Mondays (Gurdjieff)

There was a kind of eagerness for the St. K. trip Monday mornings, over to the Glass Merchants first of all and then the Opp Shops. Glass M it was more usually than Wall or the Pole on Chapel corner. The staging at Wall was off-putting and as lunchtime neared the Pole was often struggling to contain patrons. After the cafe, newspaper and journal the Salvo pair in Carlisle Street was visited first of all, followed by the Windsor leg up Chapel Street and rounding back to Sacred Heartin Grey Street.  At each of the shops the pre-loved products were artfully presented in the various sections, the feature vitrines at the counters in all four checked first, then books, clothes, footwear and oddments. One weekend years ago the Choir of Hard Knocks it might have been had rehearsed upstairs at Sacred Heart; more recently Dusty Springfield’s Stay Awhile had burst out suddenly on the speakers there, when usually none of the shops played any music. In the past few months two books now from the Salvos had been read and 25 or 30 pieces from recent back issues of the LRB, which some kindly soul in Windsor was regularly donating. One of the books was an entirely new discovery, Barry Dickins’ Unparalleled Sorrow. Having been immune to the kind of depression that ran through Dickins’ maternal side did not make that material any less interesting. Accidentally coming across such a wonderful, completely unheralded book was unusual for a life-long reader, especially one by a local author. A particular piece of Dickins’ newspaper columns had made a mark years before, but to find a book as captivating and powerful as this was a complete shock. How in the heck had something like that never come up on the radar and the publishing industry allowing it to go out of print? (The vow has been made to buy any copy of Unparalleled found and present it to appropriate friends.) Two pair of sport shoes had come from the shops, as well as kitchen utensils and dish-ware. That Monday run and the other couple of regular outings to the fruit and veg stalls at Victoria Market Fridays and Saturdays have been the mainstays over these almost thirteen months here. Outside Faisal’s café in Footscray, which had closed for Ramadan, there was almost nothing else, no other particular draw in this city. Some recent online sampling of Gurdjieff had rattled irritatingly in the brain ever since. An incidental reference of some kind had finally led to a little acquaintance with the old mystic. Proper honour and acknowledgement ought be given those worthy ones who had passed away, Gurdjieff suggested; but finally the past did need to be put aside. The point was a common one of course; in this instance the way it had been put presented a challenge.