Caught staring at the floor; the city soaked with rain, for once. The World's Fastest Indian finishes this week, thought would try and see it. They were embracing he didn't know what, ripping aside the vail. That would be the mergence beyond the mainstream. He was still ragged at the edges. An accumulation of wealth would be nice. It's been mother's day in Australia. The kids turn into saints around their grandmother, who was strict with them when they were a bit wild. They got the message. Jigsaws and houses; went and watched the sunset at Shellharbour, the pale full moon. Took Marie to a meeting; skinny from MS and in a wheelchair. They didn't ask her to share, mongrels. You wouldn't want to rely on that mob for support.
She was embarrassed at the social difficulty of it all, having told them in her brighter moments what she thought of them all. These people were difficult. Everyone he knew was difficult. Suddenly they all talk about retirement, to cozy productive down sized old ages when they could finally, after all these years of duty, be happy. Trouble was he had front loaded the good times and it was a bit hard to catch up; spiralling real estate prices and magnificently squandered opportunities ensuring no immediate exit point.
These things were said to us and we didn't know why. Ciphers. The static was intense, even way out here on the edge of the vast Pacific; where the city felt like it could be washed away by a tidal wave at any moment, as Jan Morris once commented; the land left to resume its primitive and eternal status. The vast age of the continent hypnotised them. They could be curled up inside and see the koalas in the trees. They could be frightened to the four winds and in the distance see a gumtree in the wind. Even here, next to the harbour and the sometimes astonishing wealth. The resident band of brothers and visitors and street alcoholics that normally gather just up the road with occasionally raucus consequences have been disrupted by civil works around the station. It is no doubt deliberate. We want to be true, free, courageous; in the passing.
From:
www.crossedwires.blogspot.com
"Just remember this - all agents defect...and all resisters sell out. That's the sad truth, Bill. And a writer…a writer lives the sad truth like anyone else. The only difference is…he files a report on it."
No comments:
Post a Comment