:: trainwreck ::

Wendell Berry

2011-12-08T20:58:00.000+11:00

“Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion — put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.”

- Wendell Berry

The Revolution wil not be Televised - Gil Scott-Heron

2011-05-30T09:38:00.000+10:00

The passing of a prophet... Gil Scott-Heron 01.04.1949 - 27.05.2011

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and drop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruption.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell,
General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
Hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre and
will not star Natalie Wood and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
Thinner, because The revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays
Pushing that cart down the block on the dead run,
Or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not predict the winner at 8:32or the count from 29 districts.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
Brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of young being
Run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process
There will be no slow motion or still life of
Roy Wilkens strolling through Watts in a red, black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the right occasion
Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and
Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant,
andWomen will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock News
and no pictures of hairy armed women Liberationists and
Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb, Francis Scott Key,
nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash,
Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.

The revolution will not be televised

The revolution will not be right back after a message
About a whitetornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a germ on your Bedroom,
a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that cause bad breath.
The revolution WILL put you in the driver's seat.
The revolution will not be televised,

WILL not be televised,WILL NOT BE TELEVISED.

The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.

- Gil Scott-Heron, 1988

David: Psalm 51 - Geoffrey C. Bingham

2011-04-14T10:51:00.001+10:00

Thou requirest truth
In the inward parts:
Not merely on the lips,
Where man may mutter anything,
And seal his subterfuge,
Making it truth for him
And those who hear.

Thou requirest truth
When  man is truly man:
Down in the depths beneath,
Where You alone may  see:
Man senses but he does not know
That truth is the truth
That  You require.

I, David, was a man of joy,
Of pleasant  power,
Of daily purity.
True, I too was tempted,
But should I  fall
Would know I fell
And cry to You for help.

When  then I fell
And said I did not fall,
When kept within
The  hellish sin I did
And made it joy, not sin,
The fires began
That  ran into my soul.

At nights they burned,
By day they  flamed,
Hot coals that dried
Or sweated me
Until the power had  gone,
That once I knew
In doubtless joy.

When Nathan  came
His piercing eyes
Looked to the depths
(His eyes were  Yours);
The holy flame
Burned even more.
I was undone.

The  mercy cried
Was mercy come,
The lava fled
Its burning core,
And  I was freed—
The flame was gone
By mercy’s love.

The  truth required
In inward parts,
The purity
Within the heart
Have  come again.
No greater gift
Was ever given.

Here then I  weep
For grace and sin,
The wasted hour,
The splendid grace:
Both  show me truth
Is what I need,
With wisdom.

Teach me,  then, Lord, 

Of sin’s deceit,
The sludge of sin
That full  defiles.
Give me the love
Of purity,
The only truth.

Now  sings my heart,
The heart so pure
The miracle of love
Has made  again.
The man destroyed
Is made anew
For purity.

I  know, dear Lord,
The cost is Yours.
Sin’s suffering
Is mine  alone,
But Yours the pain
Messiah takes
Unto the death.

Broken  I go,
Though healed.
Wisdom I know,
Though foolish.
You  have unmasked
The sin that binds,
And set me free.

Freedom  thus bought
Is freedom prized
And holiness
Is gift most high.
Man  breathes eternity
In holiness
And knows You true.

This  is the wisdom required: 
This is the gift of God  
Set  in the inward parts,  
True purity in peace 
And  holiness in joy. 

– Geoffrey C. Bingham, The Spirit of All Things (Blackwood: Troubadour Press, 1992), 72–4. 

Sponsoring Christian Anarchy

2011-01-24T16:09:00.001+11:00

For anyone interested, there is a little experiment going on over at Pete Orchards blog - an act of christian anarchism, if you will, a co-opting of evil in an attempt to overcome it with good, ala Romans 12.

Sounds grand to me!

Tom Waits

2011-01-10T14:05:00.000+11:00

God builds a church
The devil builds a chapel
Like the thistles that are growing round the trunk of a tree.

Tom Waits, Misery River

Comment from Arkady Dolgoruky

2011-01-04T16:55:00.002+11:00

"What a fascinating thought! No, the secret awareness of power is unbearably more enjoyable than manifest domination. If I were worth a hundred million, I think I'd precisely enjoy going around in my old clothes, so as to be taken for the measliest of men, who all but begs for alms, and be pushed around and despised; for me, the consciousness alone would be enough!"
Arkady Dolgoruky

Dostoevsky,
A Raw Youth/The Adolescent/An Accidental Family

Abbey on Anarchy

2010-12-20T12:36:00.000+11:00

Anarchism is founded on the observation that since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others...
Anarchy is democracy in action!
- Edward Abbey

Wet hair & underwear

2010-06-29T09:53:00.002+10:00

7.35pm

An horrific sight. One to be remembered (not cherished, but recounted in horror). Unlike any I’ve seen before (and unlike any I may see again).

A flash of cheek, a schoolgirl giggle that should never be heard from those lips.

That boyish, joyful laugh you’ve heard so many times before. Camping. Chasing waves. Out in the bush proving your manhood. But here. Never here – this is just bloody wrong.

Quick about face. Get away from that doorway. Must escape. Jump through window if necessary. Restrain urge to vomit.

Holy crap. They're getting worse. What is wrong with them? Fricking animals.

Return to bedroom.

Can still hear thumping. Run downstairs. Worse. Don’t they know that I’m home? I’ve got to leave my uni schedule around more conspicuously.

Kochie’s on Sunrise. Volume up. Relief! Shit, this is boring. Who watches this crap anyway?

TV off. Fuck! What the hell is their problem???

Finally the thumping stops. Then a god awful moan that would make even the sturdiest of stomachs turn.

This is ridiculous. Surely this will be over soon. Getting seriously close to repression.

Breath out, and in, and out and in, and out. Wait three minutes. Feels like 3 hrs. Return to bedroom to retrieve belongings and leave.

Holy shit. Put some clothes on Mum. And dry your hair Dad you disgusting beast.

Retreat. Must not return for a least 2 days.

7.50pm

Blinding Light

2010-06-17T16:01:00.003+10:00

“I’ve seen you naked,” smirked some random kid brushing passed Mick, probably on his way to maths or stick his tongue down his year 9 girlfriends throat in too public a place.

“Bullshit. You’re a friggin liar.”

“I’m serious man. It’s everywhere; Jack emailed it to everyone,” he smiled back.

Mick’s gut twisted at least seven hundred and twenty degrees. He was sure it had just split and fallen out the arse of his pants. Blood drained from his face and the corridor walls sped past him as he stood still.
Half of him was petrified – the leering dagger eyes of kids that passed him in the hall, sharp with that mocking intensity only felt in schools.

The other half was racing along the hall - just keeping up with the walls that were threatening to outpace him and drag him to his death like in one of those old Ben Hur movies with the chariots and horses, all gnashing teeth and saliva.
Mick just managed to dodge the daggers and break free of the chariot towing him along in time to duck into an adjoining corridor.

Breathless, he slumped against the cold plastered wall. Fricking Jack. I hate that bastard. I swear he’ll wish he hadn’t done that, the piece of shit.
Continuing down the stairs and kicking open the doors to the quadrangle he was hit square in the face by the blinding light of the 10.30am summer sun.

He cursed the blinding rays.

Just as his eyes were recovering, Mick, through his squinty daze, turned toward his left to see Jack sitting under a tree tapping away on his laptop, giving him the smuggest wave he’d seen in a long time.

Frickin Jack, you dirtbag.

He turned and walked towards the dunnies to plan his next move.

T S Eliot

2010-04-06T11:04:00.001+10:00

What life have you if you have not life together?
There is not life that is not in community,
And no community not lived in praise of God.

- T S Eliot, from Choruses from The Rock

but for that swinging hand of chance

2010-03-22T22:58:00.004+11:00

But for the deaf'ning roar
of that thund'ring, clouded scream.
But for his circumstance,
he could have been a good man.

But for that swinging hand of chance.

Between a muddy field of blackened corn rows
that whistled long in the night,
and lean-to sheds all battered and torn,
dissonantly humming the maize's sorry tune;
did he ever stand a chance?

But for the surging rush
of his fathers angry hand.
But for his mother's tears,
his temper may have been placated.

But for those twisting, brutal years.

Out back, behind the dunny block
where Daz had lost his teeth,
and Jenny pressed her warm thigh hard
against his bulging jeans, where hands were hurried;
could he sense the serpents leer?

But for the rough green smoke
that slid 'cross his youthful tongue.
But for the beck'ning deep
he may have had a sane mind.

But for the peace that left him in his sleep.

Out front, above the red brick wall
that boasted his towns population,
he held his fist to the sky and screamed
aloud, his salt filled tears dropped metres to the dirt;
"Screw the helpless, I want my pound of meat!"

But for the knife blade, cold
and pressed against his back.
But for the women's cry
it would have been a calm night,
but they never stood a chance.

D J Berlach, 22.03.10

all at sea

2010-03-16T19:50:00.006+11:00

all at sea
on a cresting wave
alone in the crumbling night

the lighted
beacon, shining brave
throws hope of a land in sight

D J Berlach 16.03.10
-for emily

Following

2010-01-24T08:51:00.002+11:00

Fallen, once fearéd folk,
Lie fallow
Beneath fetid fables.

Here now, from futures vantage
Following,
Unfettered by history,

We never learn.

D J Berlach, 18.01.10

The Good Neighbour

2009-11-13T09:04:00.008+11:00

Dark, crevasse like creases appeared in her brown weathered face as she cowered in distress, surrounded by three or four cackling youngsters jeering and harassing, moving about her like urban hyenas. It was difficult to make out from this distance, but the figure looked vaguely familiar to Billy. He crawled gingerly out of his makeshift cardboard shelter, careful not to drag his tattered sleeping bag into view of the street.

Bloody thiefs. Can’t leave anything lying about here anybloodymore... nobody got any bloody morals.

Billy moved slowly, muttering as he went, conversing with a companion invisible to the few busy commuters that hurried by on their way to climb the surrounding towers of commerce.

What’s the world coming to… who works on Sundays? When I was a boy you’d struggle to buy milk after twelve on a Saturday.

He noticed a tall, slim boy dressed in what he would have described as the latest fad, and which he knew his kids would have ridiculed him for saying.

No need to worry now. Have to be nearly ten years since the missus booted me I’d say... can’t say I didn’t deserve it.

He saw the boy glance at the woman as he passed her, sidestepping to put an extra few metres between them whilst one of the tormenters urinated on her to the great amusement of his mates. The tall, well-dressed boy seemed to falter as he saw this, while the perpetrator re-zipped his fly, all smiles and horrid amusement. His pace slowed momentarily as he took another look at the unfolding abuse, before a disgusted and fearful look betrayed his cool.

I should stop... shit, I should definitely stop. But I’m already going to be late for church; and those guys probably have knives or something… what use would I be to her if they stab me. I’ll check back on my way home.

And with that he hurried on, pale and confused.

Billy was now close enough to recognise her as one of the girls who worked at the brothel down the end of Brunkers Lane; they’d come and go each day out the back door. She was beautiful in a plain sort of a way, but her looks were well obscured by years of addiction and abuse. Billy had trouble focussing his eyes but when he did she reminded him of his own daughter and the memories burdened his already anguish-laden mind.

The odd passer by threw a momentary look at the unfolding scene; disgusted, fearful, blank… but always unmoved enough to continue on their way.

“Oi, lay off ya little turds. Have some respect for the young woman!” Billy bellowed, surprised at how hollow and old his voice sounded these days. The hyenas turned and snarled as Billy moved closer. One of the boys stepped forward and threw a fist that landed square in Billy’s gut, dropping his knees to the pavement and taking the wind out of him.

“Piss orf yold drunk.”

They returned their attention to the lady, ripping off her tiny skirt to reveal her further, and laughed, “Dirty whore!” One of them tossed the skirt at Billy as they skulked off down the lane full bravado and youthful heckling. Billy gasped and wheezed, composing himself as he crouched down beside her. He took off his tattered coat and covered her while she sat and sobbed.

“I’m sorry about that love,” he croaked as he helped her up from the filthy concrete, “Let’s go see if we can get you a warm drink and some clothes… I’ve got few spare bucks I can give you.” Her wet eyes stared at the pavement and her bedraggled head bent downwards as he talked.
“I know a shelter not far from here… we can get you tidied up there, eh.”

Billy’s words were soft and kind as she limped towards the main street and around the corner, Billy holding her up.

never again shall a razor touch his face - part 1

2009-03-07T20:16:00.008+11:00

Crisp trails of blood spread across his cheek leaving lines like crimson jet streams in a pale sky. Flecks of red sat in his brow threatening to drop.  His face throbbed and pulsed and seemed to be separating from the rest of his body, as the days events jolted through his head, scrolling in different directions and etching themselves onto the back of his retina and into the experience.

...........

Bronte's words were soft and considered as they floated gently down the river a few feet apart. The trees were fading luminescent silhouettes against the evening sky, the glowing disc slipping down beyond the hills that pushed skyward from the river bank. They barely required movement other than the odd swipe of the hand to send a mosquito back into the reeds and concentric ripples in a thousand directions.

The beauty, he thought, was crushing and he was sure that he was only spared the pain of being squashed to death by the cool water surrounding his body, free of the full effects of gravity. Thoughts like this scared and surprised him - he wasn't often so "emotionally volatile" as he put it, with his prescriptions keeping him "level headed". But this evening he was open and calm and a faint smile crept across his face while the water lapped at his cheeks.

"What would you think about me moving to Melbourne?" 

At first he thought she was joking, " Oh, you'd be fine. Don't worry about me - I'll just stay here."

"No, I'm serious Pete - I've been offered a job down there. They called me earlier today."

Pete's heart started thumping as if it was going to burst out of his chest and let water come gushing in to sink him. His lungs seemed to demand more breath while his throat tightened to allow only a little. He thought about a tidal flow, though never a chance on this river, gouging through the valley and sweeping them both away into darkness.

"Shit...? You're serious? How long have you been thinking about this?" 

"Pete, I told you about this job weeks ago... I've been wanting to get in down there for ages, you know that."

"Yeah, but jeez Bront, it's just so soon. I thought you'd take years to do that. What am I sposed to do?"

"Come with me Pete; I'm not really keen to go by myself."

"C'mon Bront; my job's here. What am I gonna do in Melbourne?"

"You'd find something. Or you could stay here for a bit; it's only a few hours away. We could come up and down on weekends until things were settled down there."

Pete suddenly had visions of his hulking frame slumped over the kitchen table, fists clenched, anger bubbling up in his throat until it burned. 
"I fricken knew it would happen. You'd move to the city , meet some yuppie smooth talking lawyer wanker and be smitten. What chance did I have three hours away, in my average looking house and average paying job? Fucking knew it. What's he look like I wonder? Swami bastard I bet!"

Bronte's hand gently bushed his leg and it felt like a jolt of electricity. He took a deep breath and returned to reality. In his brief and angry dreaming he'd broken into a brisk swim, only because he felt he'd sink if he didn't.

"Love, we'll be fine. Just think about it okay? I could move down there to get settled and you could come down later. Just consider it please - it would mean a lot."

"Bronte, you know what long distance relationships are like. And me, jeez, I get worked up and worried that your sleeping with someone else when you're late home from work here. How the hell would I manage with you three hours away in your flashy downtown lawyers office?"

"Oh, Pete, you know I would never do that to you," she soothed, pulling his body towards her smooth skin, goose pimpled from the chill of the water and the falling night. His torso was warm against her stomach and she closed her eyes floating further on, sliding into each other as their bodies pulsed and ground against the shallow sand beach that rose quietly out of the river.

Four (percy)

2009-02-12T22:15:00.011+11:00

The screeching whistle slowly grew louder and the wrought iron grill rattled under the boiling kettle. Percy stretched up from his seat at the table and lifted the kettle from the stove to the sink drainer, catching a brief glimpse of his weathered face reflected in the kitchen window before the steam clouded the glass.

Rubbing his eyes, he dropped in a half tea spoon of sugar and let the tea brew.

Wiping a view through the mist on the window he peered out into the darkness, his dark brown hands gripping the edge of the sink while his knees rested against the cupboards below. His legs ached more than usual these days; vague stabbing pains would interrupt his walks more regularly and he would need to stop for breath. He seemed to spend more time sitting around; couldn’t muster the energy to do much at all.
His eyes dropped to the cup sitting on the bench, steam twisting up and filling the window; the whites of his finger nails intensifying as he gripped the mug and shuffled back over to the table.

For some reason, Perc always grabbed the old red tin cup from the cupboard. He wasn’t sure why but he’d had it since the days on the mission with his mother. There were a few clay cups, the odd porcelain one; all tea cups he’d been given at different times. But he’d always reached for the red one with the dark blue rim; just seemed to fit his hand. He’d learnt over the years that one of the perks of being a small town priest was that you get given a lot of tea cups.

"Silly old birds," mumbled Perc with gum filled grin, lifting the cup to his lips.

His drift into nostalgia was short lived; tea splashed across the table with the tin cup dropping quickly as Perc tongued the skin behind his one remaining front tooth, stripping off a rather large layer loosened by the all but boiling water.

"Ah, ya bloody idiot! All these years and ya still can't drink a cuppa tea without burnin' y'self!"

The green and white plaid tea towel turned a mottled shade of transparent brown as it soaked up the spill and Perc slid back into his chair, his joints creaking more than the rickety old timber he was slumping into.

Three

2008-10-13T23:54:00.003+11:00

Rob was Dylan’s oldest brother. At 24, he was lean, broad shouldered and tanned with blonde hair and a full bushy cropped beard. The sort of bloke women would pick out in a crowd.

His piercing blue eyes reflected the street light as he stumbled down the street.
Percy saw him coming; his shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing his solid brown forearms, one cradling the remainder of a case and the other gripping a long bottle.

“Faaaarrrkkiinnn’ boooongggaarrr…!” slurred Rob tossing the long neck at Percy with the finesse and aim that only a drunk can master.
Percy didn’t really need to dodge it; he just sat cross legged and smiled sadly.

“G’day Robby. Need a lift home mate; you looking like you’ve had a few eh?”

“With you Perccci-pusssss…? I think not… I do not… ride with… black barrstards.”

“Okay Robby, but at least try and stay off the road, eh brother.”

“Booooonggggaaarrr… Percipusss…” Rob trailed off into the night, new beer in hand, staying generally between the centre lines and the gutter, taking an occasional detour to sprawl onto the dry grass verge.

Percy shook his head sadly and pushed himself up from where he was sitting to throw the empty bottle in the bin. What a waste, he thought. Black fellas, white fellas; destroyin’ ‘emselves. A bloody waste.
He trudged up the front steps and pulled open the stiff screen door of his pale blue cottage and closed the door for the night, asking a blessing for Rob as he went.

He put the kettle on the stove and sat down at the kitchen table and waited. “He’s a good kid, just needs some direction, I reckon,” rubbing his tired eyes.

Two

2008-10-13T22:30:00.002+11:00

The bar roared as a glass smashed on the tiled floor of Darlo Pub. Drunken cackles forced their way through the smokey haze and the bartender pulled another beer to replace the one now being spread across the floor by a hundred shuffling feet. The working day at the mill was hours gone and the night was being fuelled with drink and stories of days past.

Darlo Pub was owned and operated by Duncan Darlington, begrudgingly accepted by the locals mainly for the fact that he owned most of the beer in town. Dunc was short and stocky with orange hair, freckles, and a slight scottish drawl that betrayed his immigrant heritage, although no-one was quite sure where he was originally from. Dunc lived upstairs at the pub in the smallest room right at the end of the hall way – each night at 11.05 he would haul his stocky frame up the stairs and shuffle along to his door and sink into his bed, the fading ruckus of the last drunks putting him to sleep as they staggered down the main street. He felt like he never stepped outside the old Victorian style balcony that fronted both corner streets. Vague stabbing thoughts of the old man wouldn’t let him venture far and the rusted spring that stuck through the cushions dug into his back prolonging the slow drift into unconsciousness.

The noise was getting to Dunc tonight, as the dull ache in the back of his skull intensified. The smoke irritated his eyes and he couldn’t pull his mind from the thought of that last slump onto the stained mattress upstairs. The past few months had worn him down and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would last. His body seemed to ache and swell and swirl around him as he stood at the tap and he was convinced that the place was slowly doing him in.

“What the fuck’s that Dunc?” spat a blurred figure who Dunc was still trying to make out as he looked down at the glass, half full of foam, jolting him from his standing slumber.

“Oh, ah sorry mate, must’ve drifted off – here this one’s on me,” he bumbled pushing back a fresh beer across the bar. Leaving Steve at the other tap, Dunc slipped out the back as his patrons roared on and the wall of noise pushed him out the door.
He sat on the back steps and lit a smoke, eyes dampening as he breathed, each breathe forcing him further down into the worn hardwood tread.

“Eh Steve, what’s up with Duncan tonight? Looks a bit off d’ya reckon?”

“Dunno Pete. Been a bit strange the last couple of weeks if y’ask me. Always mumbling about nothing and sitting round all teary eyed. Reckon he might be losin it; he didn’t take his father passin' too well – dunno why, the old bastard never gave him anything but trouble.”

“Ah, he was alright. Did the best he knew how.”

“Yeah, maybe, but he gave Dunc a pretty rough time. I reckon he’d have better off if he wasn’t round at all. The old bloke never spoke a word of him until he showed up on the bus with his backpack – ‘parently his mother booted him when she shacked up with some bloke from up the coast and sen’im packing inland.”

“C’mon Steve, you’ve prob’ly got kids all round the joint eh – Don Juan of Darlingtons? How many of ‘em you know?

“Yeah, piss off. Y’know being a dick won’t quell your jealousy mate.”

“Nah, your right,” coughed Pete struggling to contain his laughter.

“Anyway, point is, Dunc reckons he’s fine but he’s a shit liar.”

“Who’s a shit liar?” asked Dunc, grabbing a pint out of the cooler and pulling a stout for the old man at the end of the bar chewing his gums.

“You are Duncan – always have been,” said Steve wondering how he’d slipped in without him noticing.

“Piss orf Steve,” his lips almost bearing a smile. The old man at the end of the bar cracked a toothless grin and wheezed, rubbing his grey whiskers.

“Alright Steve, I’m off.” Pete emptied the dregs of his beer with a quick throw of his head.

“Yep, no worries Pete, catch you soon.”

“And Dunc, you’re welcome to drop over for a cuppa and a feed anytime – the missus reckons it’d do ya good to get out of this dump for a while; a place like this is sure to drive a man insane, ‘specially the amount of time you spend here.”

“Thanks mate. I’ll see how I go.”

One

2008-10-13T22:01:00.007+11:00

At night she would slip away quietly down to the river while everyone was sleeping; the sliding glass and the soft sound of the forest tussling with the night made her feel at home.
Here she could think.
It wasn’t exactly quiet but it was away; away from that festering uneasiness between her father and whoever the new woman was. She could tell when there was a catastrophe looming – her old man would again take that regular meander between the back sunroom and the dingy back shed.

“I’m ‘avin anutha go at that table love; the one I started when your mother… you know…”
“Got a flamin’ brilliant idea for the legs – not gonna let the old son of a bitch beat me this time.”
Apart from being the worst human being she had ever seen to interact with women, he also happened to have an uncanny knack of being able to destroy any kind of handy man project he touched.
Surely you can find a better way to ease that ache, Joan thought. Shit, at least stop battering whatever self confidence you’ve got left with those awful creations - they’re worse than the year 7 woodwork projects pimply faced adolescents waste their parents money on.

But she never said anything; couldn’t think of anything constructive and forbade herself to say anything that would stir the embers of that smouldering wreck.

Joan’s favourite spot at the river was under the big timber rail bridge, Old Sam. Sam was impressive with his old arching hardwood beams, all knotted and dark. The fist sized, steel rivets shining in unison with the worn rails that would glisten when they could dodge the dancing shadows of the trees that lined river. From Sam you could look up the sandstone cliff face to the gum lined ridge, rugged and lashed by years of icy winter winds. Down by the bridge Joan was protected from the wind but she could tell how cold it was up there and it reminded her of home and then and her.
She had seen a lot in her twenty-one years but she didn’t know of anything more beautiful than this place. Nowhere else that made her feel like this place did.

________

“Oi. Dyl. Get orf ya lazy arse and givza hand with the shopping. Let me work all day and night and can’t even spare a hand for y’rown mother, bleedin selfish sod. ‘Bout as useful as tits on bull in breedin season...”
She trailed off into an expletive laden monologue of self pity and Dylan grabbed the rest of the bags out of the boot and flicked it shut with his foot, still thinking about that new trout hole he’d discovered.
“God’s honest Mum, you could write a book with all those metaphors and adjectives you’ve got hidden away up there.”
“Yeah, and if I thought you were worth it I’d give ya a solid bruise with this apple but it’d be a waste of a good piece of fruit.”

Dylan slipped out the back door quickly just in case she had a sudden change of heart and the screen slapped shut behind him.

Trout’ll be running tonight for sure he thought as he checked his lures and geared up for the walk down to his new prospect. Moon’s just right.

Dylan’s yard backed onto the national park and the river was a solid twenty minute walk through the bush. His brothers had always been too lazy to walk anywhere; they were more interested in hotting up their new utes, or panel vans, or wagons, or whatever it was that they liked to waste their apprentice wage on next.

Friggin’ stupid pieces of junk. Dylan couldn’t think of anything worse.
I reckon it’d be quieter living in a Qantas hanger. Friggin’ noisy V8’s. One day I should pour some sand in their tanks – we’d all be better off. I spose ‘cept for me if they found out.
Dylan was happy with his bike and an old pair of canvas sand shoes. He spent a lot of his time reading old works about famous environmentalists, or his high school ecology books, and he’d always pondered the irony of being born into a petrol loving logging family. While his older brother was on the top bunk flicking through Hustler, Dyl was reading books like the Monkey Wrench Gang or Shallows.

He learnt not to bring them home, or at least leave them lying around after his father found a pile under his bed and burnt them in the front yard as an example, leaving Dyl with a front lawn to fix and a hefty library bill.
“Bloody greenies – the only wilderness we need to worry about are the ones between their ears. I see anything like those around here again and you’ll ‘ave more to worry about than some dead grass. You fuckin’ got that straight Dylan?”
Dylan didn’t bother responding with anything other than a nod. Besides, if he had started to speak he didn’t know what kind of trouble he’d get himself into and he wasn’t too keen on spending the arvo fixing turf with a throbbing lip. Dyl’s wit was quick but his dads left hook was quicker.
So he resorted to a daily ritual of wrapping his books in an old pack and stashing them under a rock over the back fence. The fact that his brothers were lazy and never ventured past the garage made this pretty easy. And after Dylan had regained the librarians trust he was in and out of the place so often they probably should have charged him rent.

There were a lot of things about his situation that confused him; like how his mother could overlook the fact that his brothers hid pornos in their stacks of car magazines and left stains on their boxers, yet he’d cop a ribbing when he mentioned anything vaguely deviating from the common thread of cars, football or the next strike at the mill.
Who gives a toss anyway. I’ll have more saved by the time I’m their age – geez, I’m surprised they’re still at home. Damn sure I won’t be living here.

He successfully negotiated the barbed wire fence as thoughts of escape slid away and hiked down toward that swirling, twisted knife that cut it’s way through the gorge. The new spot was another twenty minutes again once he got to the river so he hurried and broke a sweat that felt surreal against the bitter winter breeze.

________

The north wind brought the cold and with it memories of years before. It was worst when her father went to the shed at the change of seasons. That cold breeze seemed to carry so much misery and resentment. Over the years Joan had mapped her past in the splits and veins in the huge old hardwood beams that gave Sam his strength. He provided some kind of solace – stability in the continually changing life at home.

Somehow the swirling water passing the pylons below gave her comfort.

There had been talk a few years back of damming the river in the hope of sureing up water supply for the growing town, or so the pollies had spun it. Joan was sceptical, as usual, but the local parliamentary member Harry Broughams’, business interests in the timber mill gave some basis to her doubt. Harry was a seedy looking man with yellow smokers teeth and a penchant for leering at Joan (or anything resembling a female) as she walked passed. He promised prosperity for the town; unlimited growth potential and the opportunities that the city provided.
So far he’d refurbished that local public toilets; a feat that the school captains had also achieved in their final year at Joan’s school.
The plan for a dam had been fought by Jack Davis, a wealthy local who had been buying up tracts of land along and around the river for years in the hope of preserving some of the unique wilderness not yet ravaged by old growth logging. Jack Davis was Harry Brougham’s thorn – always the barricade between him and great commercial success, or so it was in his mind (and it probably wasn’t far from the truth). Realistically, the dam was a crazy idea; the experts had repeatedly cried fowl (in reports commissioned of course by Davis). The only benefit was the short term expansion of the mill which would quickly be eroded in the years following – the reports predicted that the water supply would evaporate more quickly than it could be replenished based on the projected forecasts for the growth of the timber mill, the main beneficiary of the dam. The result would be a destroyed ecosystem and an unviable timber industry.
Davis’ reports were countered by Brougham’s own and according to the local tabloid the battle was still raging in the courts, surely costing Davis a small fortune.

Joan had always been curious as to where Davis gleaned his wealth, but she didn’t think too much further than her pleasure that Old Sam had been saved for now. She felt as if losing Sam would be like losing a good friend; once strong, patient and silently listening, then gone.
“It’d sit well in my story I spose, kind of fitting...?”
Her mind drifted quickly as her eyes followed the eddies of the current and the flickering of the trout as they darted in and out of the shadows.

________

Every now and then Dylan’s shins would catch a stray piece of undergrowth as he raced along the track and it whipped like a knawed leather strap, leaving flecks of blood on his bare legs. His thoughts were filled with trout and the river and fish cooked on hot coals beside the glazed shimmer as it slipped by in the night. His feet quickened as his nostrils struggled to supply breath for his last flurry of pace before he met the smooth stones of the riverbank and he would be forced to slow down.
He reached the rocks, slowed to a stop and scanned the river, running his palm across the aching bump left by his last fall on the bank, his growing excitement countered by a sharp jolt of pain as his hand brushed the bruise on his leg.
“Sshheeettt,” he muttered under his breath, “Let’s take it slowly this time, eh.” And he was off along the rocks, faster than he knew he should have been going.

Dylan caught a view of the bridge through the trees, slung his pack around in front of him and made some final adjustments to his gear as he walked. The cliffs to the west glowed in the moonlight casting their ominous presence across the river so that they seemed to be constantly threatening to topple across and crush whatever was on the other side.