ANZAC DAY ASS

JR - Anzac day ass in abundance - I see Britain by night nearly everywhere I look - Maybe I should have stayed in the city - So tell me, why celebrate so much a sickening defeat? - Here's wily Winston ordering more boys to their slaughter - And they get called heroes but why? - Giddy victims with dreams of adventure if you ask me - Only so much you'd take of boring bare plains in a newly conquered nobody's land - Let's get back to old dart they say - Come on, you antipodeans are still doing it now, capping off university years with a european camp out in some part of old mama for months on end - I've seen earls' court and shepherd's bush let me tell you - And when I think of this I keep seeing the turks waiting up above the beach nigh on a hundred year ago now - I see the dawn and they getting their first brew of coffee going - And their bafflement mixed with surprise at looking down at white boys trudging up the still damp sand - And the turks they pick them off like pigeons - Or wooden ducks at a carnival - And they call this the site of a country's birth? - I don't know about you but I wouldn't ever be calling myself an australian when that red white and blue of the union jack keeps hogging a corner of the flag - Come on now, JR, we were brought up better than that - LA

OCEANSIPPING

Mr Albuquerque, at one pole, suddenly found himself under siege, soon to be utterly overwhelmed, while at the other end he could still see himself somewhat rested and content, occasionally even still able to witness a little of the wonder in the world.

It was the first day of another month: venerable, imposing, sublime, majestic.

In one swift move he lit the candle by the window, though moments later he couldn't even recall doing so. The scent of a recently extinguished match only went to contradict his memory even further.

Earlier in the evening, he ate his way through half a bowl of stew, which consisted of the remaining ingredients he could find in the kitchen, and potatoes. Then he sank down low in the armchair. The ice was still yet to melt in the glass, while the slice of lemon added significantly to the taste of this particular drink. What’s it called again? It was on the tip of his tongue, but wouldn't come any closer. The bottle, where did the bottle come from? Begin from there. Maybe it was left behind by some kind soul, maybe just the other night, he didn't know. After finishing another glass, he swirled an ice cube around his mouth for a bit, and then poured more from the bottle upon discovering that this coal coloured concoction possessed a sufficient enough number of bubbles to enable him to satisfactorily burp away some of the staleness that had for so long been accumulating inside his stomach, with no thanks at all to a particularly uninviting, flavourless bowl of stew. Correction: half a bowl of stew. The other half would be deposited in the street first thing tomorrow morning, out the window, for any soul, human or otherwise, willing to sample such a messy insipid brew. There would, however, be no bowl present, nor any other kind of container either, just pavement.

A few nights later he went down to the beach. At first he thought he was alone, but then, in the distance, he could make out something going on down at the other end. So he went to have a closer look, and once there watched as a series of boulders, some the size of a small house, fell from the top of the headland and onto the sand, bouncing back and forth a few times, up and down the shoreline, before coming to a standstill. All seemingly harmless at first, until the gigantic ancient balls began to bounce and roll in his direction. So he did all he could to avoid being hit, seeing at that moment no need for any collision. 

Once a boulder had come to a standstill, running out of steam and all ideas on how to connect with his weary flesh, it simply vanished, apparently in acknowledgment of some kind of defeat. And yet, all the same, he couldn't help but feel that maybe the boulders had not vanished at all but were instead scurrying back up along the path to the top of the headland again, in preparation for another attempt, waiting impatiently in the queue behind all the others with the exact same thing in mind. And maybe it was purely down to some kind of habit that he tried his utmost to make sure that no boulder somehow stumbled across his death. And after a while he felt he was getting the hang of it. So much so that eventually he even afforded himself the luxury of watching the approaching boulders with just one eye, simultaneously letting his increasingly attracted attention turn to the gigantic white cloth stretched out along the length of the beach and holding back an increasingly frustrated ocean.

This was now a whole new kettle of fish.

Straps were being securely fastened in place, buckles strategically located, and although threatening bulges were beginning to appear, they also quickly vanished. Yet some did seem to hover ominously for a while, over one horizontal strap in particular, seemingly beyond the laws of gravity, for which it apparently held no respect. And just when it seemed that the cloth could hold nothing back for much longer, showing signs of wear and tear along its ever straining face, with numerous protrusions starting to pop up here and there, then, and only then, would the force relent a little and withdraw into the bosom of its mass, waiting for another attempt to push through and complete the breaking of this increasingly brooding wave.

Down at the foot of this conundrum could be found the inspectors of today’s proceedings, pointing and pontificating, scribbling illegible messages in their little black notebooks, issuing instructions deemed necessary for their small crew to carry out, as soon as possible, if not sooner. Up and down the shore, these hardy automatons loosened and tightened lines and buckles, undid straps and tied new knots, all according to their most recently received command, passed along from man to man, shoulder to shoulder, and always with at least one ear cocked and waiting for the next order to arrive. One of the inspectors took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, then peered up toward the stars, to where he imagined the peak of the tarpaulin to be found, just in front of the wave’s curling lip, and wondering how much longer he would have to wait before the first splashes of water hit his face, and whether or not the inevitable fall of the wave would bring with it any significant sound, like the tearing of the sky in two.

Great murmurings, hushes, and sporadic applause greeted the girl's head emerging from the depths of the river and soon shooting to the surface, her small rosy mouth opening wide and gulping down numerous buckets of air, before a proud father reached down and lifted her into his arms, whirling her around in an enormous fluffy towel, his joyous laughter mixing with hers, her messy hair pointing to the sky in all directions, her skin tingling, her toes and ears still wiggling, her nose ticklish, but she didn't think she’d have to sneeze. She smiled at the man and kissed him on his cheeks, then closed her eyes again so that she could watch for a little while longer the funny lines and shapes and colours currently having a holiday on the inside of her eyelids.  

All leaving Mr Albuquerque to wonder, on another first day of the month: when the tarpaulin could no longer hold back the ocean,  and when the lip of the wave finally completed what it originally set out to do, whether this would then signal a breakdown, or a breakthrough.

AFTER A NUMBER OF COMPLICATIONS

After a number of complications, says Louis, he was born. But his mother never made it. She pointed at her belly at one stage in a stabbing motion, while he was still inside her, waiting to get out into the sultry air of an Indian summer evening. He speaks about this as if he clearly remembers it all unfolding, almost as if it all took place a week or two earlier. Almost as if he were a witness to his own birth. He mentions some details of the funeral arrangements afterwards, the sweet smelling breasts of his aunt - his mother's younger sister - a month shy of her nineteenth birthday, who held him close throughout the proceedings, which Louis was more than grateful for, having done his utmost to avoid the clutches of the other wailing mourners, especially one uncle in particular, who reeked of whiskey, cigarettes, cabbage, and boiled pig. His father and his older sister were sitting nearby on a couch, meekly accepting offers of condolence from the train of folk passing through the house ... Then I have a little difficulty keeping up, the speed of Louis' speech increases, and he also throws in a few sentences of French, peppered with phrases of slang to which I'm unfamiliar. But it does seem that his sister was quite a few years older than him, perhaps on the verge of womanhood. She may also have had a different mother, it's hard to say exactly. He then remembers a day by the river, and what sounds like an underwater swimming race, in which his sister participated. He says he can see his father, even now, standing on the riverbank, waiting for her to emerge from the depths with an enormous fluffy towel at the ready. But she's never seen again, and neither soon is his father. But no sore feelings, papa, I pray at least you found some peace.

HEARSAY

Louis' father went out for cigarettes one day 

and never made it back home again -

more interested in the phases of the moon

than the raising of children.

Or so I hear.

AN OLD CAMERA

Louis returned to school after summer one time with a camera, given to him by a woman he played doubles with at some tennis tournament for guests of the resort where he stayed with his family on the Malaysian island of Penang. We would have been twelve, maybe thirteen. Doubtful fourteen. It was a thin flat silver contraption, the camera, if I remember rightly, with a disc that held the photos. The woman, whose name I forget, gave Louis the camera after a particularly hard fought three set win over a husband and wife team from Victoria, British Columbia. The woman's own husband wasn't much in for tennis, so Ellis, the event's organizer, suggested she pair up with Louis, who had, by this time, displayed a proficiency for the game far beyond his tender years. Eventually they bowed out in the semi finals, losing to seventeen year old twin girls from Macau. Afterwards, discussing the loss alone in the shade of a frangipani tree, she put her hand down his pants. And two days later she was gone, back to wherever it was she came from. But she left behind a parting gift, or at least a bag containing things that she didn't want to pack, and the camera.

The bag contained the following:

a half full bottle of scotch,

a tin of neutral shoe polish,

a shiny magazine advocating on its cover the benefits of wrinkle free skin,

a small box of paperclips,

a miniature model of the Arc de Triomphe made out of matchsticks,

a pack of playing cards,

a blue silk handkerchief,

a small plastic Chinese junk,

a blue plastic comb,

a sachet of curry paste.

PLEASE OBSERVE ALL PROHIBITIONS

JR - In Eden again, I was lonely like a lighthouse - It was pathetic - Beer only beat me up all the more - And I forgot where my room was real easy like - Until a playground came up in some kind of clearing - And there were swings, and a skate ramp - And a sign that didn't show signs of moving - A few bags of cement at least keeping it firmly in the ground - Reading: PLEASE OBSERVE ALL PROHIBITIONS - And it reminded me of something I'd imagine to see in a prison yard, except maybe it wouldn't have been so polite - No please - Just a simple instruction - And I wondered what the fork and hay I was still doing here in these parched parts - And I wondered where the fork and hay my wife might be - And I wondered what the pitch forking hell I was doing writing postcards to a boyhood friend I bumped into one cool crispy day in some small shitty mountain town far, far from home - LA

THE COMPUTER IS DEVOID

The computer is devoid of any personal documents, while the camera has just a single photo on its memory card.

THE COURIER CALLED HIMSELF DONALD

The courier called himself Donald, and he had a laminated company card to prove it, with photo. He also had a driver's license and pictures of himself playing with his children on a camping holiday up the coast somewhere. Then there was his bank card for good measure, and, as it happened, he had his passport on him too, to remind him to get it renewed after the weekend. There was a trip to Thailand on the cards. 

Yes, his name was Donald. I'll leave his last name out. Suffice to say though, he was who he said he was.

He had a package for me, from Melbourne. From Louis. I signed for it, watched Donald drive away, and then went to see what had been sent.

Jesus. No, Louis.

Inside the box: one laptop, one digital SLR camera. And a note: JR - I won't be needing these anymore - So see if you can make use of them - LA

THE FLAT WITHOUT A CAT

The stubs from all the movies we went to see while living in the desert, maybe still there, back at the flat, in a shoebox beneath the bed. The flat. The coolness of the stairwell leading up to the top floor. The flat. The flat without a cat. 

 

Often I would prowl the streets in search of her favourite pet, with every step aware of the possible consequences. Put simply, cats do not like me. Rarely will they tolerate my presence. I first came face to face with one as a young boy. It was red, not ginger as others claimed later, but red. Supposedly it fell from the rotting branch of a tree and required my head as a emergency landing pad. So say the witnesses. I say otherwise. I say it leapt and knew exactly what it was doing all along, its sole intention to tear apart my face with its claws in the shortest amount of space possible. Fortunately I realized the plan in time and acted accordingly, in the process sacrificing a little of my scalp, while the cat made the most of its opportunity and sliced up my ears some before I managed to get a finger in and gouged out one of its eyes. Poor pussy. Poor Louis. Wailing, we both ran off to opposite poles, never to see one another again.

 

I never told Susie any of this. And I never told her about the pandemonium in the pet store either. It happened one morning while out walking on the edge of town, soon after sunrise. My shoes were growing heavy with sand and my mind heavier with visions of her superior body waiting supine atop the crisp white sheets back at the flat. Before I slipped out, I inhaled once more the essence of her scent in that indented space above her upper lip, then watched as she silently vanished into the slowly shutting door.

Then the shoes became too much to bear. I sat down on some steps and emptied them of all the sand, just as the sign in the store window behind me was switching to open. A tall, elegant looking red haired woman with a wide gracious smile and bright white teeth opened the door and greeted me in an effortless manner, instantly setting me at ease once she said: Welcome. 'You're early,' she said. 'In fact, you're very early. But that's okay. Please, come in. I like to think that my first customer gives me some kind of indication of the day that lies ahead. Usually I can see it in the eyes. Often it's easier to spot than not, if you know what you're looking for. Please, come in.'

The words flowed from her mouth as if she were reciting the words of a holy song. She didn't sound as if she were around these parts either. As she went about opening the shutters, it suddenly seemed as if she were singing, sound flowing into sound, emanating from her long, slender body and then blending beautifully with the melody of the birds, each revealed one by one from under their dark cloaks that kept them covered up throughout the night. Then she stopped, turned and asked if I would be interested in a canary perhaps. I shook my head and smiled the smile of a contented fool. The day looked promising.

 

If such a place as this could be found in the desert, I thought, then maybe staying here might not be so bad after all. And after all, it would only be for a little while longer, it wouldn't be long now.

I started looking around for the cats but couldn't find any, and knew that soon the flat without a cat would be waking, would soon be starting to stretch and feel for my limbs. 'They're in the next room,' the woman said. 'Listen, can you hear them? They're beginning to stir.'' She slid open some doors and beckoned me closer, smiling again, and with what I now thought was a slight trace of milk atop her upper lip. In the darkness of the room ahead, one set of eyes after another slowly appeared, first flickering, and then fixing on me. As she opened the remaining shutters, I could start to make out the litters of kittens scattered around the floor, or up in baskets on tabletops, all eyeing my flesh, as if in hope that it would soon play some essential part in their latest scratching post. Then the older cats started to hiss and bare their teeth, and it wasn't long before they were strategically positioning themselves around the room, in readiness for attack. 'Please,' the woman cried, 'please, please.' And she shooed me back out onto the street as quickly as she could.

Gladly I would have gotten Susie a dog, but we just didn't have the room. Already the flat was beginning to cramp. 'Soon,' I would tell her, 'soon, soon. We won't stay here forever. There's still a few little things that I need to do, that's all. It won't be long now. We'll find a place somewhere deep in the green countryside. We'll have dogs and sheep, cows and chickens. Some goats. A couple of horses. Maybe even an antelope or two. And lemurs. Whatever you desire.'

Susie smiled and slid over onto my lap. She kissed my eyes and stroked the scars that crossed my ears.

It wouldn't be long now.

THE FIRES RAGE ATOP THE PLATEAU

It's like I'm learning to read all over again. 

When he called, I wasn't sure what Louis meant exactly, not until I picked up the package from the post office, his handwriting unmistakable. That was more than a month ago now, maybe more. Likely more. 

I haven't left the house much. Only for food and to sell a few things. And I bought a dictionary too, secondhand, from a man fluent in Sanskrit of all things, and apparently Aramaic as well, and Hebrew. We didn't talk long. I had to get back to reading what Louis had sent.

But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Louis called first, a while back. He wanted to let me know he was all right. He was in Victoria, during the raging fires that devastated the region, at a place called Wilsons Promontory, the southernmost point of Australia.

His talk was fast, erratic, disjointed. He mentioned lightning striking twice, homemade picture postcards, Madagascar, the Mark of Cain, and the name Gavrilo Princip on a number of occasions. 'What do you mean you can't place the name? Don't tell me you've forgotten your history lessons already. Here, I'll spell it for you.' At times I wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying. Then the line went dead. A few hours later he called back, sounding considerably calmer. He said he was done with it all. He said that when the fires first made their appearance the first thing that came to mind for him was not his personal safety or the care of others, but a postcard. 'A postcard,' he said, 'can you believe it? A postcard.' Then he said postcard again. Again and again. I imagined him shaking his head in dolorous disbelief.

A postcard. The one he was referring to when he called was circled in red ink and was removed from its numbered place in the manuscript that he posted, and put to the front. Some scribbled lines, also in red ink, were added as well: 'So the flames climbed higher and higher and the eyes of children were beginning to bulge and panic and this is what comes to mind for me, a postcard I translated. Not the horrible heat or the rain of embers or how or if we would all get out of this, no, a postcard. A postcard. It's no wonder Susie left me when she did. I'm staying for the moment in a hostel. I'll call soon. Do with this what you will ... Here, also take copies of the ones I never got to. You might want to finish them yourself. I'm done. But I'll keep the originals of the cards on me, at least for the time being. Now I'm going to drink some wine. Chilled white wine. I want it to flow through my blood like electricity.'

The postcard he refers to reads as follows: Soren - The fires rage atop the plateau, flame in all directions - The surrounding animals attempt to make the best of a bad situation, seeking the only protection they can find, huddled together in the few remaining shallow pools of water, which in days past used to be an uninterrupted stream - Further down, these pools are divided into pods each filled with creatures trying to submerge themselves in this last remaining refuge - Most know they stand at best only a minimal chance of survival, some are now just in it for the game - Then from one of the flames crawls a cat, severely distressed and singed - In a nearby pod a snake makes room for this petrified feline with its forked tongue licking the fur of the puss until it slips off into a deep yet uneasy sleep - And look, there, crouching in the fire, that strange creature unknowingly protected from harm by an even stranger entity whom everyone longs to meet - Beside the snake, the cat - Beside the cat, the zoologist - Beside the zoologist, the first scratches in a new plateau - Mora