bamboo beginning

gurgle
like a chuckle
tinkle
and my smile
spreads over the page
trickles down
to the ground
where i used to be

the sounds
of bamboo hanging
clonking each other
into sporadic music
reading the notes
whispered on the breeze
awakening warmth
renewing hope

in time
being out of time
will sit just nicely
and the dampness
the melancholy
will no longer
dull my simple tune
because spring is coming

the whole world is happy

Selamat malam dari Grant di Indonesia.

From no particular place or time, the joy of being
human, of being with other humans, of communicating returns! Yay!

I went to my fifth film of this holidays. Finally, though, I chose an Indonesian film.
The woman at the ticket window informed me thus. And I said, "It's okay, I speak
Indonesian." But my smile said, "No, you're right, I have no idea what I'm doing."
I grinned all the way to the door of the cinema where the two guys checking tickets
were smiling at my approach. Again it was queried whether I really meant to see this
film. With my eyes I said, "You're right, I've lost the plot, haven't I." With my words
I said, "I'm using it as a language exercise." They laughed and one of them took my
ticket at pinched me playfully on the leg.

I came out smiling too. Totally crap acting, ridiculous story, and didn't understand a
fair chunk of it because a lot of it was in slang, but I was feeling pretty good.

I went out and jumped in a taxi to go to the shiatsu massage place where they have
blind masseurs. (An old haunt.) The price had doubled. It was now Rp 30,000 ($4)
for an hour and a half. After the massage, I had a good chat with the blind masseur
and the sighted guy who runs the clinic. Then, after taking my leave, I headed out
to the road to  hail a taxi or jump in an angkot (public transport mini-van). When I
popped out from the arrow alleyway there was a group of guys sitting, talking and
laughing. One guy had his little trolley and burner set up on the side of the road and
the light above his cooking plate spilled over the happy mob. Instantly they were
talking and laughing with me or at me, I didn't really care, I was so relaxed. And I
joined straight into their conversation. "No, I'm not Michael Owen. Okay, yes, I am
Michael Owen. Can you tell me which angkot goes to Liverpool," (much laughter)
"Yeah, I'll have a drink," (a glass of hot, sweet tea is placed before me) "No, I haven't
eaten yet," (the guy immediately starts cooking up some roti bakar, "grilled bread",
also known in parts of Australia as "toast"). And we're

crapping on about this and that, and it's such a friendly mob you would've thought
they'd known me forever. And I could see that this was just a bunch of normal
blokes, hanging out on a Thursday night. And I was part of it. And I had no feeling
of enduring this; I greeted each new person who arrived on the scene with a smile
and perhaps a handshake. And I'm eating and drinking. And the cars and motorbikes
and angkots are passing. And I'm letting them because there's no hurry to go. Go
where, anyway? Eventually, (when I'd finished my roti bakar and tea) I stood up and
shook all their hands again, saying that I had to get to soccer training (more laughter)
Finally, a place where people appreciate my humour. And my smile spreads to the
people on the angkot. I help a woman on with her shopping. And the driver's happy
and another passenger smiles at me as we get off together. And, for a short time,
the whole world is happy.

Hope you're happy.

shafts of light

this might be
where i was
where i sat
with a friend
waiting
for a plane
to carry us
over seas
over time
that trip
has faded

i sit here now
alone in
a different space
between jobs
between girls
at the beginning
of a journey
i don't know why
i'm making

why is my calm
edged with agitation?
why
behind the eyes
a compression
of the carefree
the child-like
the laughter?

i am going
to a friend's wedding
to a place
with fond memories
of sweet observations
of an inexplicable culture
which taunted me
for so long
until i smiled
and joined in
the big joke
on me
on you
on all of us

we are not the same
our differences
brought us together
and maybe my attempts
to be the same
pushed us apart
this time
will be different
we'll be different
and i won't get so upset
when you don't
understand me and
when you don't fit
into my way of thinking

this doesn't have to be
a sickly slide of
reminiscing
when the ones
we're missing
are right here

this can be something new
like a take off
keep going
you can look down
if you want
to see how far
you've come but
god you're dumb
to think that
this is the best
you can do!
take a deep breath
then let it go
like you don't care
or don't know
there's another
one coming

you can let her go too
and what joy
when you find her
still there
in the morning
sun on her sleeping face

let yourself go
while you're at it
while you're taking
that first timid step
that leads to another
another first step
that might seem lonely
or misjudged
but there are so many
good people looking out
for you
shafts of light
through the clouds
making puddles of warmth
along your way

a good moment

I'm having a really good day (well, actually I'm having a really good moment which makes even the bad stuff seem good - like almost drowning in the big surf this morning and getting all banged up on the rocks on the way back in, and the Kiwi whose board I'd borrowed being really concerned...
about his board! And before that I lay on my bed with the heat and humidity pressing me into the bed, pressing my thoughts into dark places of futility and inertia.)

But now I've just had a filling yummy meal of rice and vegies under a tarp on a plastic seat with the rain making rivers all around. A small bowl of water was placed in front of me. I just ignored it because I'd had already got a spoon and fork. But then I remembered how much fun it is to eat with your hands (hand, singular, the right one to be more specific) so I got stuck in. And I didn't care if I didn't do it just right or whatever. (Although I did remember one bule (boo-lay = Westerner) telling me that in India you are judged on your sophistication by how close you can keep the rice to your finger tips (wonder what they think of rice in the armpit).

And now I'm just sitting on a bus which is crawling for passengers. I'm off to Bandung! (where I lived in '01 and '02) I rang the place where I first stayed to arrange a room to stay in. It was funny speaking to the old landlady after all this time. She said most of the uni students I knew had moved away, but oh well. I think I'll go and hire a motorbike and go into the mountains and swim in the hot springs.

what i said when you left

everyone wants
to say something
special something
profound something
meaningful

but we all say the same thing
have a great time
take care
you’ll be fine
send us a postcard

maybe it’s the rush
of goodwill
towards you
as you go
on your way
that makes us lean
on these well-worn phrases

but really
we’re just putting it off
that moment
when the eyes droop
there’s a sigh
a small smile
a brave face
a limp gesture
a last flicker
of the eyes

who turns first
is not important
but there’s the world now
big and empty
and the yearning begins
small
like a rubber band
around the two of us
stretching as we move
further apart
tempting each of us
just to cancel
the whole bloody thing
and run back
into each other’s arms

i can’t remember
what i said
when you left
i didn’t say
i would miss you
but i will
and i am
anyhow

Everyone is with you

When you go into the mountains, the mountains go into you. And the deeper you go and the further you journey, into yourself and into the land, the greater the risk you will lose your way. And if you lose your way, there is a risk that, while you are standing there, on the edge of the world looking out, trying to see where you fit in, no-one will find you.

The day is still, there are no clouds and the eye travels out to the horizon and then goes a little bit further—because it can. When it meets the blue dome of the sky at the most distant range, you think, it must be a band of clouds. But it’s not. It’s the land, perched and pretending, like you, above all the world, that this is the sky, and you, the lonely runner, are flying.

At the horizon the peaks seem to hover, lined up like the choppy waters of a giant sea frozen in time. And gradually you let your eye draw back from the distance, catching each ridgeline, until the land becomes solid and real. And there you are, running.

The land on either side of this path is worn smooth. The wind and rain of centuries have blunted the landscape; there are no aching peaks, no sheer cliffs, just vast rolling hills. The path itself is worn too, but not smooth. The rocks stick up and twist your ankles, this way and that, the thick low scrub on either side is overgrown and catches and scratches your lower-legs—you will have something to show for your efforts after this.

The sun is not strong, for the air is cold and across the other side of the valley, a last patch of snow, a remnant of winter, holds out against the summer. Below it, a creek has sprung up and where the land steepens, a waterfall. The flowing water is too far away to hear. But you imagine the laughing as it dances down over the rocks, and reminds you of the dryness at the back of your throat.

Your arms swing like pendulums keeping time for your legs. On this slow ascent, your breathing comes easily, there is no thought of the end of this journey, no impatience to finish. The rhythm of your running is trance-like, your physical body disappears. You are a spirit moving as one with the land.

The path contours and disappears around the top of a hill. An outcrop of rock is encircled by a group of gnarled snow gums like a meeting place of old men, they tell their stories in the curves of their branches, watch the sun hanging in the blueness above and listen to the footfalls of a passing runner

Thoughts drift like deformed clouds—vapour memories through an internal landscape. They break apart, flying off into new quarters. And you realise that, rather than these new thoughts coming into view, they were always there, you just hadn’t noticed. The twisted trees let you and your thoughts pass like a question needing no answer.

On the far side of the valley, something looms. As you round the bend it grows—a massif—the highest mountain in the area, and bigger, too, by volume. It sits broad and squat, like an ogre waiting to rise up against you. But that will come later. For now the land drops away, the scrub thickens to woodland and down there, somewhere is the water. You don’t spend too long gazing at that lofty peak because you realise that you must cross the river before you climb that mountain.

You scramble downwards, on and on, steeper and steeper. The earth gives way and you slip, on to one knee, sliding, grasping at leaves and branches until suddenly your feet hit grass and in one, fluid motion you are up again, running as if nothing had happened

After a while however, the relentless downhill running takes its toll. The first feeling of fatigue creeps into your thigh muscles and you are annoyed because you’d been so smooth and thought you could run forever. The land however, though willing to bend for a thousand years of wind and rain, does not lie down for humans, not even for the discomfort of a lone runner. And so you follow the path and ponder the futility of reasoning with a geographical feature.

It is dark down here. And cold. The sun does not belong. The ferns fan out and the dank earth holds the silence. Even your footsteps now are muted. Now the soft path flattens out and weaves its way through the greenery. You have forgotten the fatigue in your legs but are thirsty, and you are sure you can hear water. Or maybe it’s just your dry mouth that hears water.

The undergrowth becomes thicker and the trees reach higher. The light filters down from some place you used to know as the sky. Salty sweat drips and stings your eyes, the paths blurs. You so want the sky back, the light, no more descending. Yes, it is beautiful here, and peaceful, but lonely too. The silence is closed. And now in your mind is the knowledge that for every step you descend, you must climb back up.

When you reach the river you kneel and scoop dirty hands into icy water and drink. A parched throat is soothed, energy renewed and a prayer answered.

You take off your shoes and wade, gasping, into the freezing river. It gets deeper, and the current stronger. The rocks on the bottom are smooth and slippery. You step into a hole and go up to your waist and hold your shoes out for balance, the laces hang down into the water.

On the other side you sit smiling in a small patch of sun and dry your feet before putting your shoes back on.

It is wonderful to be climbing again, it’s what you’re somehow programmed to do. Your body is refreshed from the water and all fatigue is forgotten. The forest is still dark here but the promise of sunlight is ahead. The ascent begins.

Away from the river the path steepens and the undergrowth becomes sparse and dry. The ground is firm and you’re strong. You leap over a fallen tree. There are rocks too, here and there, trying to interrupt your easy rhythm, but you skip over them like cracks in the footpath. This is the roughest terrain and you are treating it with disdain.

But the path winds now, twisting back and forth with sharp hairpin bends, and at each turn, a rocky step breaks the rhythm and strains the thigh muscles. Here the path takes a direct line and the steepening gradient stings. Your breathing is laboured now, but worse, your legs are fading—they’re not indestructible. Negative thoughts begin to cloud your mind and the beautiful twisted shapes of the snow gums become ugly and menacing. You are annoyed with yourself, at your over-confidence, at the arrogance of thinking you could run up this mountain with ease, at the shame of impending defeat.

The legs are slowing, each stride becoming shorter. And instead of bounding over the rocky ledges, now you stagger and slow almost to a walk. The filtered sunlight is of no comfort. Panic forms a lump in the back of your throat. You are miles from the campsite, wearing shorts and t-shirt and the nights are below freezing. There is a long way to go.

Okay then, you announce to yourself as if addressing the troops, if that’s the way it’s going to be, let’s change the focus here…we’re not aiming for the top any more. In fact the top can get stuffed. (And now you talk directly to yourself, spurring yourself on, like a coach to an athlete, a father to a son) You’re not getting off this mountain in a hurry, so you might as well get into a rhythm you can sustain. Don’t worry about what’s up ahead—it’ll come soon enough. Focus on your running right here and now. Run up this mountain like it’s the rest of your life. This is it, nothing else.

At first there is no change, just an acceptance of the situation. The legs are still stuffed, still running terribly, taking tiny baby steps, shuffling over the ground. But incredibly, within this nightmare of sweat and dirt and solitude halfway up a mountain, there is a spark of hope. The legs have relaxed slightly and the rhythm is returning, and in this rhythm, an efficiency, and a realisation that you just might have enough to pull this off.

The mountain too, seems to pulse of its own rhythm. Far away, to the side, a snowdrift is held in the shadow of the mountain and tries to resist the summer sun. Further down, the melting snow forms a spontaneous waterfall. A breeze picks up and carries from somewhere up ahead the sound of trickling water. A little while later you come upon a small creek and briefly stop to drink. Running again, you look out into space, and high above the ground, a peregrine falcon hangs almost in time. And as you climb higher and higher the shape of the mountain itself is revealed, there is music in its suffering and in its renewal. It has been shaped by the things around it, worn smooth by wind and water, and brought to life by sun.

And you, like the mountain, find that you too have come through the darkness, at first by resisting, but then by accepting and allowing yourself to be changed.

The trees thin, the sun’s warmth cuts through the leaves, and up ahead you can see the end of the tree-line. You’re almost there! You giggle and squeal with delight, and remember how close you came to giving up. The legs feel light and strong now. The gradient flattens out towards to the broad summit. It’s not your classic pointy mountain. Maybe it was pointy a few million years ago; thankfully not today.

And then you reach the last two trees standing sentry-like on either side of the path, and you burst through, and the summit opens up. You don’t even need to keep to the path now, someone’s laid a carpet of grass up here. It’s soft and folds silently beneath your feet as you bound onwards; you could be a leopard. And then you look out over the edge and get the fright of your life—you can’t see the bottom! The river, where you crossed, is a memory. It’s all a memory, as if it never happened. But it did, it must have, because here you are, all alone and exposed to the world. And in the distance the mountain ranges are lining up, reaching out and crashing like waves against the horizon. And it’s quiet. And you feel like screaming but the sky might split open. And you’re sprinting now, for the top, tears streaming, wishing everyone could share this. But maybe they are; it feels like they’re here. There’s a presence, as if everyone who has ever lived is right here, with you.

Bridge Under Troubled Water

The training program on my wall said, “steady 60 min” – this basically meant run hard for an hour. It was a tough ask on a night like that, but it appealed to the doggedness in me. Cross-country season was approaching and I wanted to do well. I pictured myself sprinting clear to the finish tape and a tingle went down my spine.
Outside a thunder clap echoed across the darkening sky. It had been raining all day. The drains had cacked themselves and the road was a river. Part of me said, “Give it a miss tonight, it’s too wet.” While another part countered, “That’s exactly why we’re going!” (I often spoke to myself as “we” especially when “we” needed encouragement.) I hated missing a session. Sometimes I wondered if I was a bit obsessed. Most of my friends didn’t know about my running ability. I liked the idea of changing into Superman and charging out the door while the rest of Melbourne snuggled down to a hot dinner while I was lacing my runners like a warrior preparing for battle.
A crack of thunder made me smile grimly. Bring it on.
By the end of the street I was soaking. My t-shirt clung to my chest and I blinked as water as trickled down my face. The temperature had fallen in the last half an hour and although the wind had dropped, the darkening sky continued to send down a fine drizzle. I wasn’t built for these conditions. My ribs stuck out and my lips shivered. My sodden runners squelched through the Canning St grass and over glassy side streets.
I turned right into Park St and followed the bitumen path. The firm footing was a welcome change. The bike path, normally busy with flashing tail lights heading home, was deserted. Not waiting at the pedestrian crossing, I splashed across Nicholson St waving to a startled motorist. From there I was on my own.
It’s not that often you get to feel completely alone in a city of 3 million. It was like Melbourne had been hit by a plague. The dirty yellow lights of Rushall Station reflected off the empty platform. I ran through the underpass, a brief respite from the rain and down the hill to Merri Creek.
Now it was really dark. Fortunately, the rain had eased and my eyes adjusted until I could just make out the concrete path as it snaked through the trees. I didn’t ease off the pace. My face, though frozen into a grimace, belied my feelings. I was loving it.
The path dropped steeply as it passed under High St. It was then that I saw what Merri Creek had become. On a normal day it was a gentle trickle, meandering through the inner suburbs, something for the kids to play alongside. Not tonight. Tonight it was a hideous torrent; a surging brown mass groping at the blackberries surging over the path. I had never seen it this high. They must have had some rain in the hills.
Still I didn’t slow. I skipped through ankle deep water, laughing, mad, drunk. I could barely see a thing, my shoes were full and heavy and yet I charged on. I could see it. I would arrive home triumphant, flushed with achievement and drip my way to the shower. My house mates, slobbing in front of the telly, would look up momentarily then back to their comfort zones.
The next dip in the path took me past the giant brick supports of the Hurstbridge line bridge. The water deepened to my shins and for a split second I wondered what lurked beneath these murky waters. But reckless abandon was on my side, protecting me. I was a child, invincible.
It grew darker still. The trees hung across the path in twisted shapes. A jagged rock face loomed up in front of me. The path turned to the left, into the boiling brown mix of rubbish, leaves and branches. I knew this bend. It led to the bridge. I raced on
It was a flat wide bridge, made of wood, no handrails. Normally it was a metre above the water. But as I turned and looked I couldn’t see it. The bridge had gone. I looked again and notice saw the debris, the branches, the rocks and leaves, not moving just sitting there, somehow suspended on the water’s surface. A strange sight; a stillness amidst the chaos. Then I realised, it was the bridge, submerged by about 3 inches.
Why didn’t I stop? Why was there no trigger in my brain telling me to proceed with caution? Was it because these things belong to the rational, logical world where people make sensible decisions and never dare get dirty or cold or risk injury? Was it because I was stupid? Or was it just because I was flying.
I was bounding across the bridge, following the trail of debris when, Shooomp! I misjudged and run straight off the edge. I was in the water. Immediately it caught my legs and swung them under the bridge. The sheer force pinned my chest to the upstream side of the bridge. I clung to the top of the bridge with my right arm while my left held the underside. The water flowed over my head and for a moment there was a pocket of air.
I was calm. Everything was okay. I would simply get back up.
But I couldn’t. I pulled as hard as I could, but the water was unrelenting. All I got was a glimpse of the outside world, a snapshot before being dragged back under. Open shutter. A dark place with branches and leaves in the foreground, water swirling all around, a rock wall to the right and away in the distance the light of a house. Close shutter.
Then I was scared. I loved the water. I was used to getting dumped in the surf. It was just a matter of riding it out, holding your breath, waiting till you popped up somewhere. But this water was different. It didn’t let up. It just kept coming. And I knew I couldn’t beat it. I considered letting go, just letting the water take me out the other side and something big and heavy scraped against me.
“In news just in, the body of a 23 year old man, reported missing last week, has been found by a woman walking her dog. The man’s body was wedged under a bridge on Merri Creek in Northcote. Police believe the man may have drowned during last week’s flooding………… …”
I shuddered and pulled up again, more desperately this time. I got my head up, but failed to get a breath. My lungs were empty now and as I slipped further under the bridge, something inside me coolly acknowledged that this was it.
In the outside world, the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. Anyone on the bridge would not notice the four fingers gripping the upstream edge. They would not pause in their walk through the cold night to consider what it must be like to be held under the water for so long. And if they glanced at their watch it certainly wouldn’t be to count the seconds wondering how much longer.
Panic gripped me. I began to thrash.
My body was stretched out like the tail of a kite. My right hand was the only part of me out of the water. My legs were against the underside of the bridge. I took a chance and put my head down and brought my knees up to my chin until I was in a tight ball. I’m not sure why I did this. Perhaps instinct was finally kicking in. I gradually inched my legs against the flow and towards the edge. The supporting beams of the bridge shielded this movement. I poked a toe out and upwards into the flow and immediately my whole foot was pinned to the side of the bridge. This was positive. Next I got a leg up then the other leg, until my whole body was held fast to the side of the bridge. I wiggled upwards and the instant I was above the height of the main deck the water was working with me. It did the job. I flipped, rolled and then lay sprawled, gasping like a fish.
I can’t remember how I got home. But I remember my housemates, who are normally indifferent to my running, asked me if I was all right. I was about to give them full story but I noticed they weren’t really listening. They were watching reality TV.

The ambulance isn’t coming

I am taking care of a roomful of children, all different ages, mainly boys. There are two other teachers, one reading the newspaper, the other with headphones on.

The boys are running amok, making a racket, pushing each other around, knocking things over. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could send them outside to play. But I can’t. We’re about twenty floors up, stuck in this apartment and it’s my job, well our job, to take care of them.

I look across the room, out the window over the tops of the buildings. We’re so high up the traffic below is barely audible. The room goes quiet, less crowded. The window I’m looking out is very clean. But it’s not clean. It’s open.

I gasp and rush to the sill. Hearing a scraping I look down. Five boys are climbing on the outside of the building. Oh, God. This is not happening. I am staring at them, hoping that by sheer force of will I can make them appear back inside. I’m about to yell at them to get down right now, then realise they might do exactly that.

“Boys,” I say very calmly, “you need to get back inside now.” The boy closest to the window looks up. He’s one of the older ones; about 10 years old. I can’t have concealed my fear too well; he starts to shake. His left foot slips from the tiny ledge and I know he’s about to fall. I dash round the room, searching for anything to help. There! in the corner, a rope. I make a loop and lower it to him. He has the poise to put his head and arm through. He thinks he is safe and lets go of the wall. Immediately his whole weight goes on to the rope. It slips rapidly through my fingers, burning. I grit my teeth and wrap the rope around my wrists. It cuts deeply but I halt his fall. Slowly I back away from the window, pulling with all my might. I scream at the teacher with the paper. He looks up, bemused then ambles over and helps pull the boy to safety.

The next boy has climbed so far down he is almost out of sight. In fact, he is on the ground, thank God.

I lower the rope again. The next boy fits the loop around his torso and we pull him in through the window.

The room is quiet. I look around. It is empty; no boys no teachers. I am alone. Again I run to the window, praying that they’re still there. I am surprised. The next boy is almost up to the window sill; he’s climbed up all by himself. I lean out with one hand and grab him around his upper arm. I drag him up the side of the building, but when he’s level with the window sill my hand begins to sweat. The boy tries to help. He reaches up to try and grab the sill but his arm slides slowly down through my hand. I grip him fiercely at the elbow and pull up. It feels like his arm will break. His chest scrapes over the sill and finally he lands, sprawled on top of me. One to go.

I look down the side of the building at the final child and moan. He looks like an infant, too young to use the rope. His forehead is pressed to the wall. It looks like he’s frozen; can’t go up, can’t go down.

And then he falls.

His body rotates slowly and I’m watching. There is a small voice inside me saying, if you witness the impact you will never escape the memory. But I can’t turn away and he’s still falling and I’m going to watch him hit the ground. My mouth is open and I’m about to vomit. Going to watch him die.

I turn away.

A dull crack. Something breaks, within me. A second later, the crying.

I am tumbling down the stairs, dialling the phone. Through the terrible pain in my chest I am wondering if the cordless will be out of range on the ground floor.

“Fire, ambulance, police?”

“Ambulance!” I blabber everything to operator, the whole story. She seems genuinely moved.

I run round the corner of the building and there he is. Still and silent. No blood, lying peacefully in the tan bark, his beautiful little head next to a row of blue-stone bricks. He’s moving! His hand moves towards his face. His body starts to shake, big movements then smaller, faster, until he’s vibrating, buzzing.

“He’s having a fit!” I’m thinking of brain damage and of his parents and maybe it would’ve been better if he’d just… “Jesus. He’s shrinking!”

“What?” the operator cries. The boy becomes an infant. The infant shrinks further; he’s a foetus now, shrivelled and red, no bigger than my hand.

“He’s changing shape!” The operator is silent. The boy shrinks and changes shape. He’s a small circle now, about the size of a thumbnail. And he’s green.

“He’s turned into a beetle.” The operator is silent.

A small green beetle with five black eyes, he’s just sitting there in front of me. I’m still thinking he can be treated.

The beetle begins to crawl. I’m thinking I should stop him, make him lie still, wait for the ambulance. But he crawls through a small hole in the building and I’m worried the ambulance will arrive soon and there won’t be any patient. I press my head down to the ground and look in through the hole. If I can just keep and eye on him… He crawls past a ventilation grill and little shafts of light play across his back. I can see other beetles in there. They’re green too. They’re looking out at me out through the grill and I’m trying to pick out which one is him.

The line goes dead.

Through a darkening list

Through a darkening city. Head down, he’s thinking. Buy milk and bread. Hang out washing. Crossing a street against the red man, he's thinking. Put bins out. Pick up suit from drycleaners. Set video timer. A tram dings, he skips up the grey chipped gutter, out of the path of a surging car, back on to the footpath. He weaves through the homeward pedestrian traffic. A warm wind lifts his tie and lays it over his shoulder.

The buildings recognise him. The path he takes is worn smooth, he’s on rails, a passenger in his own body. There is no need to look left or right, no decisions to make. Only something very small within him glances sideways and registers the sports shop with the running shoes in the window. Claim healthcare rebate. Buy thank you card. Pay rent.

He smoulders.

The sky way above is still light and blue, wispy clouds drift like cameos before being closed out by the silhouettes of the buildings. It is the of the end of the week, a sad time for him. The melancholy of jump-starting his social life. Ring Louise. Repay loan from Dad. Merge supers. He walks like he drives, without interest in the vehicle that carries him. Without interest in any of the vehicles. The people at the tram stop are parked at random.. They need money in their meters.

A wave of air from a department store engulfs him and for a moment he remembers a holiday he once had, driving in the mountains with the valley floor far below and out to the side, hanging, wings poised, was a falcon, alone in space. For a moment his stride shortens but he catches himself and returns to the metronome rhythm. Get new glasses prescription. Return library book. Buy present for Nan. Make dental check-up appointment.

There is a movement up ahead, a large group of people. He is walking head down, focused on the ever-moving point in front of his feet. Renew ambulance membership. Get window repaired. Download anti-virus softeware. There is colour and music. They are chanting and beating drums. Email CV to Enterprise Industries. Backup list of contacts. Give bank details to HR department. The crowd is moving, there are adults and children. They are smiling and holding banners, waving placards. There are policemen on horses holding back the cars. Street lights come on. He stops at the edge.

Catch-up with Jennifer. Pay phone bill. Cut toe-nails. He sees the mass of people before him, is attracted momentarily by the life force in them, but something holds him back. Send job application. Print shortlist of houses. RSVP to Gemma. Borrow Neil Finn CD. Check lost property for bathers. Do twenty push-ups. The crowd swells. Someone has a trumpet. The drum beat catches him. His heart quickens. Eat more vegetables. No sugar on weeties. Get car serviced. Refill gas bottle. Babysit for Rob and Daphne. Photocopy uni transcripts. Pay car registration. Pay library fine. Recycle plastic bags. Take antibiotics. Vote. Run. Swim. Eat. Breathe.

He stands there in a trance, not really waiting, just held, frozen like a computer crashed in an endless loop.

A woman comes out of the crowd and smiles. “Do you want to carry a placard?” She holds it out, almost touching him. Can he feel her breathing? Her face, the smooth curves of her cheek, the soft, light hair on her uppper lip and the dimple at the point of her nose. Her mousey brown hair tied back in a pony tail, it makes him think of a little girl he once pushed off the swings in grade two. He liked her. She laughed with her eyes. She could be that girl; the way she’s standing there, smiling, drilling him with those eyes. He falls into them and large slabs of his self break off and fall away.

She shifts her weight and he imagines the shape of her hips behind the placard. The crowd moves like a strip of film behind her. The camera zooms in on her face again—there is a small scar below her left eye, and there are more freckles on the right side of her nose than the left, and her smile, it’s changing. She’s amused now, facinated by his frozen-ness, unaware though, that he is frightened. She sways to and fro with feigned impatience. He breathes in. Return video. Buy new batteries for remote control. Buy something. Do something else. She breaks them off him like long-held barnacles but he’s not sure who’s casting who adrift. There’s a lightness, like the pull of a helium balloon wanting to be let go. Buy new leads for retractable pencil. Recharge walkman batteries. Polish shoes. Iron shirts. Buy extension cord. His all-important lists, things to do, ticking them off one by one, his modus operandi, all the things he thought sustained him, were now held in suspension.

She lowers the placard and turns away. Hang on, he says—he wants her, it, wants to, belong, be part of her, it. He reaches out and she, smiling again, hands him the placard. He steps into flow and joins the river of people. She steps out and walks away.

His mind reels. He is deceived, abandoned. The girl walks away into the darkness. He stumbles, glances sideways but no one notices. He cannot believe that he’s inside the rally. He should not be here. This is not his place. He wants to escape. But something stops him. He looks out, to the stillness of the footpath where suits and skirts stand bemused like birds paused mid-air in their daily migration. I was just there, he thinks. I know what they’re thinking: Can we cross this river? Is it safe? Will the mob turn on us for not joining?

One man plunges in, head down, avoids eye contact, muttering as he dodges his way through.

The protesters are evenly spaced, walking peacefully, with confidence and purpose. Their faces are held high. The police stand on the sides in their fluoro-yellow vests and the drumbeats reverberate off the darkened walls of the buildings. From somewhere up ahead, the drone of a megaphone drifts back.

He looks at the placard he is holding. The cardboard is thick and on one side, painted in big green it says: JUSTICE FOR REFUGEES. Words flash and flit through his mind, he hears a news reader’s voice: boat people, queue-jumpers, mandatory detention, kids overboard. It’s a nursory rhyme, just sounds without meaning.

He looks out to the footpath again. Some look on with resentment, others with curiosity. Are they looking at me? Then he realises, they’re trying to read his placard. Gradually, he raises it higher. His stomach twists, he feels like a fraud. The blood rises to his face. But he calms himself, Come on, you can bluff your way through this. and raises the placard higher again. He tries to look relaxed and purposeful. The people read the placard and walk on.

The rally turns right. The crowd slows and at the inside of the corner the people squash together. His arm brushes against the bare shoulder of a girl. She has dreadlocks and is wearing a singlet and multi-coloured pants. He gives her a furtive smile and she grins back broadly. She is holding a broomstick and at the top there’s a diamond-shaped sign which simply says: FREEDOM. She reads his.

“Nice one,” she says.

“Oh no, I didn’t…I didn’t make this,” he stammers, “someone just gave it to me.”

“Same with this one,” she replies, “some guy didn’t want it. I hope he doesn’t need to sweep the floor.” She laughs at her own joke and he smiles along. But he’s thinking about the girl who dumped him with the placard, Maybe she just had to leave early.

The drums are beating loudly now, African rhythms infecting the crowd with a communal pulse. He finds himself stepping in time. The hairs stand up on the back of his arms and he can’t remember if he had anything planned for that night. A middle-aged man in a suit and a woman in a business jacket step from the footpath and join the rally. At first they appear out of step, but soon find the gentle flow. Another man carrying a skateboard with headphones on walks with a slouch. A group school girls start up a chant which ends up with them giggling uncontollably. An elderly man in a cardigan is rigid in his stride. A younger man carries a baby in a backpack. And two women push their children in prams.

The man sees all this and cannot stop his face breaking into a smile. The woman with dreadlocks next to him notices and bounces her sign with the music. He looks down embarassed, but laughs despite himself.

The traffic lights turn green. Behind the police horses not a car moves. The protesters, heady with the power of taking the whole road, continue on. The rally turns right again, into the heart of the city and then stops in an intersection. A woman steps onto a platform. The crowd pushes forward to hear. There is a presence about this woman. She wields the microphone like she might crush it in her fist. She begins to tell a story and a hush comes over the rally.

The man lowers his placard and listens.

“Three years ago our government told us that a group of refugee boat people threw their children overboard to force the navy to rescue them. The government lied. It never happened. The Prime Minister himself said they threw their children into the water. He lied. It never happened. Three years ago that government was elected because the people believed these lies.

“And now, three years later, we know the truth. We know the truth because one of the Prime Minister’s own advisors has come out and said that he told him, he told the Prime Minister, that there was no evidence that children were thrown overboard. The Prime Minister knew the truth. He knew that no children were thrown overboard. He knew the truth but he told a lie. He lied to us to create an environment of fear. He told a lie to get re-elected. The Prime Minister lied to us then and he’s lying to us now. Are we going to let him lie to us?”

The crowd roars, “No!”

“Are we going to let the Prime Minister use fear tactics to divide our country?”

“No!”

Something stirs within him. The drums have stopped but his face feels hot and there’s a buzzing in his head.

“The Prime Minister lied to us in the past and he’s lying to us now. He thinks he can get away with it again. Are we going to let him get away with it again?”

Amidst the thunderous response he hears, very closeby, someone join in and growl, “No.” And he realises it’s him. But he doesn’t care, he’s transfixed.

“Are we fed up with the government telling us lies?”

“Yes!” he joins in louder this time, feeling the strength from the crowd. He is one with them. The crowd is rising to hysteria. He joins in, The woman raises herself up. He is spellbound like a child at storytime. She lowers her voice, the calm before the storm.

“But the government will not continue lying to us…” she pauses menacingly. A tremor ripples through the crowd.

“…Because in two weeks’ time, on election day, we will decide! We will decide!

The crowd completely loses it, an eruption of clapping and yelling. Fists pump the air. Protesters howl like animals. Giant beach balls bounce across the carpet of noise. The rally has found new vigour. The a friendly jostling journey is renewed.

His eyes are wide like an animal, he is shaking. The placard is high in the air. There is a surging within him. He pushes deeper, towards the drums. Looks around, sees people outside the rally, still plodding home, still looking bemused. He holds his placard high, defiantly returning their gaze. The drumbeat enters him, he sways his shoulders, steps low, with the beat. The drummer, next to him now, urges him on. The city swallows him, the lines hanging low over the cold grey of the tracks (where are the trams?), the giant tv screen blinks an advertisement no-one sees, the red man changes to green, a police horse shuffles on the spot, a chocolate bar wrapper in the curve of the gutter, the lines on the road, an arrow pointing which way to go. He sees it all like a foreigner in a strange new city. Where am I? he wonders, Have I been here before?

His mind fizzes, sparks and crackles. Download toe nails. Hang out library book. Whole lists and schedules, carefully prioritised, simply break apart in his mind. Check lost property for Dad. Twenty push-ups on Gemma. Recycle Nan. Unpack Rob. Refill Daphne. Yearly planners and calendars, highlighted, dated, signed with explanatory notes crumble. Recharge housemate. Get Mum repaired. Email analysis of Grandpa. His smooth layer of greyness, holding things down, pushing people away, falls into disrepair. And through the cracks something new grows.

SmokeBag

Smokers have been on the losing end of the cigarette for too long. When we buy cigarettes we expect all the goodness of the cigarette to go into our bodies. However, what we don’t realise is that when we exhale most of the cigarette floats away into the air—only a small proportion stays in our lungs where it should be. What is more disturbing is the complete lack of appreciation shown by non-smokers who seem to think that it is their right to breathe our second-hand smoke without offering anything towards the price of the cigarettes. Then, they have the gall to pretend they don’t really like it.

Well, wasted smoke and the appropriation of second-hand smoke may be a thing of the past if a new American invention takes off.

Scientists from the University of Las Vegas have dubbed their latest effort SmokeBag®. SmokeBag® is an ingenious design combining elements of steel, plastic and rubber. The name is derived from the Latin, smokus bagus which literally means “bag on head”. The product itself is a large, clear plastic bag worn over the head and sealed around the neck. SmokeBag® is very simple but it took years to perfect the concept, which says much about the scientists who worked on it. They had to overcome difficult technical problems and often worked late into the afternoon to achieve the final product.

Chief scientist of the project, Dr Rafur Feynt, remembers having problems with the cigarette burning a whole through the plastic. “We designed an adjustable, light-weight internal frame made of chicken wire to keep the plastic away from the head.” Another problem was that the smoke was escaping at the bottom of the bag near the neck whenever the subject took a drag. He describes how they overcame this problem, “We really pulled out all the stops on this one,” he said. “We wanted to do it right, there was no point spending all this time and only going half way.” The answer came to him in September when he was eating biscuits. “It came to me in September while I was eating biscuits. Someone flicked a rubber band at me. So I chased the lab assistant—I was pretty sure it was him—and when I got him I tried to strangle him with the rubber band. There was our answer.”

With renewed vigor, the scientists adapted the original design to accommodate the inspired idea of the rubber band around the neck. Even then, though, there were problems. The initial subjects passed out after only three or four consecutive cigarettes and when Dr Feynt put his head to this problem he came away with burn marks. “After that I encouraged the subjects to let a little bit of air in whenever they took a drag or if they started to feel dizzy.” This proved to be a satisfactory solution and subjects were then able to finish almost a whole pack before collapsing.

But what will smokers make of SmokeBag® when it hits the shops in time for Christmas? We trialled the product in a few cafés and restaurants. Jeff Denizen of Blue Diamond was full of praise, “This is what I’ve been looking for. All these years of resenting my non-smoking friends for breathing my smoke…now it’s all mine.” Cheryl Drake of Sunrise Manor took a different line, “I always tell my kids it’s about getting the most out of every cigarette. Let’s face it, smoking the normal way, there’s so much waste. With SmokeBag® my lungs get all the smoke they need.”

And what about the tobacco companies? What do they think of SmokeBag®? American Tobacco Industries CEO, Shaun O’Kure, was sceptical. At first he thought it was a threat. But he now welcomes the product. “It seems that non-smokers who for so long have been enjoying free second-hand smoke are really going to miss all the lifestyle benefits of cigarettes. We think we’ll see a big uptake of smoking in the youth and family markets.”

The scientists at SmokeBag® aren’t sitting on their butts either. They have plans to release a variation on the original. SmokeBag2®, for couples, will be available in January. And JumboSmokeBag® , for the whole family, will come out in late March.

And if non-smokers are feeling left out and annoyed that they will no longer get to inhale smoke for free, then they are certainly not getting any sympathy from smokers. Mike Offin of North Vegas, a committed four-pack-a-day smoker says, “Non-smokers have had it good for too long. It’s about time they paid for the privilege.”

this hug is not over

there are so many ways
to have an argument

i have a special friend
and when we fight
we retreat
to our separate homes

one pulls the blinds
the other turns on the radio
one locks the door
the other sends up smoke signals

i have a special friend
and when we fight
we worry that
this might be the end

one talks to friends
the other does quadratic equations
one finds many answers
the other finds none

i have a special friend
and when we fight
we learn each other’s weaknesses
and then we have a choice

one hurts the other
the other withdraws trust
one asks for forgiveness
the other embraces it

you are my special friend
i am your special friend
we bring each other relief
this is not the end

my sister far away

flat red earth
stretches
like spilt paint
taking more space
than it really needs

i fly high
but can’t avoid
the realisation
that my sister
does her busy things
laughs her sweet songs
and dreams a cloak of stars
beyond the curve of the earth

i could drive all night
and not get half way
i could cry myself dry
but no river would connect us
i could call her name on the breeze
and clouds like chariots
might carry my precious message
might stoop to kiss her forehead
to tell her my love
but would she know
it was me
would she know
the gentle lapping
on the shore
follows the rhythm
of my heart

i follow you
i hover and pause
in my day
and i think maybe you know
that i’m your sister
that a few thousand k’s
can’t stop me smiling
when i hear you laughing
when i see you look at me
when i feel you close