Tramlines score the roads of Melbourne; thin white loaf tins heaving her people between the suburbs. During the morning commute I observe Melbourne’s schoolboys with gusto. Their uniforms are so far from kool, I feel embarrassed for them. Ill-fitting blazers hang off their ink-stained wrists, while a flash of knobbly pale knees peek out between their oh-so-boring socks and shorts. They gather like identical grey rainclouds, each given a dull dollop of curls to swirl above a pair of pinpoint eyes that ride the river of childhood over the bridge of their noses between the pools of pink cheeks. There are countless other characters and clans that board these trams; I think up a manuscript almost daily from those short thrusts along the trolley’s grooves, then as I skip down the short steps I become hijacked by some other scene. Continue reading ‘The Big Shift’
Archive for the 'Australia' Category
She sits atop a stool. Her plump figure appearing not unlike a pumpkin, ripe for pumpkin things. Like pie. Like Hallowe’en. Like my favourite risotto. Her heels clasp the bar, forming a makeshift desk with her hearty knees. She hunches, allowing her short dark hair to tunnel her vision through her simple glasses and onto her latest piece. Her round fingers grip a skinny biro whose sticky blue nose is buried in her scrapbook. She circles, stripes and speckles with that pen, so engrossed is Emily that she has no idea I have shunned the gallery of works around me. She’s dressed in security togs. White shirt. Navy blazer. Sensible shoes. She’s supposed to be watching me! The reason I watch her for this twenty second show, is because I realise Emily is the art. She’s animated. Real. It’s when I lay this over my life, that I realise Emily is why I travel. To see and meet my life’s artists, and to frame them how I choose. Continue reading ‘The Incidental Artist’
Tall. Chic. Shifty. Schoolgirl. Metro. Tourist. Tourist. Schoolgirl. Scruffy. Shady. Beautiful. Dazed. Tired. Schoolboy. Plain. Thoughtful. Chirpy. Geeky. Trendy. Slick. Macho. Emo. Lonely. Engrossed. High? Self-important. Slim. Vain. Schoolboy. Weathered. Pasty. Tourist. Sleek. Smiley. Weird. Tradie. Queasy. Agitated. Flash. Kind. Cute. Snooty. Troubled. Schoolgirl. Schoolboy. “The next train to arrive at platform one, will be the seven thirty-nine service to Flinders Street. Please validate your Metcard before you travel”. The train effortlessly wipes the platform clean, renewing its concrete grey expression as if those people across the track were simple strokes of chalk upon my day. Before long, the relentless drip-drip-drip of somebody’s waltzing up the station ramp replenish my boyish fascination. Exhausted. Annoyed. Schoolboy. Clueless. Petite. Tourist. Terrorist? Obese. Joyous. Nonchalant. Casual. Classy. “The next train to arrive at platform two will be the seven forty-six service to Sandringham”. My own call to vanish. Continue reading ‘Strokes for Folks’
It’s a question I ask myself. It’s a question others ask me. It’s more simple than ‘where are you going?’ but more complicated than ‘where have you been?’ It’s a question I welcome, and fail to avoid. If I were asked ‘how long to go?’ I’d be, well, I’d be, you know, well I’d be - maybe I would anyway - you know, stuck for words, so it’s good that ‘how long?’ isn’t the question. I’ve been asked this question while I’ve slept. I’ve been asked it while I’ve been deep under water and far up in the sky. I’ve been asked it in a foreign tongue, and sensed it asked through silent eyes. I’ve discussed the question with a thousand people, and the only answer I agree with is my own and when I’ve asked others this question, I’m usually left confused. The question, is why. Why, do I travel? Continue reading ‘A Bedouin Breakfast’
Beep beep, beep beep. Auto snooze - nine more minutes. Beep beep, beep beep. Slide out of bed, kiss her cheek, and grab a towel. Turn the shower on, brush my teeth, and take a leak. Step into the shower, soak my hair through, sud the armpits, groin and face. Rinse off and grab the towel. Left leg, right leg, head, chest, arms, and back. Walk to the kitchen, and pop the kettle on. Pour some cereal, cover in milk and slowly eat. Twenty minutes to go. Finish eating. Find some clean pants, then some socks, then a shirt and bring it all together with some trousers. Grab some fruit. Twelve minutes to go. Shoes on. Sweep hand through hair. One more kiss, and click the door to. Arrive at tram stop four minutes early. Ride the tram to the train station and wait for eight minutes before riding the train for twenty minutes. Wait ten minutes for bus, then ride it for five minutes. Walk two minutes to work. Work nine hours. Walk two minutes to bus, ride five minutes to wait ten minutes for train to ride twenty minutes to wait five minutes for tram to ride ten minutes to leave an eight minute walk. Open door, pop the kettle on, kiss the girlfriend. Go to sleep. Beep beep, beep beep. Auto snooze - nine more minutes. Continue reading ‘The Week I Warped’
“Can I get two coffees and an orange juice please?” She scribbled it all down - probably longhand, and with a ballpoint smile for the barista - “no problem guys, can I get you anything to eat?” A smile rose beneath his elated eyes, “you’re English! What are you doing here?” She courteously relayed the waypoints of her fourteen month drift through Asia that preceded these waitress days. She told of finding work in that city café, while back in a rented houseshare her boyfriend mused about his unemployment while experimenting with fennel in the kitchen. “Tell him to call me” the fellow pom casually suggested. Ring ring, ring ring, “you met my girlfriend yesterday, she said to call you?” chirped the fennel chef. “Hmm. Ah. Uh-huh. OK”. He threw out the fennel then confirmed, “I’ll come in this afternoon.” He boarded a tram, then a train and finally a bus. He checked the time, glugged down a coffee and checked the time again. He wandered in, shook the man’s hand, and an hour later bid farewell with a firmer shake. Ring ring, ring ring. “That’s great news! When do I start?” He boarded a tram, then a train and finally a bus. He checked the time and wandered in. “Hi, I’m Ant. I start today”. Continue reading ‘Field of Dreams’
Hi Ant, we’re really impressed by your CV, tell us some more. “Well, during seven years working for one of the UK’s largest publishing companies I established myself as a dynamic individual with a flair for fresh thinking” dramatic pause, “18 months of that period I was the manager of a team of eight staff and for a further three years I was responsible for a £1m budget to produce cutting edge print products; enhancing marketing and editorial projects with a creative and highly acclaimed approach.” Wonderful! So, what retail experience do you have? “None specifically. However…” deep breath, “…I was responsible for the production aspects of magazines with readerships of millions.” Good, any experience as a waiter, barman or barista? “Well, not exactly you see I was a bit busy, sorry” Ok, so you can’t sell t-shirts, you can’t wait tables, and you can’t make coffee or serve pints? “What about hostels? I think I can connect with them?” It’s out of season, Ant, goodbye. “No, look, I need a job”. Goodbye, Ant. “Jobsworth”. Continue reading ‘The Working Weak’
