list dominated by high school class mates, and so this this seemed like the natural place for this sort of invitation.

“These cowards”, thought Thomas. He had, after two weeks, put the invitation away in the drawer. It had become painful to look at, especially right next to the List. A single glance its way could meant being hit with memories which felt like a sack of hammers, falling from a great height.

“These fucking cowards. As if the ever present sour-milk taste from expired milk enjoyed across the table from this week's New Dad wasn't enough. As if being legally fucking blind wasn't enough. The petrol-drunk mind fuck weekends trying to escape it all had been in vain. The electro-radiance of flashing screens and 10c space invaders to get away from it all really didn't mean shit when Monday mornings kick in the teeth rolled around. There was no escape. No escape, and no sleep”.

Thomas knew he would go, and he would set things right. Looking at the completed R.S.V.P form, he wanted to scream at it.

“My blood is thick now! My eyes are clear! I will prove you wrong. You bastards. I could break all the glass in the world with these eyes now, and I will break their windows. They will shatter”.

There was two weeks left at work until the reunion, and the days passed like clockwork. Thomas was methodical in his job – processes were established, and followed to the letter. He found the cleaning work relaxing, and enjoyed the fact it meant avoiding ever having to talk to the public.

Later, his boss would describe him as a 'conscientious worker', who 'kept mostly to himself'.

Thomas had worked nights before the sleeping pills. They let him go in whenever, as long as it was after 6pm. Might as well work later, rather than thrash around in bed at home, fighting the hallucinations and restless ghosts that circled in his bedroom. Might as well go mop some floors and watch the walls melt, listing to his own brain sing sing singing out in deserted office blocks. This had been his logic for night work, but after the pills, he started going in earlier. The walls now blurred, rather than melted. His brain hummed, rather than sang. It was a reduction of all things, and he felt Better. Still not good, but Better.

Every night after coming home from work, Thomas would take the small grey shoebox out from under his bed, lifting the lid off.

“You're the only one I ever loved”, Thomas would say to the box. This wasn't necessarily true – he thought he loved his mother, too. He knew he would have cried, had she died before him. It was just that Thomas liked to dwell in the affect of his shining, heartfelt love for the box. To explore the tragic fate they now shared, and cherish it.

On the Thursday before the Saturday of the Big Event, Thomas found his bank account flush, with five weeks worth of holiday pay. $2,000.00.

“This is my life, in totality”.

On the Saturday, the day of the Big Event, Thomas walked to the shopping centre. Today, there was no need to write a lift – two weeks of mental planning had etched the day's progress all over his brain. He was focus and purpose, for the first time in countless years.

1. Buy a suit for the evening - $1,189.00.

2. Buy new shoes - $109,99.

3. Get a haircut - $30.00

4. Post a letter to Mum in Auckland – 50c.
   

He didn't care about the money. He spent freely, cherishing the experience. Wanting to look his very best. Tonight is a special occasion, after all! Hours wound past, and his nerves built up. At home he was in a pacing, shivering kind of mood. The internet bored him. The television was a disappointment, like usual, and in his time killing mood his hatred towards it was only affirmed.

“God damn Dr. Phil telling people how to live their lives. Fucking movies about girls and their horses. Stupid music videos. Endless loops of soldiers with legs blown off. I don't need you, television. Goodbye, television”, Thomas shouted at no one in particular. He felt like punching the wall, just for something to do. He checked, and re-checked the box, and finally decided to take a walk around the block, fists clenching and unclenching as he walked.

“Houses”, he thought.

“Trees”, he thought.

“People”, he thought.

“Animals”, he thought.

“Fences”, he thought.

“Shops”, he thought.

“Insects”, he thought.

“Cars”, he thought, the meditative rhythm of simple thought dulling the jagged edge he felt he'd spent the last ten years walking on. The sun was setting behind an abandoned house.

“Goodbye, sun”.

At 6.34pm, Thomas ordered a taxi. The invitation had said 7.00pm, but he hadn't wanted to be early. There's usually no rush, at these things. No point in seeming desperate, and all that.

When he heard the taxi's tyres at the start of the long gravel driveway, Thomas opened the box, glancing towards the Glock 17 which lay on inside on a bed of folded napkins.

“You're all I've got” he whispered, before slipping the pistol into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. It felt right, there. When he had purchased the pistol, years earlier, Thomas had been made to swear a declaration to only use it for sport, or in self defense. He found himself still smiling at the absurdity of this as he got into the front seat of the taxi.

The taxi ride was pleasant. The driver, a Samoan man with a wide smile, talked religion with Thomas.

“There is something for all of us after we die, you know, this is what the bible says. We find salvation, then. We are with God.”

“I don't know about religion. All I know is that no priest ever did shit to help me out, excuse the language. But maybe you're right. That's a god thing, though, and maybe a soul thing. Right now, we're stuck on people things. I'm stuck on people things, anyway”.

This was the final exchange, as the taxi pulled into the hotel's fore-court.

“$26.80. We'll call it $25.00 though, eh?” smiled the taxi driver.

“I have around $800.00 here. I don't need it any more. I want you to have it. Please, take it. I promise you, I don't need it. So take it! I am just going to leave it here. You'll never see me again, probably. Just do me one favour. Don't let it touch the hands of a priest. Spend it on yourself, or your family. Do something nice. Live life, or something”.

And Thomas was unburdened. No more job. No more money, just him, a heavy pocket and a high school reunion.

This is people stuff.

Inside, Thomas took his seat at the assigned table. The pleasantries were already in full swing.

“St Pauls High School – Class of '89 – The Best Time of Our Lives!” hung on a banner, in the school colours. Thomas felt sick again. Saw the oily colours floating again. The conversations circling around him were all “You look fantastic” and “Haven't you done well for yourself!”. He was himself subjected to the same set of questions and declarations. Oh, they were all so nice to him now. So damned polite and grown-up, everyone looking their best. Any failure was made invisible, at things like this. These cowards, acting like nothing had happened. Flashing their teeth at him like it wasn't these same mouths that had meant ten years sleepless and fucking terrified and alone. Thomas felt his heart thump against the gun's cold metal, and knew what was necessary.

As he reached into his pocket, Ashely King appeared by his side.

“Hi, Tom! It's been a while, huh?”

“It sure has. Being here... it really takes you back.”

“It does. And that's why I wanted to talk to you. Look, I know I was an asshole to you Back Then. We all were. And to be honest, I sometimes still feel bad for it. I wanted to apologise. I know it doesn't mean much now, but anyway”.

This was unexpected. They were meant to deserve what was coming, not be fucking apologising to him. Ashley was never the worst of it, though. Relatively, he was a fucking saint. It was those other bastards. Chris Jordan. Kyle Smith, those types of guys. Ash didn't need to be here for this. Just the rest of them.

“It's okay, man. I try not to think about it, to be honest”. This was the truth.

“Do you think you could do me a favour, though? I left my camera in the car. My leg's still kinda busted. Don't walk so good. Maybe you could go and grab it, for me? I'm so sorry to even ask, but y'know”. This was untrue.

“Of course, no problem. Promise to send me the photos, thought?”

“It's a deal. Mine's the red Toyota, off to the left. The valet should have the keys. Camera should be under the seat, up front”. More untruth. Thomas had no idea if such a car existed.

Ashley King walked at pace out of the main room. Thomas, watching him depart, realised that he had limited time until Ashley would return.

“We could have been friends, maybe”, he thought.

Thomas checked his watch, as he climbed steadily up the stairs to the stage. 7.46pm. “Goodbye, time”. From the stage, he had a better view of the crowd of suited men, and women in bright dresses. There were no speeches planned until later, and Thomas felt conspicuous up on the stage. Usually, he hated people looking at him. Hated being the centre of attention. Right now, though, it was necessary. He screamed, at the top of his lungs.

“St Paul's High School fucking rules!”. He was met with cheers, and applause. Conversations came to a halt, with expectation. Slowly, Thomas reached into the pocket of his brand new jacket. He removed the pistol. It's smooth grip was reassuring in his hand. It gave him a new confidence. The women in the crowd screamed. The men shouted. People dove under tables, ducked behind doorways.

“These fucking cowards”, thought Thomas.

7.47pm

“This ones for all of you. Sleep well, you fuckers”

Thomas felt the cool metallic weight of the pistol pressed against his temple. He blinked twice, and tasted the static in the air, one last time. And finally, he let go.

3am tramadol meditations in f# a# (infinity)

This was, I think, around four months after we started smoking. It all started off naturally enough – explosions of teenage vigor in experimentation, lungs and cones made from empty $1.50 Coca Cola cans down by the creek after school, holes punched with Mum's kitchen knives. Ignoring the aluminium threat of Alzheimers before an afternoon of bad television or knife-cheating on foreign Soldier of Fortune servers. Just dead Ramones, just living for the soft static kick of electric feedback and brain-buzzed loudnights. Everything was so straight forward. At school you pretended to listen, and six hours shot by five times til freedom. We were invincible and the weather was blessed and an almost holy holy ghost obsession was dripping from our pores. It was, I think, summer '05 and we were kicking down fences and running running running. We were young. We took the endless sucker punches to brain cells which were at that point in time far too abstract, far too infinite. They existed in the same sense that gravity exists – invisible but, presumably, always there. Hour long bus rides to far off lands, to crawl over the same well-trampled grass to the same state-looking houses open to the public, fifties and foils only, trying not to pay with change, too scared to cause offense or fuck with what seemed like our connection to this wonderful wide ol' world, so big so big and oh so fucking majestic. Our fear of the keepers of our habit, their almost aposematic ways of dressing and talking. Their aversion for anything resembling customer service in the parts of town where we never knew anyone, has never before had occasion to hit out into. And we would talk shit on the bus, just to catch the time. White noise to fill the stale emptiness, a distraction from the way you could see the dust particles in the shafts of light, and just how terribly impermanent it all made you feel. And we would talk about anything, composing what we were sure were symphonies of dialogue, knives to time.

“Dudes who catch the second bus when there are two leaving at the same time are making a statement. They are the laconic, time-less coyboys of our age. They simply do not and can not give a fuck. This is their identity, and they cling to it, damn the consequences”.

“And lonely, overweight people should get dogs. They will have to walk them, and lose weight. They will feel loved. They will love. They will meet other people at the park. This is flawless. This is what you would call killing two birds with one stone or getting two birds stoned with one joint, depending I guess on how old you are and your relative subcultural capital”.

Days seem to melt, from this kind of psychic distance. There are devils in the detail. We were running backwards down hills to feel our hair in our faces, and we were leaning with intent to fall. There was a girl we knew, and she'd never got high before, and so we said, but we must! She was older and in her lap lay promised lands, and we were all sweat and breath and muscle tension around her. She was wonderful, and we were secret contest scheming to claim her, pink-laced skate shoes and all. She was not scared. She lay herself open, overflowing, bubbling from the attention. Not realising her future as little more than the epaulets on some shitty kid's jumper. Little more than a story told on slower bus rides. She wanted to get wasted. Get cut. As far as all other nights go, this was infinity. This was just like any other night, at her shitty top story flat down a gravel and weeds driveway east of Central. We came prepared with junk food and indoor, diabetes clearly the least of our worries. We sat down on rugged couches, and watched bad music videos. We passed around the anodized purple and silver cone. We said things like “it's cut” and “out of it, man”.

My heart pounded.

My heart pounded.

My heart pounded.

My head screamed.

Pins and needles sung from the very back of my brain, and thoughts rushed like a cracked damn. I felt sick. I felt everything. I looked in the mirror and saw myself as an eight year old boy. I felt sick. I felt so, so sick. I thought about life, and I thought about thinking. I was smoke haze and panic. The room spun, but everyone else was still. They smiled and laughed and threw food at themselves and complained about dry, dry mouths. I panicked about every single thing that had ever and would ever happen to me. My brain spat at me.

Everything hated me.

I was collapsing inwards. It was not like, ‘do you every like, think about thinking man’, it was like ‘oh shit oh shit I never thought about life ////////// my own consciousness ///////// the universe //////// I am a voice inside my own head head spinning in circles, I cannot fucking handle this kind of thing right now shit shit. I am me’.

God, I thought, must hate me. I am lost and so fucking alone. This is maybe divine intervention, assuming there is a God and he is one vengeful spiteful kinda Old Testament mother fucker who just wants to fuck us up for being pathetic humans, I thought. Life weighs too much, I thought. Don't panic don't panic don't panic I thought, for three hours.

And I panicked. I didn't sleep. I was, mentally, out in a desert – as if every single second of my life up until this point, this fucking goddamn whatever you call it, that fell down on me in this shitty fucking cursed room in this bastard town, had been severed from me. I had no memories of anything before this.

“Pass the cone bro”

“Aw, shit is cut. Yous got any left?”

“Nah, bol. I'm pretty wasted though, eh”.

Nothing. I remembered faces, pin numbers, email addresses, but nothing that had actually happened. This is to say, I was fucked. Comprehensively. And, still the next day. I was trapped. I had no idea what to do with my mind for 18 hours a day, now that I was aware of it's presence. I forgot, in totality, whatever it was that I had used this foreign, screaming internal voice for in the preceding years of my life. Like I said, I was fucked. This was an unanswerable question, the sort that flings confusion like tar in all possible directions. Every time I thought about this, I was sick. I thought about the days that stretched out ahead of me. A constant nausea washed over me. I had no escape and besides, no idea where I was (metaphysically speaking). I looked around my room and saw everything far too clearly, like it was over-bright and hostile. I couldn't explain everything. I did not think this was the sort of “self discovery” that anyone had in mind. I saw days stretching endlessly, forever. I could not escape my own life, and it terrified me. I was constant panic and sweat and nervous piss and no sleep and night tremblings and mental connections gone horribly fucking wrong. I was floating way way above everyone, when all you really want is two feet stuck firmly to the ground, and you hope and you pray, you even goddamned pray, with no success. I was internal screams and I realised that '05, it was not such a great year, any. Externally, maybe, I was the same. I couldn't tell anyone. They would lock me up somewhere, shit, this was all far too giant and looming for me or for anyone. I had no idea what anxiety disorder or panic attacks were, and everything was through a screen of surreality. Memories of dinner with parents at a Mexican restaurant still feels like tacks on my brain, the same with days at school. 6 hours is bigger than space when you're taking it each second at a time, making piles and stacks of saved up seconds to call a minute, an hour, lunch time, home time. Endless days stretching out forever. I quit.

I quit smoking anything. I quit going out. It all meant nothing, is what I thought. I discovered, somehow, that drinking was pretty much the best thing I could do. Alcohol to kill the brain / pain. I spent far too much time drunk. I learned not to think. Not to feel. I was anhedonia and I was coping. I read about anxiety and I identified. I read books and forgive myself. Wilbur Smith saved me when I was fifteen. The words harden the fuck up took on a post-ironic, First XV Rugby Team-Free meaning, and I suppressed. I was floating and alone but I was rational and drunk and with these bags of sand I saw that all that remains is to get used to life in the low oxygen disconnect. To know about neurochemistry, and hit out. To tell know one. To evolve. To realise that life goes on, and soon enough you slip back to being just another face. Things will always get better, that kind of positive shit that always seemed so cliché seems to hold true. Maybe, I thought, I have grown as a person. Maybe, I think, 2005 was an okay year.

dialogue

“Imagine if we were in a movie. Like, some Truman Show sort of thing. Would you want to know?”

“Would I rather the ED TV or Truman Show scenario, is essentially what you're asking?”

“Essentially.”

“I don't think I'd want to know. It would become too much pressure. It would change me. Performance anxiety. I would wonder if people 'liked my character'. You would change.”

“I wouldn't do most of the stuff I do if I thought people were watching. My balls would remain stuck to my thighs forever if I thought people were watching.”

“I know what you mean. It would be lame. Paranoia and self consciousness could ruin you. Hell, it already halfway does in front of like, ten people. Multiply that by 100,000 and you get exploding heads.”

“I would prefer not to know. I don't think our lives are TV shows though. Descartes can suck my balls too. This is real life, I think. I couldn't sleep if it wasn't.”

“Even if it isn't, its easier to pretend.”

“Suspension of disbelief I guess is what we're getting at. Necessary in real life too.”

“Exactly. I choose what I wanna believe, and stick to it. Choose arbitrarily, but whatever, Makes life easier. Don't worry, be happy. Whistle that shit all day long. Suspension of disbelief. Have you seen the Transformers yet?”

“Nah dude. It looks ridiculous. Worse reviews than the Hannah Montana movie. Michael Bay, holy shit.”

“On a purely explosion per dollar / Megan Fox screen time per dollar basis, it is totally worth it. Summer blockbuster, man. Anyone expecting something 'good' is a fucking chump. Just wanna see fire and tits. Not at the same time though. Well, maybe. I dunno. The point is you get to forget yourself for a few hours. It works.”

“I might go and see it on a Tuesday. Maximise the explosion per dollar ratio.”

“That is a plan. Hell, I'd probably go again. If my life was a movie I wouldn't want it to be like Transformers. Shit would be way too stressful. Imagine having saving the world on your back? I'd want my life to be the sort of movie that achieves poor ticket sales because it lacks drama and suspense and explosions. A generic romantic comedy, maybe. I do some 'dumb / zany shit' and end up with my hot best friend after she decides not to marry her sports-car driving gelled hair boyfriend, who cheats with waitresses.”

“You want to be a real life Matthew McConaughey character? And I think I am your best friend. Are you suggesting I be your Meg Ryan? Are you coming on to me in some fucked up and elaborate way?”

“I always thought of you as more of a Kate Hudson. And, nah. Besides, you wouldn't date a guy with gelled hair. I hope.”

“You're probably right. But the life of a Matthew McConaughey character. Are you sure?”

“It could be worse. Just seems pretty chill, y'know,”

“It would be interesting to see the 'AFTER' in a romantic comedy though. 'They had three kids and lived happily ever after.'”

“'They slowly grew apart and had awkward sex on the first Thursday of every month, to keep up the illusion. He 'had his golf', and she went to book club. They both still had dreams about how things were.'”

“Like I said, happily ever after. Even what you described sounds okay. Kind of like happiness, these days.”

“Is it the same 'being contented'? I'm not sure sure. At least there is something resembling a family.”

“The 'AFTER' could be that he skips to Australia to work the mines, leaving her with nothing but the DPB and a bunch of Legal Aid bills to try get some money out of him.”

“She will catch the bus alone with a pram and people will judge her. Slowly she will absorb the identity of the single mother. Maybe start smoking at her baby, expressing secret loathing and regret. Adopting the dress code one item at a time. Trying to replace him.”

“There is no single mother dress code. You're being judgmental. Do you realise how much like a talk back radio caller you sound like right now?”

“Okay. So if I said to you – white girl in pink and white skate shoes, boot cut polyester pants, one of those white singlets which is kinda long and then a shorter black one over the top, a Playboy bunny necklace, hoop earrings and way too much foundation, you wouldn't think 'oh, there totally is a single mum dress code'?”

“I would just think 'skank', to be honest.”

“I think there is a lot of cross over. It leads to my confusion, maybe."

“Would you watch a reality show about skanks? If it was like Cops but just followed a bunch of skanks round instead. Sucking dick for bus fare, missing the bus and spending the money on cheeseburgers. Smoking weed through aluminum cans. Riding in cars with “crack a Woody” stickers on the back. It would rate well. I am on to a winner.”

“How do you get a TV show? I think your idea will die.”

“Its one of those things which you talk about happening but know never will”

“Like starting a rap crew.”

“Or dealing meth.”

“Did those guys just throw a bottle at us?”

“I think so. It was way off.”

“Its probably hard to hit stuff when you're throwing from a moving car.”

“It seems like it would probably involve physics. Maths, at least – factoring in the speed you're moving in the opposite direction, making allowances for it. Beyond the average bottle thrower no doubt.”

“Guys like that throwing bottles. I dunno. Kind of seems like they're shooting themselves in the foot. I mean, the broken glass is just gonna pop the tyres on the bikes they have to ride when they lose their license for trying to do one too many 'fukken sweet driftiez bro'"

“Yeah. Lacking in maths, and foresight. A blind generation with dead tyres and too much fucking anger at nothing. Why throw bottles.”

“It is pretty anarchy! Pretty chaos! My job sucks so I break stuff!”

“'Life means nothing so we steal bikes'”

“Huh?”

“I am paraphrasing Cioran, I think. Like, it doesn't matter what you do because life is so meaningless – no objective morals. Life means nothing so we steal bikes is how I sum it up. Like I said, I'm paraphrasing.”

“Life is meaningless, so we litter!”

“Except I guess throwing bottles isn't littering. Not in the city, anyway. You can't litter on concrete and steel. That shit is already litter. Fucking entire civilisation of litter. All of us. We are litter and getting bottled is a part of that.”

“Oh man, you're getting depressing. Lets not start this.”

“I'm not starting. Just sayin'. It doesn't matter.”

“I think I'm gonna rap about how cars look when you're walking.”

“What?”

“My eyes are cut to ribbons by the bright lights

walking down dark roads on hot nights”

“It sounds cool.”

“That's all I've got so far. It kinda sucks.”

“You got any more beers? I'm out.”

soap

Bill was, by most accounts, a reasonable man. Bill watched his kids play rugby on cold winter mornings, and Bill paid his taxes. He didn't like paying his taxes, but he did it anyway. Bill was a straight up kinda guy like that. A straight up kinda guy in every sense of the word, even – the sort to call a spade a spade, and the sort to have a few DB's down the pub on Fridays, after work knocked off early. Bill knew the guys down the pub, and they knew him. They talked about work, and family, and sport, and cars. Mainly about sport and cars. Sometimes there was crossover. Motor sports were a popular topic. Bill was a “lifting equipment salesman”. He thought he liked his job, and it paid the bills. Kept the missus happy. Mouths to feed. That sort of thing.

Bill got broken one day. It was, ultimately, the oatmeal soap which broke Bill. Cause and effect, determinism, modern life and all that played its necessary part too. It is easier to say that the oatmeal soap broke Bill, though.

The soap at Bill's work had been the same for as long as he could remember. White. Non-descript in almost every way – yeah, it cleaned your hands alright. There was a new manager at this office, a young bloke, had his degree and everything. Got on fine with Bill, but y'know, a boss is a boss and all that. He was making changes alright, but nothing major. The coffee in the break room changed. The timesheets were electronic now – you needed to log in each morning. And the bathroom soap had changed too. Bill didn't notice the soap change, until some of the other guys were talking about it.

“Yeah, the boss was saying. Oatmeal and honey soap. Gentler on your hands, or some limp-dick shit like that”.

And Bill laughed. Fucking soap. The day progressed. Pneumatic hoists were sold.

Two days later, Bill drove to work like usual. The traffic was heavy down Blenheim Road. The weather was messing with the radio reception – Hauraki was cracked and edged with static. Bill punched his code into the computer ten minutes late. “Another day, yeah, another dollar”. Make a coffee, drum out of time on a free desk pad with margins of printed advertising, yeah waiting for something to happen. Check your emails, read the news. Maybe do some work, if the boss is in.

Bill went to the bathroom around 10 o'clock that day. Good to take a walk, at least, get the blood flowing. And Bill used the oatmeal soap for the first time. Bill wondered about the soap. Why is our soap made out of food? Are people somewhere eating soap? Life was confusing. Bill wondered about the endless days in which the old soap had featured. How many more times in his life would he look at a different-but-the-same bar of oatmeal and honey soap, in this same bathroom stall? Synapses fired blankly. Cum to infertile eggs. Resulting in no life. “This is not life” though Bill, as the procession of old--soap days, all constumed in the same drab grey cloth, danced through his mind. “Yeah, this is nothing”.

Bill left the bathroom, and left work entirely. He didn't bother with his jacket. He never even clocked out on his work computer. Bill was shaken. It wasn't that he couldn't face the soap. It was that he couldn't face the days that would be punctuated by soap. A daily reference to the crushing boredom. The soap would become a symbol. From the first thoughts about soap, everything fucked with Bill. He didn't know why, but it did. The pace at which people in malls would walk. The way his teenage daughter would blank eye stare at the sixteenth birthday parties of spoiled Americans. Before, this was just “life”. Things that just happened. A good look at the daily soap had opened Bill's eyes, replacing squinting acceptance with a wide-eyed view of caustic banality. Bill was fucked.

leaves

I wake up in the rain and it doesn't sound like stopping. It sounds like its gonna keep going for three days straight. I feel like staying in bed for three days, too. A contest of patience with the rain. My boss calls. I am already late for work. The rain will win, this time. "You've won this time, asshole" I tell the rain. Outside, there is an involuntary moat around my house. The autumn leaves have choked the drains. A rain-lake is trying to make me loss my job. Shouldn't have called it an asshole, crosses my mind. But I won't let it win. I will be like Carl Lewis and I will jump clear over you, rain puddle! How silly you'll look then. I run and jump, with perfect technique, planting my front foot only millimetres from the water's edge. I am flying and then I am landing. With a splash. "You win again, asshole!". My shoes and socks are soaked through. I am late for work. I can't go back and change, because I'll just have to jump again. My whole day will be coloured and damp and off from this. I will have to work late. The blockage is only going to get worse throughout the day. I'll have to jump harder and further when I get home. Some days, it feels like even the leaves hate you.

smokes

Life would be a lot easier if I smoked cigarettes, thought Mary, as she sat in the gutter waiting for her bus. She was more sitting on the edge of the footpath, with her feet in the gutter – this is more accurate. Mary thought that the people in cars driving by must wonder – what is that girl doing sitting in the gutter like that? If she had a cigarette though, people would just think “Oh, there's a girl smoking, how perfectly normal!”. Mary sat not-quite-in-the-gutter because the bus stop had no seat. A steel sign strapped to a wooden telephone pole was the extent of it. Sitting is easier then standing, or leaning against the telephone pole.

I should start smoking, thought Mary.

I could stand outside at popular social events, awkward and alone and no one would know. They would just think “Oh, there's a girl smoking. That makes sense”. I would not have to talk to anyone, because I would look busy and occupied. I could smoke so intently that people would know I was unable to focus on anything else at the time. I would ask a cute boy for a lighter even if I had one in my back pocket. Our small talk about progress to meaningful conversation about things with the prefix post-. He would become my boyfriend. He would seem awkward and self absorbed at first. I would change him. O would teach him to love. We would lie smoking and talking after sex. He wouldn't just roll over and sleep, leaving me with nothing but messy sheets, low self esteem and serious questions about my appearance / life / taste in men. We would sit outside at cafes drinking black coffee and eating bagels. He would know every second person walking past, and introduce me to them.

Yeah, thought Mary. Life would be easier if I smoked.

45 rpm

Too fast cars drive by, and smoke from the house on the corner of Hope Street flavours the air. The midnight streetlights are my only company, but I try writing letters to ghosts in the mist of my breath. Before reaching home I am swallowed by the warmth of fire and friends. We watch trailers for bad movies and drink cheap beers. I soon leave, returning home to refresh Facebook and listen to slow records on 45.

What we talk about when we're avoiding talking about that time we got drunk on wine and had sex on your parent's bed.

"I never really understood the difference between a river and a stream. I mean do they have some definite standard of flow and width and depth that makes the difference, or do people just take a look and go like 'oh hey yeah that is definately a river?'"

"I'm not really sure to be honest, this isn't something I've actually thought about before. We should look it up on wikipedia though for peace of mind".

-A stream is a body of water less than 60 feet wide with a current, confined within a bed and stream banks.

"What about like braided rivers though? They're just like streams that criss-cross and blend together and stuff? I think I need more clarity on this.

- Sometimes a river is said to be larger than a creek,^[1] but this is not always the case, due to vagueness in the language.^[2]

"It is a tough question. I think on the face of it though I'd rather hang out next to a stream though, it seems like it'd be more peaceful. Like maybe streams have been romanticised by popular literature or something, but serious, they seem like a better place to hang out. Rivers seem violent for some reason but I don't really know why."

"Rivers are filled with dead hookers."

"That's another thing about them. Pretty much fuck rivers."

"Do you remember that time..."

"Which time?"

"Oh sorry, I mean that time we hung out by the river eating those ice-creams and for some reason there was all those piles of hair all over the grass in front of the bench?"

"That was way weird. Sometimes I still think about that and wonder what was going on. Like I would probably pay money to gain some context on that situation. I think maybe it was an installation art piece."

"And then the homeless guy that came along and started throwing hair round and stuffing it in his pockets? Do you think he was a part of the art installation? There wasn't really anyone else around. Maybe like life is art though and in that case the homeless guy is kind of on par with Duchamp or something, because I couldn't stop thinking about that for weeks I guess."

"I thought you were gonna ask if I remembered something else..."

"What'd you think I was gonna ask though?"

"Oh nah, don't worry, nothin'! Lets talk about deserts instead of streams, though"

Boats

John sits on the side of the boat, legs over the edge, dangling. Attempting to study the almost blinding light of the sun's reflection on (or in) the water. His heart is racing, but his head is clear. Not even a thought to the delicate processes involved in a racing heart pumping atrium to ventricle to lungs and in/out/around again. Just like how people catching balls don't need to think about the parabolic and trajectory calculus required to accurately plot the flightpath of ball to hand. These things just seem to happen and the why is superfluous in almost all instances. It's strange, John thinks. He can't remember the last time he was able to tear himself from the jumbleheadedness that kicked in about a week after he stopped sleeping. After he realised one night that he had forgotten how to fall asleep, and from that point was rendered incapable. John didn't know whether this was like “insomnia” or not, but did know that it somehow made for an overactive mind at the best of times jumping from thing to thing to thing. An ex-girlfriend had once left him a breakup letter that read “Today you missed the bus because it went by as you were bent over reading the timetable, and I feel like this is generally symptomatic of the way you tend to be more interested in the way things should be rather than the way they actually are. We can't be together any more, obviously, because of the way I've come to realise this”. John wonders if this is in any way connected with the whole forgetting how to go to sleep thing but is never quite sure, and he's damned if he's gonna let some overpriced professional asshole explain the whole deal.

None of this he has mentioned to Mary, the current cause of his racing heart, because at this point Mary is a stranger. Mary is a stranger lying face down on the deck of John's boat, at this point. John had only talked briefly with Mary when they had first set out into the clear blue day.

“Usually when we get these charters it's a group going out, y'know”

“I can imagine”

“A lot of parties too, y'know, with bosses who insist on wearing my hat and spinning the wheel. Plus the nouveau-riche big noters with their gold watches and cases of Bollinger I have to sack barrow on board”.

“...”

“But it's just you today?”

“Today, it's just me; that's not a problem is it?”

“No problem at all, ma'am”. They liked him to call the women ma'am on the boat, just like they liked him to wear the hat.

And so Mary is the cause of John's racing heart, and makes this true through the position occupied on the ship's deck, lying face down in only bikini only inches from the slim shadow the overhead sun/sail combination creates. As the sun wanes in the sky she will be engulfed by the shadow, John thinks. It is not the overt display of toned and bronzed skin on this upper deck of this yacht under John's charge that is behind the slamming ribs. Post-pubescent blues, he thinks, he got over that sort of reaction to half naked and beautiful women – oh Plato! Reason must rule! and all that. Instead it is the (nominal) gift of predictability and foresight which has John's heart skipping double dutch.

John is never embarrased to call himself a seaman. He has noticed recently that some of his younger colleagues seem almost afraid of the title. Shy away from it. John is a proud seaman, and likes to think of himself as the type that's not afraid of anything, except:

a) fear itself, and

b) never sleeping again.

John the seaman of beating heart and blessed foresight still sits looking out to sea, trying to trace the horizon's slight bend with his finger. This is something else they like him to do, even though it serves absolutely no purpose. Mary the passenger of perfumed hair and overpriced undergarments lies still. John considers briefly telling her some crock of shit story about the 'healing properties' of the fresh sea air surrounding. This is usually reserved for tourists.

It is strange, thinks John, how many women there are in the world just like this one. But there are no others, he thinks, on the boat right now. John has resigned himself, “blessed foresight”, to the fact that he shall be defeated by this woman. She will initiate, and dick led, mentally a 14 yr old again, he will oblige.

And how she will celebrate! Overjoyed with her catch, readily mentally composing the brunch-story for her circle of friends. “He was a real man! A gentleman! Sea strong arms and a dark tan! Weathered face! Yes honey, just like Robert Redford!”. At this point she is Hemingway's Santiago, John thinks, and he a big fucking marlin. Except without the struggle.

But, thinks John, he is also the spoiler of the catch. He is the circling sharks. Mary's brunch fishermen friends will celebrate the catch, but will not appreciate the trials of the return. And Mary will be left with the skeletal remains of her once proud catch, but will put on a brave face about a situation! Oh yes, she will say, it was wonderful!Because, after the inevitable happens, Mary is no longer a stranger to John.

John the seaman of pumping heart, blessed foresight, a week of sleepless nights and undiagnosed OCD, is ready to even the scales by halving himself. It will be, he thinks, as if the old man's marlin was taken out not by sharks, but eaten from the inside out.

She will have regrets. “Yes honey, I swear he was just like Brad Pitt!” She will tell her friends. She will not tell them that by this she means just like Brad Pitt in fucking Fight Club, that bizarre damaged ranting sea captain son of a bitch, 3 hours of banalities he subjected me to, damaged damaged damaged.

She will be, thinks John, one of that particular breed of fishermen in it more for the stories and the competition than for the experience. John's heart stays pump pump pumping.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes ma'am?”

“Oh, you wouldn't mind putting some sunscreen on my back, would you?”

“Of course not, ma'am”