A Haunt (One of the Better Kind) Nov23

Chinese Kiwi brother and sister set-up—interesting for that alone. Light-on chat something in their favour; even with their regulars the young pair is shy and reticent, failing to rise to the bonhomie. The place trades on the strength of its location, the feng shui of the interior, simple good fare. 

         Strongly Jewish quarter; film and TV people, mag-flippers (broadsheets marginally in the ascendant). Real estate/developers and other biz types, retirees and landlords with time on their hands, travel plans, discretionary spending. One or two conservative local painters whose pics appear in the Arts pages. Yarmulkes rare; one mid-aged hard-man almost certainly Mossad. In an unfortunate conjunction, the recent South African wave prominent. 

         Yellow steel road-sign punctured with incisions where freshly cut flowers and fronds protrude. (No “art-work” otherwise; nor Opp. Shop kitsch.) Through the spring a vase beside the coffee machine held budded tree branches cut short of the ceiling; smaller colour along the window bench over-stepping the Zen touch. Trying too hard was not the problem here: a confident designer following her instinct—the sister’s manner and clothing gave the indication. 

         The loud, venturesome Jewish waitress who on first encounter seemed a nuisance soon became the chief ornament of the place, her warmth and ebullience contrasting with the others—the geologist’s daughter aside. (Far too many frustrated artists, actors & performers in this town sullenly waiting between times). 

         Another positive was the low music, mostly retro lounge/jazz. 

         Tables unsqueezed. Re-cycled materials, second-hand furniture and wood-grains (albeit veneers). 

         Without picking your hours getting a seat was problematic. 

         The quest for a café where film and TV references were absent continued. If not movies, serials and reality shows, it was bands & rock-stars, food, tourist destinations, renovations, property. Cosmetic surgery got a run, screenplay pitches, rankings of private schools, children’s career launches—overseas escapes and adventures above and beyond all, the States for security reasons. 

         Little sport, politics or social issues. Sexual flirtation and enquiry absent. Like everywhere else the minutiae over egg poaching, bacon crisp, sourdough/rye/wholemeal & coffee. 

         Re-filling of water a nice courtesy (were it delivered with good grace). Disrepair in the upper storey facades across the road added chic; some days from the bench seat a corner of sky seemed attached to the place like a kite. Consoling trams and shopping trolleys. Horse-headed workingmen one side and numbers of precocious kids the other. 

         Nebbish fashions on the street were welcome (half the time even the monied matrons eschewed flaunting). The elderly regulars, the aged sometimes and even the seriously ill, pale and bruised carefully pushing walking frames settled spirits. 

         Café $3.5; top main $16. 

         6 - 6 ½ /10. 3 ½ stars. The Café of the imagination was not to be found in this town. 

St Kilda, Melbourne 

 

 

Island (Lewis)

Tipping just under 82kg. on the discounted Aldi electronic machine, the girl was still unwilling to concede. Biggest Loser, done and dusted; there could be no quibble. Biscuits, muffins and crisps were to blame.

         It was somewhat irrelevant with the news now that the return home for a holiday was off. Yuan’s father had made the decision.

         There was too much disappointment to talk during breakfast.

         Had a return eventuated YuB’s mother and aunts would most certainly have busied themselves lining up the marriage prospects; after all the girl would shortly turn twenty-four. A shaplier figure would have been useful for the campaign.

         The two new housemates had brightened us up. Scotch-English, with the leaning to the former.

         Em had lived on Neil’s Outer Hebridean island of Lewis almost ten years. In her mid-teens her mother had suddenly announced one day to Emily and her siblings that they were off to an island in the Atlantic. A dash of wild romanticism and a number of settlement incentives had prompted the move from Milton Keynes.

         Neil was born on Lewis and apart from a term in Glasgow, had lived there all his life.

         “Black” houses, peat fuel for heating through winter (cut from their allotment of turf each year). A croft for their sheep and the Atlantic with its herring and cod pounding on the other side of the island four hour’s walk away.

         Neil’s grandfather had been a Norwegian—Norway was closer than London.

         A knock-out. Johnson and Boswell’s trip to the Western Isles of Scotland had been got down from the shelf for Neil. (Unfortunately, the two adventurers had only made it as far as Skye.)

         Em has enthusiastically claimed the island and Neil’s family history at the same time. 

         Even though she had wanted to visit Australia from girlhood—and the Ramsay Street  Neighbours place—shortly before departure Emily had wondered why she was leaving. So much did she love the island.

         The great fortune of loving one’s home shone brightly in Em. Emanated.

         Three or four generations ago the island had been owned by Lord Leverhulme (Lever & Kitchen &etc.), who built the manor house and the extensive estate. The fortune had been earned in the opium trade with the Chinese. One of the descendants subsequently bequeathed the island to the nation, manor house and all.

         Since the arrivals from the far north YuB. has encountered new struggles with the English language.

         Sitting around the big Times Atlas on the living-room floor the other night, some interpretation was needed—details on the English marauder among the rest. No hard feelings nearly 200 years later on Yuan’s side. (A local Fuzhou resistance fighter, Lin Zexu, gained fame in YuB.’s hometown by his heroics against the foreign devils and their iniquitous trade.)

         Em has told of birders up in the cliffs of the north climbing each spring for the nesting gugas, a local delicacy. The people in the settlements near the cliffs had long big toes, Emily had observed; and the toes all prehensily curved and curled. 

         Em loved to walk, loved the wind, winter and autumn. Em was curious, inquisitive, interested in the elderly and their tales. The profile of a kind of old retiree, she mocked herself.

         It would be interesting to see what Emily finds in the still, orange-tinged season ahead, the salmon and violet dawns and dusks, the leaf fall and fruits—prime time in this town.

         Neil liked the galleries here, the cafes, cinemas and the other entertainment. His girl’s enthusiasm for the harsh island on which he was born Neil countered with the dreariness and limitation that was part of the bargain.

Kate Middleton

Strapless evening gown modelled on chrysanthemum petals for the bodice—or some other flower. Tone of parchment; faintest orange perhaps. (Early-mid season. It was not orange blossom: the tree in the backyard provided good reference.) Collins Street certainly the location for such a vision, even if down the hill a bit from the Paris end. (What used to be the Paris end.) Mid afternoon. Not unexpected really, despite the hole George’s had left in the street. Glory of a girl. Glorious to behold in the dress certainly. A young Prince’s heart was supposed to hold out against something like that? Not likely. (Fashion working a treat as nothing else. Design. The whole town runs on it. Our valuable mining.) An image to remain in the mind long into deepest night. TAFTS - The Pen People, on the Arcade corner. Mont Blanc and related stationery. For elite pen-pushers—cheques, contracts, deeds of arrangement. Would be something to draw the girl from behind the counter somehow, on the pretext of seeing the gleaming nibs in the display cabinets. See her swan the bottom half of the fabric across the floor tiles. Worth a try next time with a dinner jacket and hankie in the lapel pocket, breezing in the door. Was her hair up?... Daughter of the pen and quill baron formerly of some luscious estate back in the old dart. A coup and a half that’d be... Check her out sometime. One fine day she’s bound to reappear.

NB. The Age today carried the story and accompanying photograph of the dress Kate Middleton wore that turned young Will’s mind from platonic to supersonic.

Fluro

Some of the hard-working folk crossing the footbridge going to and from the towers, plodding back home at the end of the day, might resent the beggars. Couldn’t they clean toilets or polish shoes along the riverbank, rather than just sitting there with their hand out? 

         There were people who thought like that; politicians who more or less said it in unguarded moments. 

         You couldn’t blame them, chained to their desks checking numbers, ticking boxes, filing their papers, doodling and gazing out the windows over tree-tops. In the offices the bosses kept an eagle eye out watching for the flip of the screen, timing lunches and even toilet breaks. These people had it hard too. They put in the hours and earned their money.

         The regular lumpy chap at the head of the footbridge over the river looks like he’d piss-up their coins first chance he got. Just had that look about him; it might not have been the case at all. Wouldn’t make hearts go Bomp-de-bomp that particular fellow. Some of the others had a much better chance. Beggary was a kind of beauty contest too.

         It’s gotta be done right there at that spot. You couldn’t hope to reach that office crowd just sitting on your bum with your hand out. That wouldn’t get you very far. 

         This lumpy chap had done his thinking, nutted out the situation.  

         JOB ACCOMMODATION FOOD read his sign on the cardboard he had standing up for the passersby.

         That was unique in itself. No other beggar you saw in the city presented like that.

         Only after these openers here was the coin hinted, and that indirectly too.

         Or ANY HELP YOU CAN GIVE.

         Block letters beside the rubbish bin at the head of the multi award-winning footbridge snaking across the river, where there was a little café underneath right on the water and the rowing boats cruising by. 

         Bowed so low you think he’d taken a turn this thick-set man with nothing to recommend him, eminently forgettable ordinary Joe. 

         Where does one ever see heads bowed nowadays? And so low?... In Asia you saw it perhaps. It was very odd in our town.

         The coin going onto this man’s mat doesn’t raise his head too far either, just enough to voice his thanks. 

         Extra well-judged was fluro polo work clobber too. Ready to spring up on the spot for anything you might have for him this chap, then and there. This man was no layabout, rest assured. Try him.

         The fluro had only been added in the last few days. 

         Good luck to you Cob.

Victor Serge 1

Ultimate token of power: a nightmare provoked by a writer.

            To come upon this remarkable author so late in the piece has been a great surprise. Written in the early thirties, Conquered City was proving as gripping as The Case of Comrade Tulayev, the last of Victor Serge’s works.

            In less than 200 pages, this earlier novel of Petrograd during the Civil War delivers a riveting picture of the upheaval. Presenting the startling brutality was far from the book’s chief strength; but it delivers that too. 

The execution scene that prompted the nightmare harkened back to mid seventeenth century practice, the character relating the episode reflects. On both sides prisoners were routinely executed. Prior to execution the Whites stripped their victims, because clothing was in short supply. This element was retained in the dream.

            In the relevant passage the naked prisoner stands tied to a stake, calmly expecting a bullet. The gathered crowd expects the same. Instead of which the rope that is produced is used to bind the man’s cranium. At the twisting his violent resistance almost has him break free of his tether. With the aid of an axe handle, the tightening rope—slowed to draw out the agony—sears away the top of the victim’s head. Screeching from the women panic the horses; apart from the horse of the drunk chief perpetrator, who retained complete command.

            Much of this Civil War seems familiar from the stories of Tito’s Partizans fighting the Royalists as much as the invader up in the Montenegrin hills during WWII. The complex, intricate argument of the novel, the various conflicting forces and dramatic action, very much resonating. No doubt a large part of its power for this reader.  

            A Montenegrin hillside then, in a kind of bleached colouration. Recently the matter of colour in dreams had been raised in some other context. In conclusion the thought had been that finally dreams were colourless. This instance prompted by Serge proved the contrary.

            A steepling mountain-side seen from some kilometer away. The fall here is not perpendicular: this seemed to come to notice before the action commenced.

           From the remove the only colours apparent browns and tinges of green, as well as light flesh tones. Looking from the sides in Montenegro, particularly within the mountains, this was often the full colour spectrum.

            The scream high up, improbably carrying across the wide expanse. 

Up near the top of the peak some movement was detected, rather than distinct figures. In the scramble the flesh tone emerged.

           A naked man quickly bundled off the mountain side, the form caught in relief as he flew though the air in a seated kind of position—knees bent, straight spine, right side up.

          The velocity of the fall into the abyss soundless and breathtaking. 

Beyond the lower half of the hill the victim was lost from sight. The question of a landing in the water unresolved before an abrupt waking.

            It was not outright horror of this form that was the distinguishing mark of Victor Serge. Serge’s provocations are far, far larger.

Footsteps

The street chap in the Coles supermarket walkway in Balaclava this afternoon without a cap out and no communication with passersby. Belongings strewn around him, including a glass flagon. Thin, late thirties; tattoos, long hair. Desperately lost. Communion with the passersby the only possible reason for adopting that position. No matter he didn’t raise his eyes. No matter they gave a wide berth. Outside the entryway the two public benches where the street people sit drinking were passed over. (Sometimes tourists make the mistake of taking up these seats.) The footpath where beggars regularly camp was likewise declined. Enclosed, white-tiled, mirrored, the walkway created a dramatic, unavoidable encounter. Albeit unacknowledged on either side. From the passing feet the fellow received something. Some little thing. Almost better than coin.

Oz Day

There has been a fair lead-time to the day. From Monday the vacancy around town was noticeable. Many of the building sites had shut. Traffic on the road thinned. The footpaths and shops were empty. Even yesterday quite a few of the shops had closed early. The coast would still be full of holidaymakers. Dads who have had to return to work perhaps driving down yesterday or on the weekend for the finale with the wife and kids, before school re-starts. An extra long weekend.

            This afternoon a single car-flag spotted. (The resurgence of flags in the last 10 years coinciding with Howard’s Prime Ministership, off-shore refugee detention, Iraq & Afghanistan.) A fellow crossing the street in a green and gold sweater. On almost the last turn for home the Pet Supplies place in Ferrars Street had 3 or 4 flags out on the footpath—good for business. The pet clientele would still be largely Anglo in this city, especially for a boutique outlet in South Melbourne.

            Outside sportspeople and politicians, no one knows the words of the anthem. Not many know the significance of the historical marker, re-named Invasion Day by the indigenous people.

            …For we are young and free… Our land is girt by sea…

            ....Our beauty rich and rare...

            Let us rejoice, Advance - Australia - Fair. 

            In the paper this morning a report from Customs and Border Protection regarding the Christmas Island refugee boat last month which had slipped through the detection system. (Forty eight drowned.) The Shadow Minister for Immigration attacking the government for its "chaperone system" for the boat people.

            If the rain-clouds don’t spoil things, BBQ’s the order of the day tomorrow. Beside the barbie in the backyards across the nation the flag might provide the bunting draped on a tree or strung on the clothesline. 

Tennis was big on Australia Day, the TV providing a sideshow on the patio. A pity the locals aren’t up to it anymore. The TV advertising would soar if a local was placed in one of the semis. Slavs taking over now—Russians, Czechs, Serbs, Croats.

Of course a drink was an indispensable part of the day. How else to celebrate? Beer rather than wine and the other mixer drinks. Beer was tradition, the Aussie Digger thing.

            Happy Oz Day.