| BROMBERGIANA SUITE |
Preface The idea was a simple idea with little behind it except a recognition, a self-knowing, that on a long set of aeroplane flights I was bound to write. It’s unpromising, of course, for there can be nothing more tedious than long flights overseas. And not just overseas. Being in a plane – especially a large plane – is a form of imprisonment, an actual incarceration. It’s not good behaviour they demand; it’s no behaviour at all they demand. What a kindness it would be if we were all anaesthetised. For these flights are without doubt misery. Unbearable. There are exceptions, of course, a flight once out of Athens to Sydney via Baghdad and Singapore. The Greeks, especially the young, were not to be bound by seating arrangements. We were ordered off the plane, everyone having been warned they must retain the seat allocated. ‘For security reasons’. Of course! We were ordered back on the plane, each of us having to claim our luggage, for a further check. The seating arrangements didn’t last two seconds. The whole flight was a social event. Baghdad, I might tell you, presented a vast empty airstrip, entirely flat. The zone we’d had to deviate around to get there was the Israel-Lebanon sector. That was then. Singapore had a Concorde (that strange beast) parked on the tarmac, nose-down, like an insect of prey, a preying mantis, that would suck the lifeblood, the marrow, out of you in two split seconds. Not that there is any lack of personal mythology surrounding this mythic aircraft. A Franco-Vietnamese friend of mine worked on the navigation system back in the 1960s; and on the occasion of my one and only visit to Cologne Cathedral it was being set up with temporary seating for a memorial service devoted to victims of the Concorde crash at Charles de Gaulle. The German doctor who died was the personal physician of another of my friends. Yes, I know myself well enough to know that I use writing to counteract the obliteration of travel, the prospect of it even, the active annihilation it enacts on one’s consciousness and sense of being. The flight is in a profound sense the flightless zone. Train travel can unleash the same desire to write. But with air travel it is less desire than need. If this string of texts is boring then the phenomenon they are written against is tedium itself. My strategies in countering this are no doubt several. I am an inveterate observer, even with my bad eyesight. Maybe it even intensifies the desire to record. But what is one to say of those hours of impatience when the only thought is to arrive, or to get going? At such times the psyche will seize on anything. It is a desperate creature … All these texts were handwritten. It has taken me two months to type them up. A little more, in fact, more like two and a half months. It is now the beginning of March and I have just managed to have them printed out. I have no true belief in their value – except that I have been assiduous. I’ve remained more or less true to the originals. Such as they are they are in general better than any tampering can improve. They are enough out of control that they may reveal something. They are essays in dealing with a crisis, the crisis of travel, the burden of being elsewhere, the crisis of being caught in a paroxysm of non-meaning in which there is nothing at stake except survival itself. From a technical point of view they are written, more or less (how much of all this is more or less!), in the style of my performance pieces. This involves much repetition, slight shifts to lines already written, and a deliberative attempt to create space – a sense of spaciousness. It’s not necessarily largesse. A descent to the underworld? Well, maybe. There is no true dark river, just something feebly transparent. I have taken the liberty of writing notes where I have thought to write them. I’m not sure they clarify anything, but they may produce a sort of subtext. I regret that there is not more German and Polish and Slovakian and Korean in the text. This is just ignorance on my part. I once could read and write Korean but now it escapes me. How odd that we surrender things; how odd that the things we know or thought we know should languish and fade, and our competences desert us. Desirably we should be able to shift from language to language at will. I learnt something on this trip: there are 11 time zones in Russia. This alone must make it wellnigh ungovernable. There is a lot to be said in favour of the ungovernable. Sydney, 1 March 2010
Inchon airport
1
Departure approaches I know you are a wily one You always land on your all four paws
Good for you
Today’s headline says FAMILY TRAGEDY
He calls from the escalator Between us we are the two blind men He reminds me of a maiden aunt I might have had He improves by the day
I’m not quite sure how to proceed with this business, I say to him He may have to do a Lady Macbeth and raise a blade but he does not Neil, he says, took the catalogue with your article in it and it was never seen again It ended up, he said, with a dealer in Melbourne And disappeared without trace, never ever to be returned
This might all seem rather inconsequential and it is The production of texts The ecology of art: yes, a swoon of verbiage
I discovered at breakfast that I’d more or less lost the power of speech What I was thinking about, how I express myself, and Jo the Gallerist These are three different things
Gallerist is a new word and an ugly word
Warren, she tells me, has come out against the Intervention It is not what I’d heard The fraternal and the family have a different view of the matter
Helen of Troy has not been seen in these parts lately Though there has been a plethora of Greeks They never bear gifts (I’ll be forced to retract this statement any minute from now) But they may bedeck themselves in white robes And play the Good Shepherd And await the next national calamity
Mere words, mainly incomprehensible The grotesque concerns that press themselves down upon us The irksome minutiae of everyday affairs Grains of sand that tear the lining of our inner workings
No, do not complain Join the revel of celebration The brazen fireworks that rise up to greet any occasion
You are not, says a voice, you are not Letters fall and litter the kitchen floor You are not, you are not
Look, I say to them, I gave up on having a refrigerator years ago It is not exactly something you miss
They look at me as if their permanent wave will fall in a heap Any second
It’s not as if I’m announcing the end of the world, I announce Yet their bewilderment continues to echo Off lavatory walls
As if, you must know, the brush must be twirled in private And the private spell never to be broken
Give us each day our private incantation Salvation must come as it does 2
Luscious, juicy, juicy fruit They look, they are Born to edibility
Their juices run down the wall, explode over each other Fill platters with tasty morsels
Oh yes, I know, I hear him crying on the ‘phone No, don’t hang up yet, he pleads, I wish to keep on speaking
The Harbour Bridge invites a thousand images Unfortunately it has not yet learnt to speak
I might return to our earlier couple, the handsome pair But I don’t
The move, I feel, has already been made
3
10 to 3, the train on platform 2 goes to Campbelltown via East Hills The train on platform 1 goes to Campbelltown via Liverpool
We need say nothing about Rome or anywhere else
Today’s mix is not impressive It hovers on the edge of finality
Today’s number is A154 Which puts me 50 behind the rest in the queue; We all wait for our Medicare rebate
The baby beside me yawns It’s a practiced yawn
Today’s lunch is Teriyaki chicken, skin free And a single piece of hoki fish
Healthy, hygienic Hygienic, healthy
The numbers flash by: it’s A114
Jumps back to 109
I might say something about the ethnic mix Asian girl next to Anglo boy from Castle Hill (Christ they can talk!) The casual way she poses her questions The elaborate silver chain on her right ankle
She knows everything there is to be known about world-weary
I took my ticket at 2:02 pm It’s now 2:17 4
So, they said, green balloons
I hear the magic word mentioned: threshold
Which reminds me, my little grandson has learnt something The pause, the hesitation, the sudden leap forward The pathways and the hip skip hop of liminality
(Ants in your pants, as it were)
We can all learn something The matter of crossing borders, I suppose
Beauty in this age means something The prettiness of a long-feathered bantam with stunted legs A yacht with trimmed sails sailing over there; No wonder you assail me with images of amputations, mutilations of all descriptions
Prettiness appears, yes it does But like an advertisement of the self It fades into triviality instantly The prettiest moosh, the studious hair The indelicate ears
How disabled they are, even in their own country Citizenship comes, it seems, at a terrible cost And the seats at the Cenotaph serried and empty And not a Digger (oh Ancient of Days) to show the way 5
Your take on reality, mate, is as reliable as a map of Atlantis provided by the local Chamber of Commerce
Everyone knows information is not enough
Yesterday’s riots are today’s playpens
You will find if you enter that shop over there – yes, the one on the left – that you can get a very good deal on the kumara You know it is best eaten wrapped in a floral design, something in hibiscus
We were not going to mention art on this day, the day Nic met such a bizarre death (Yes, people die)
John treads the treadmill, is halted for his hair Makes play with the chin-ups For – yes, he says – there’s a counterweight; Now that’s novel, it’s obviously his party trick His pièce de résistance
He’s full of love, you can hear it in his voice I tell him he should be back at work
Get back to work, you cunt That’s what I tell him 6
You will not ward off the banality of the world with propaganda Lyricism, exalted states, all part of the propaganda machine
You can hear the creaking even with the oil
Every time I put down a piece of paper I lose it That is why I’m back writing in a book
I would like to surprise my hosts A pet kangaroo A pet kangaroo on a string would surprise my hosts
A pet perentie also, maybe
Sometimes we don’t know what to say We have to wait Conversation is eclipsed by the larger desperados And the gummy sharks observable Mostly in the shallowest of waters
Daniel has completed Stage 1 of his temple It’s comfortable, he says, it’s all you need; Last night they had a barbecue in honour of the new structure
Tonight I’m expecting a storm with sudden flashes of lightning
Meanwhile at the airport they simulate a terrorist attack What I want to know is how you would differentiate it from the real thing 7
What shall we say of the wayward, why it enters
Rise up Jerusalem!
The cannon fires, it is an improper sound And has no place here
Kissing under the mistletoe, the ordinary doorbell The steeple
Foreign all foreign
Might we proffer you a special spinifex garden Sturt Desert peas The brilliance of scarlet and black Waterfowl who in their person make raucous shriek
Tonight’s concert comes to us from Gdansk Courtesy (they tell us) of the Mariankirche; The composer an argumentative chap, according to all accounts
A whiff of raw sewage comes from the street
Tonight the silence is surprising 8
The traveler must have a suitcase A suitcase (you know this very well) says travel
For maximum effect the suitcase should be empty
Today at breakfast we can speak sense We look at photos of ‘the next generation’ We re-engage with the oldest categories of sociological thought We agree that the ritualistic, the magical are assigned insufficient value in general thinking I fret about my passport application I worry that I don’t have the proper paperwork
Please proceed Please proceed to counter 1 Please proceed Please proceed to counter 4 9
Lest we forget
I exit exactly at 11 Exactly at 11 I exit
An old man stands at attention right there before the rows of sandwiches wrapped in glad wrap It could be Mecca he’s facing, somewhere in the Middle East
Age will not weary them nor the years condemn
The ceremonial words, the familiar staged sentiment
There’s no going down of the sun; An imaginary cannon fires
Yes, Armistice Day How it catches us unawares The 11th hour of the 11th day
The bread rolls continue to blister in the fluorescent sun He nods as I pass Lifts his head and nods The other lurches towards me gladly And asks straight out, ‘Is it real, is it real?’ And makes his judgment call: ‘You’re from the bush, right? Tell me you’re from the bush’
The train brings the dark-haired Scheherazades right to my door Pink tops Gold lamé bags White thongs Leopard print fabric for the bra halters A slither of sleek thighs
Now they’re friendly these guys White lipstick A way of lounging on the seats As trhough they're the first to discover Orientalism Slim lissome bodies Full of Hello and Hello And greetings and how-d’-dos all round
I like this younger generation, these Wild Ones Full of attitude and sass 10
He sits on the very edge of the kerb Squats really, the full Asian squat The weight full on the heels
The white lamps hang in the alcove Carcinogenic display, some abomination in fibre glass
I ready myself to enter the silent land I ready myself to enter the land where words don’t count
The pressure’s on The train to Waterfall, 7 minutes My anger a response to the pressure
WHAT ARE YOU The sign says, WHAT ARE YOU, the same as it did yesterday
Support comes in fits and starts, from unexpected quarters
No, I don’t want to go to the Russian concert No, I don’t want to go to the Koori fundraiser No, I don’t want to trade insults with the Big O at Roslyn's No, I don’t expect anything good to come of Daniel B’s latest art show
Martin Place has flowers but not so many FOXTEL combines with FITNESS PLUS for the spectacle of the year A haughty boy with upturned face strolls by The woman beside me in the bus elbows me in the shoulder
The day is a day of beauty so tell me, why are they dressed so drably As if drabness is the ordinary ordained condition
Missionaries sit in careful chorus She of their mark, her skin flawless Her left ear marked with a single dark spot
I’m so proud of her, she said, stepping from the wheelchair at the gallery An invisible hand falls, a ceramic gourd collapses To say a thousand shards is no exaggeration
11
Once I was ignorant, now I am not so ignorant Once I cared what I wrote I still care but in a different way
It pleases me that the hydrangeas are spotty, spotty and unkempt I like the fact that their natural condition takes them towards the ‘bedraggled’
It’s only when words appear in quotation marks that they begin to take on No, not fullness of meaning but something like meaning; The quotation marks warn us to be on our guard, to be attentive
Be attentive also when no warning signs are issued
This front doorway is a mediocre effort, despite the effort taken The electronic sign says 24° It seems hotter
She’s caught a thread on her silk jacket It’s a pretty colour somewhere between teal and grey
She’ll curse when she gets home Almost certainly she will curse 12
No truth today, hurray, no truth today Lady at the Bay, Lady at the Bay No truth today Lady at the Bay
What a relief, such a relief! Phew!
The bus comes to a stop He tells me he’ll come for lunch, 1 o’clock
Ha, bloody likely!
She’ll come for tea, at 3
Bloody likely!
I’ll provide my special scones We’ll make stupid remarks like, ‘Let bygones be bygones’ She’ll head off on jaunty toes He’ll saunter off on flat feet
I’m taking the day off sick, he says How odd that I knew that already
The fake is more real than the real The fake is the real real real Our proper estate
The bus driver has made a real helter-skelter across the Bridge I yell my thanks as I get off out the rear doors (They’re on the side really)
‘In an Absolut world you’re with the band’
The text makes no sense at all But it does remind me, yes, it does remind me He owes me, he owes me a bottle of Bison You know, the one with the straw The one with the stalk of grass
(Yes, they all say that, just like that You know, the one with the straw) 13
The purple bells of the jacaranda lie on the ground The fish restaurant – it would like to be swank – is entirely empty She waves her Medicare card under her chin as if for air She’s pert and would be busy on the tennis court
That I decide
My eyes are not improved, and other things
The lady in the pink shoes continues to tap them The man in the business suit says ‘Melanie might have’ I wonder whether to take cash or not It’s Alessandro at counter 5
We proceed from counter to counter Reflexions come as they come
There is no direct relationship between affability and competence The most suspicious man I know in ‘customer services’ is from Nigeria He works at the post office He might have been a security guard in a previous life
As if!
The friendliest man I know is an Arab guy from Cabramatta; he works on the railways I don’t know why he likes me so much but he does
Hello, he says, and waves Gladly 14
THE MAN WITH THE PAPERED HEAD
Just now I see a man With a papered head
Yes, you heard me, this man is papered He has a papered head
Outside Armani You know, the old Challis Building (I’m never quite sure why it’s held in such high regard)
I thought he might have been getting fitted out for a wig A lawyer Or someone found late on the battlefield Ypres Or Passchendaele
Next minute there’s a young man in a t-shirt saying JUST DO IT Except the IT is next to invisible
Near the steps leading down to the station There are rows of treadmills You know, for exercise And a single stroller
I have no idea what the stroller is doing there
Inside the subway there’s a tall young man Wearing a tiny pork-pie hat and little else A tiny set of briefs
Yes, heading out of the station
* * *
You might note that the average age of the 7 people riding the lift is 19 19 or 20 That’s if you remove the two old geezers, That’s me and the other guy Me 66 and him 70 or thereabouts
(Get out of the way you silly old cunts The abuse is tacit)
Males predominate And of those, Indian males are in the ascendancy
The lady with the pram has to wait She’s in her late middle age And there’s no baby in the pram Just sticks of celery and other vegetables 15
Of course he hasn’t ‘phoned I’m supposed to sit here and wait (I am the lord and master, I am the lord and master)
Down in Dingly Dell the lupins swing and sway Down in Dingly Dell
He rings at last: ‘I had a stroke, That’s according to Professor Saunders’
It’s been a long time coming, that news
Cross to the golf, Kingston Heath Chips from the bunker, comes up short
The lamb tastes as if it’s carved from the living beast The corn at least is good
(Be grateful for small mercies)
I try to make sense of the lyrics There are weird rhymes, like ‘release’ and ‘priest’
The golfers go round and round, round and round
There must be a live instrument somewhere, I think Yes, surely, somewhere in the street A live instrument 16
10 dollar steaks, all the go (All day every day)
We subside into silence, we subside into something worse An antique sort of reaction, as if As if there must be meaning Meaningfulness Somewhere
(Please pass me the throat lozenges)
She was gregarious to a fault She tried other names as well, Tim, Athol, Blair She may have headed towards the exotic Gershom Galadriel Kalabut But she found herself cornered Corralled Somewhat disconcerted
Let us delete all things which are not ours This is not my song, it is not my dance It is not yours either
You are cheeky, all those of you who claim to speak for others You take on more than you can properly take on You overstep the mark
The peasants enter via the rear door They have their own lovely outfits, the stitched bodice, the blue cloth Their own ways of being wily and unwily Give them a handful of coins, silver Let them not share their supper with us Let them eat within their own tiny cluster of kin The lovely girl there, the lovely boy there They belong there
As for you others, follow your own paths I cannot promise you anything, I have nothing to offer 17
Today’s storm, today’s insult
We sit at the table together
The staff looks aghast, frightened even
It looks as if I have spoken I do not judge you, you do not judge me
We order an excess of food
She eats the beetroot, she does not eat the bread
There are all sorts of affectations in the street 18
A Star of David, for no reason except the obvious A bad haircut Brows that frown
I found Berlin’s remarks about Shostakovitch mostly insulting A mother goes off at her daughter: ‘Can you turn that down please!’ The daughter is offended, she’s also pretty Her fingernails alternate silver and pink
No, maybe pink and white
It’s apple and quark, she says What’s quark?, I ask It goes with the apple, she says I’m 10 cents short 19
No, not yet No
The bearskin awaits, the open road, the off-cream Cadillac
Yes, back to the open road
My eyes are a gone thing They spit venom at my foes They see beauty where maybe beauty is, or plainness only
Steve is about to be minted into a dollar Dolores expects a sauce Others follow Paul down other actorly paths The sauce is not a success The celebrity savour is not always what it’s cracked up to be
Awkward pretensions!
He smiles, he frowns He knows no shame He puts himself in the midst of the lonely crowd He wonders when and where his next shit will occur He rings his friends He snitches an apple from the Golden Bowl He begins to bellyache but just to himself He gets caught in a cold wind There is much about sailing he does not get He welcomes Wendy warmly She is taller by far than last time and rears direct to the ceiling like an ancient djinn He finds the cards he had lost He escapes back to the bed We all know much more than we think we know His most valuable possession is … 20
He comes and goes, death planet He comes and goes He sheets down his complaints to very specific concerns
The wanted notices to go up all over southern Texas He tries to consider what sort of country that is He returns to the food He renews acquaintance with the Southern Baptist Church He anoints his kin with oil He sells his new auto to his youngest brother His sister Kate enrolls at Penn State His other sister is a Wellesley girl: Dawn
We forget
Ugly still, ugly then, ugly will be Ugly rules ok
We apologize for things we should not apologize for We anoint our own heads with oil We have no idea what we are talking about
All languages can fall into each other; a common lingo
I too can speak with a falling intonation I too can talk with a downturn of my voice I too can talk unaffectedly I too can speak with a voice devoid of affect I too can be a cold colourless personality I too can ignore all criticism I too can bleat like a sheep if necessary I too can eat tofu with healthy movements of my limbs I too can stir my coffee with a long silver spoon I too can appear confident and competent I too can read from a script I too can retreat to old familiar gestures I too can re-hash old ideas, shamelessly I too can make life a mockery I too can tell you where to go I too can play the obsequious I too can come up with unthought thoughts I too can I too I too can do as I please 21
Waterfalls, they want waterfalls Rainforest, that’s what they want, rainforests
Great conflagrations that devour the long-extended jetties Great conflagrations that devour the Norfolk Island pines that line the shore
Temple doorways that burst into flame
Cocktail glasses that contain within themselves great cultures of tidiness and refined orderliness Lamp shades that cast absent shadows Newsletters that contain a super-surfeit of information
Diamonds that drip from trees Amethysts that drip from trees Rubies that drip from trees
Tigers that stroll through the park Leopards that stroll through the park Lions that terrorize the residents of the eastern suburbs
Burghers that shake in their boots Burghers that hang their sox out to dry Burghers who hang up their sox Burghers who tie their ties nicely
Thunder waves that roar Thunder waves that crash on the raw, roaring shore Thunder waves that crash on your head Thunder waves that eat Vitabrits Thunder waves that nibble at tiny, ladylike biscuits Thunder waves that snub their noses
Undiagnosed disappointments Undiagnosed pains Undiagnosed sorrows Undiagnosed douleurs Unfettered dolorous days Undiagnosed mass hysteria Undiagnosed festering sores Forgotten beatings, beatings that remain unremembered All the little trials and tribulations Hair in plaits, hair done in braids Teeth in rows, teeth in braces Orders of correction Belted, belted up Stop start Corsetted
Abnormal remedies Entirely normal fears Hell’s fires
On such embers your fingers may be toasted, oh errant one! Beware our warnings, they are intended … 22
A visit to the rifle range The prison gates A rowboat on the Vistula Anything that joins or adjoins the Donau The towers of Torun
A scatter of objects from the left bank
An unlikely messenger A well-groomed head Eyes too tired to see The irksome tread of heavy feet
Motor scooters Dawn patrols Mickie meets Minnie Various pathways of diffidence 23
Refusal, I refuse (Not me, a generic me)
Who says no says no
Zones of refusal One-two-three-four-five Zones of refusal One-two-three-four-five-six-seven Zones of refusal
Delay, deferral, the outright
Oh, when you succumb you succumb, oh my brother
We eat bread, we eat soursop We lick the dribble off your chin We play St Julien We embrace the mayor, cuddle countless koalas Tame the untamable Drool at prospects of success Play the monkey from the tall tower (Singeries, singeries) Play court to the Duc d’Enghien Bequeath non-existent estates to 'The Cause' Chat on television, play mein host sublimely Buy shares in dinky toys Take a shower Send telegrams of approval to trigger-happy cops Crack down on crime Play cynical attitudes cynically Play Tattslotto Hear the latest news – ‘SYSTEMS BREAKDOWN, SYSTEMS BREAKDOWN’ – with sly equanimity Pack my bag Struggle with the habitual problem, the refusal to see Interview ancient sporting commentators Raise funds for convicted kick-boxer Raise funds for arson victims Write down every word I hear on radio Avoid all censorship Try to handle the heat Try to handle the glare
Anger, it obeys its own rules It follows its own courses
It is all a tremendous waste of time 24
… and so the Minister speaks
as you know we are moving forward we are, we are moving forward, we are moving forward
we are absolutely committed
in the interests, in the national interest we we we
note note this note note note farmers can be part of the solution
farmers can
we
not an insubstantial contribution a significant, a significant contribution
our political will is there, our political will is clear
that is what we have to do
what I have said is, what I have said credible and credible and responsible
we
business certainty business guaranteed
500 billion every day of delay the time of action is now, the time of nation is now
we are willing we are willing to have discussions with the Greens the way the Senate is configured the way the
the
we have to do what we think is right what we think is in the national interest
79 centimetres 1.1 metres what we are to believe what we are to believe with the aid of the experts with the aid and the advice of the experts with the aid and the advice of the experts and the department
the upper limits of the risk
information into the public arena we have to work through this we can have a discussion
reducing emissions, reducing emissions
the minister speaks, the minister acts he exercises his discretion
people are entitled to express their opinion
in relation to other matters in relation to in relation to other matters
25
The anthem he he he The anthem ha ha ha
We will rejoice
He he he, ha ha ha The anthem is for all The anthem is for all for all for all of us
Free Free and free
Swim you stupid bastard Keep your head afloat Stay afloat, keep afloat It’s your duty, it’s your human duty It’s your duty to humankind, the whole bloody lot
Lock stock and barrel
Power came from the barrel of a gun, kapow kapow
Power came from the barrel of a gun KAPOW! 26
Mighty Mouse takes refuge in a piece of green cheese A mere sliver
Today this will do, for today Today today It will do
Let us not let our expectations run away with us Yes, let us keep our expectations in hand (And so say all of us, all of us And so say all of us)
The waters of the billabong slide over us, smoothly smoothly There is nary a ripple All is back to normal Normalcy is returned, all channels
Business as usual, yoh Business as usual, yoh yoh 27
... the project, our project
(we might pray, we might curse we might do anything at all)
a piston fails a cog sheers
exit the machine age, the body becomes possible (it might exalt but it doesn’t know the difference)
twiddle your fingers, twiddle your toes ring your auntie, tell your uncle a lie consult the weather forecast
never again, never again in that food hall: human swill his mother in abbotsford 3 dollars 90 the proprietor with her hand out what, have you no shame?
the eiffel tower falling down, rusted out apollinaire safe in his grave (the hope of the world tied in one tiny bundle) st christopher crosses the river styx lot’s wife turns the president votes for himself in the presidential election (know you no shame) speak about nothing, he says speak about nothing 28
Give us a break Can’t you give us a break Or is this what we’re supposed to endure What, day after day, day after day
One day they crossed the Equator They didn’t know where they were, north or south Or somewhere in the middle
They dreamed of distant climes but they were already in distant climes
So they sailed away, sailed away Constantly in thought of other shores, farther shores
The ice melted, but still they sailed on The sun blazed down, but still they sailed The moon glimmered and gleamed And strode the catwalk of the night Like a haughty model too beautiful to contemplate
You shadow thing, I said to her, you shadow thing What are you doing here
I am here, she said, to accompany your grief The hard things of your exiting I am here to accompany you in your pain and your sorrow
We rowed out into the stream We rowed out into the wide and fulsome river Reeds rattled the shore And nothing inhabited the leafless branches of the willows
Nothing has changed, we endure badly We look for stone-carved gods in the false hills We lift up our eyes to the fog-scuttled skies We know nothing, we know nothing We say too much We know nothing but insist on opening our gobs Like gasping cod
Gasp, gasp
We wheeze this day into another day
Wheel in the oxygen tanks, wheel in the oxygen tents The world is in reverse It beeps
Beep beep beep
A voice cries STOP A voice cries WRONG WAY WRONG WAY WRONG WAY
There’s a sudden urgency in the language of defeat
[incomplete poem] 29
They run down the stairs, they look ridiculous They run down the stairs, they’re very important They’re very important, they’re very important They rush They rush They’re in a rush They rush down the stairs, they’re very important They rush, they rush
Christmas begins today, 16 November Christmas begins today 250 000 gifts, that’s our target Actors in decline, singers off the charts A wrong note, a discordant something We have them all We have them all And the Newcastle Christmas Choir
Come let us adore him Come Come let us adore him
They rush on the stairs, they race the escalator downward Down down They race it downward
Rush
Today’s its Christmas 16 November Today it’s Christmas
The celestial choir reaches new heights
[High-pitched squeal on the sax] 30
NOTES FOR A PERFORMANCE
Shut up, first of all shut up Sit still Feel your bum on the seat
Sit still, continue to sit still
If you’re good-looking you may sit with your arms folded across your chest But only if you’re good-looking
If you’re beautiful you may pout
You’re really quite well-built; you only need to flex your muscles
I owned a BMW once, brand new But no, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a BMW t-shirt or top I definitely would not
Nor a cap saying TASMANIA in big letters 31
THE WAY THINGS ARE
Australia is definitely worse than any European country. You can be proud you achieved this (an overheard remark)
Hi bro how’s it going He grins out of nowhere, suddenly
The baby looks at me & sucks
If it suits you I could swing by in 10
He bops to an invisible beat
Hi Loretta it’s Andrew Is everything under control
That’s cool
If you just plod away to 2 I’ve just got to run up the road and see somebody
25 dollars, the first of the rip-offs, to glue my shoe (The sole you know it fell off, Armani It happens all the time, says the taxi-driver There isn’t a wedding on the Sunshine Coast he doesn’t attend)
Herded on the train, herded on the bus Distress signals issued by the lady in number 3
They do not look like breeding stock They do not look like breeding stock to me
This is not my natural habitat This does not look like any place I belong to This does not look like any place I know This does not look like any place I wish to be
Allah, he says, it’s not my religion Thank Christ, he says, it’s not my religion They stand as one
Hips stiff, they lumber Hips stiff, they seem to know what they’re doing The one on the right carries worry beads He worries them with his right hand
See, old habits 32
THE FIRST OF THE CRAZIES
The first of the crazies Our crazy of the day Today the day of departure
He raises his voice, I look up He sees me, he sees me seeing him He has an old man’s guts And the hair combed back Tidily
Waving his passports, waving his papers He seems to have two passports
And sets of papers
Such people speak to me As a rule they speak to me They come up to me, and speak Any moment now Any moment
But today I am spared Today I am saved He wanders off ‘I’ll kill myself’, his final word
Everyone is little, everyone is two feet tall They don’t need seats, they could sit in each other’s laps That’s what I think That’s what I think to myself
The man in the brown suit has just stepped out of a film That’s his look Out of a film or out of a poster It makes no difference
See, he’s got the look
Here is a girl who looks like a sheep At least the upper body (The legs are long She walks with a twitch of the hips)
It’s all too simple, there must be something wrong It’s all too simple, I’m awaiting some sort of disaster Sooner or later, yes, a disaster It’s all too simple, the disaster is now 33
SLEEPERS, AWAKE!
They sleep, yes, they sleep They sleep, yes, like babies From here to Seoul, that’s what I expect A long distance snooze All the way Yes, snooze, all the way
An art A national art Rows upon row of sleeping nationals
It’s daylight, for god’s sake It’s broad daylight It’s day
Had I their art, this art of ‘shuteye’ This art of switch-off-to-nowhere
I’ll try
Somewhere a bird twitters People clap hands
I think of my rowboat Brick walls Red brick waters I think of waters swirling I think of mud, eddies I think of cattle I think of cattle sunken into the mud I think of cattle sunken into the wet green grass
The cabin is dark, we fly over Cooktown The cabin is dark, we fly over Hopevale The cabin is dark, we fly over Elim We fly over rowboats in which we sit looking up (We are hot and we are looking up) We fly over beach camps, we fly over beach camps we once inhabited
We fly over stretches of water we know so well we could hold them in our hand (It is too far, it is too far) We fly over campfires we lit many years back We fly over coconuts we kicked and rattled in passing We fly over blackened skies We fly over tremulous taipan tracks We fly over a thousand accidents of history We fly where brolgas fly We fly where geese honk We fly where mosquitoes practice their high-pitched hum We fly where sand flies lurk in the mangroves We fly where no dugout has been for many a year
We fly where the ghosts of lugger captains remain to be exorcised We fly where the ghost of that bastard Moss remains to be exorcised We fly over beaches where the ghosts of the past hang heavy We fly over reefs that hang bright beneath the rising tide We fly high over the memory of river mouths and ancient creeks We fly over places to which we shall never return …
The earth belongs to us and disowns us The earth forgets We too forget
We have no idea what we are doing
We find we cannot exist on memory alone Our plans are forlorn and forgotten
We have no idea why we did the things we did 34
SLUMBERING DEATH
Slumbering death, such a strange sensation Tears that rise and fall every second or so Unaccountable Unaccountable tears
The cabin is a death cabin The cabin is like a death cabin All people contained in it are like refugees (In sleep they find refuge) Locked in Locked into a darkness that is self-imposed
This is their rule: SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP
Somewhere between Saipan and Manila Our cigar case makes its relentless lunge forward Relentless as death Death itself Already dead and dying above the Phillipine Sea
It’s dark, I manage to switch on the light There are texts I have to write Texts I have to shed Obliterate Make do with
I do not know the memory of it This adventure which is not an adventure Which is not an adventure And still another day to go
The expected attendant does not appear The expected attendant does not exist I am forced to ask at every turn Make demand, construct myself wilfully
My things are taken from me I am forced to surrender, even the little things
My sleeping companions sleep My sleeping companions continue to sleep
Okinawa ahead Okinawa lies somewhere ahead
I think of my son, I am required to think of my son
Nothing makes sense, not today I am forced to endure in the company of strangers I am required to endure myself in the company of strangers There are no friends to greet We are weighed down with paraphernalia
My eyes betray me to the mercies of others
The rowboat is inches from the shore 35
THE MIRACLE OF MODERN TRAVEL
Hell, the miracles of modern travel You make a special request for assistance, on account of your eyes They look at you as if, if your head isn’t blown off, you’re really in one piece Compos mentis and all the rest Entirely able
I can tell you, the quality of English has deteriorated over the years Now the woeful
Behind me a giant image of Pulguksa Somewhere else something else
The bus they said would be 30 minutes
I left home at 6.30 The plane left late at 10 o’clock It’s now 7.25 local time 9.25 at the place of departure pm, of course making a day of 15 and a half hours
yes, thank heavens for the miracle of modern travel
I talk my way through most things immigration, the customs officer nothing checked; tomorrow no doubt they’ll have a go at my medication
efficiency we can scorn the lack of it in others even when it suits our purposes in years gone by, I recall, I talked my way onto the Hotel Lotte bus my determination overriding all other considerations they didn’t argue, not too much it was, I suppose, too much trouble for them
it’s a rule: look as if you just might make trouble 36
Today I’ve written 2 texts That is, two texts in addition to this day’s ‘bounty’ of texts There’s the text for the art opening in Bydgoszcz And there’s the Lévi-Strauss text (How much he makes of gifts And the notion of prestation; The circulation of people as objects of exchange The life of things)
Seoul is full of red crosses The people are as handsome as ever The bus driver as skilful The trip interminable The old lanes of the old city just as they were The art work in the hotel corridors tastefully French (I think I’m back at the Chosun) The hotel room is full of cigarette smoke (See, I’ve scored an Executive Suite Executive means smoking) A toothbrush will cost you 1000 won at the minibar The meal arrives in 3 sudden swoops The food is American, including the pulkogi How fortunate, I’m on floor 13 The flower arrangement is memorable, worthy of a photo I’m dog-tired I’m ill I don’t know what I’m doing here
It’s about forgiveness, sings the singer It’s about forgiveness
37
The bone china is as expected excellent I like the woman at the next table, her handsome face, her deliberate gestures The lack of pretension
She reminds me of Alexis
I think of her as an intellectual I don’t know what else she might be
Her one conceit is the elaborate buttoning at the cuffs of her jumper
Which reminds me, Toni’s repairs to my coat are a success
Tomorrow I will probably survive but maybe not
I’ll go to breakfast at 7 and try to avoid the orange juice
Hazards are the most ordinary hazards
I can overhear voices but not conversations
I could read Korean once but not now
My handsome companion has disappeared, she disappears just like that
A plate rattles 38
And reappears, just like that
The sun streams in, sky cloudless but not blue Steam rising from the tops of buildings
Slow motion, everything is in slow motion
Tables are wiped down
Today there is fish abalone soup smoked salmon something with herrings
There is a choice of 5 pastries
Today’s ordeal lies ahead I face the sun It’s light lands on my fingers Glints off the fork
Orchids guard the windows One doesn’t flower, the one on the west wall
Because it’s smorgasbord it’s called the Scandinavian Club I suppose that’s the reason
Grey city, white city, grey and white city and the steam rising Impassive Without urgency
It seems she is married, my paramour She wears the same outfit as last night The same jumper with the buttons at the wrists
There is something mannish about her, something calm; She takes photos to the west
She leaves calmly, taking in the view A bag hangs over her right shoulder
She never hurries She is never one to be in a hurry 39
No, the towels are not de luxe, they’re not even fluffy I expect something sumptuous
Outside the air is cold, familiar
How suddenly we can feel at home
I like the tangle of streets The women’s foundation garments, mannequins all naked and facing the bare street The boys’ fashions in the shops, aping America And now the prompt departure of the bus; Over-prompt
We cross the Han (there were checkpoints once) The water is a pale blue
For a brief moment I see the future Great swirls of road, buildings in clusters No highlight, no focus, nothing monumental, nothing too tall Assured
109, 105, the buildings are numbered Each building in a cluster is numbered 103, 102, 100, 104, 105
I knew this road once, the road to Suweon Nothing here, there was nothing here 102, 101, 101 A great cage of steel rises up
Ah, a driving range (Yes, we knew it was important)
An abandoned swimming pool A side channel of the river full of dried reeds with fluffy heads 103, 102 The same commitment to fantasy A cross on the wall, a blue cross A graceful railway bridge, slender A weird apparition in red A chimney billowing smoke or steam The river getting wider and wider A strange appalling beauty 615, 610, 605 307, 306, 105, 103, 101 The familiar spiky peaks 111, 106, 103, 102 No apparent order A low hill covered in colours and filigree Another slender bridge Another slender bridge A whole vast mass of buildings in the west Swirls of road Interchanges Great curves in red-orange A tunnel with tiles The calm steady skill of our driver impressive A ‘plane taking off from Kimpo A ringing telephone Memories of previous visits My black bag left in the taxi A visit to the Embassy My bag retrieved (Minus of course 100 dollars)
(This is thirty years back remember)
I always lose money on trips
The bridge is green The train so neat with yellow doors And unreal the way trains are at a slight distance This set of hothouses shines in the sun This set of hothouses covered in clear plastic glints in the sun This cutting on the right is immense What function it serves I do not know What function it is meant to serve I do not know
The curtains of our bus are purple There are headrest covers in silver-blue The bus is hung with frills and flowers We are in the city, we are not in the city In the distance there are clusters of buildings Plumes of smoke or steam rise up Rows of chimneys, cranes free-standing standing in clusters No bird to be seen, no bird Not one A great bay suddenly appearing on our right (The tide is out, the mudflats are exposed) A great bay appears on our left (The tide is out, the mudflats are exposed) The smell of the mudflats, the smell of the sea creeps into the cabin We cross a long bridge We cross a long bridge and causeway We hop – it seems - from island to island The islands are pretty, covered in trees The islands are pretty, covered in trees with bare branches
The tide is out, the mudflats are exposed The mudflats shine silver in the sunlight
The sunlight falls on my face The trees are thick on the low hills The exposed earth is orange The exposed earth is orange-brown 40
It will be a long wait at the airport, almost 3 hours Maybe three hours
I dread waiting
I dread waiting For one thing I work too hard I work too hard when I wait
If there were a gym I’d go to the gym If I was prepared to go to a gym I’d go to a gym
I’m tired The man across from me sleeps The man across from me sleeps with his mouth open The voices on the radio go on and on
The sun makes me sleepy
Out on the right I see the airport Yes, it will be a long wait Out on the right I see the airport Yes, it will be a long wait
There is a bridge, a long bridge and causeway The whole scene gleams silver-grey There is no traffic
Beyond the bridge there are towers Beyond the bridge there are skyscrapers
They are not inconsiderable
We enter the airport 41
Some things are the same They sit outside to smoke They stand outside to smoke But only the men
The women do not hover outside the building smoking They do not hover outside the doorways smoking
Here there are peasants, who hold the cigarette between the thumb and two fingers Farm people Rural people Farmers; Their cheeks are sunken, hollowed They are not overweight
A patrol of 8 young men goes by, young men in maroon berets They walk on padded feet silent as leopards
If that was the west end, this should be the east end
They greet each other with high-pitched voices But they do not embrace
This the drab end of town
The building is functional, Phillip Cox The Sydney Football Stadium The Sydney Olympic Stadium, now renamed
It is silent It is more or less clear and it is silent
In a minute I shall inspect Domestic, maybe it is busier In a minute maybe I shall inspect Domestic
There are people checking, checking and cleaning Picking up leaves Picking up leaves fallen from the figs, the figs in pots
She drives off silently, on her electric buggy
It has fronds at the front for sweeping things up A scene from Fellini A scene from Satiricon, but hardly murderous
The boredom here is different It is a different kind of boredom
I’m sick of looking, I’m sick of writing At some time At some time in the future I shall be sick of typing
All this
Yet here we are, sick of looking, sick of writing, sick of waiting Sick, sick of
Just sick
I need a change of tactic
My book is rapidly being filled 42
Procedures are not the same In Sydney they won’t book my luggage through to Berlin At Inchon the resourceful Kwak (I check his name) checks my luggage right through
To Berlin
No trouble, no trouble
How come? How come?
There is an obvious explanation It is this: Kwak is not lazy but the ground staff in Sydney are lazy
Kwak is definitely not lazy He is also a good-looking young man
This makes my dealings with Kwak very pleasant
He is a very competent young man, competent and obliging
Inchon take off, ready set go
We sit
Ready set go
We wait
The clock ticks by
Ready set go I have a whole row of seats to myself (Please have a pleasant flight) My bastard pen is about to give out (Ready set go) Ready set go, ready set go (Intoning it will get you nowhere)
Ready set go, ready set go
I await the first shuddering moment of reverse
(The pen is still about to run out)
Ah, the move is made, a backward move The seats beside me are still empty China Airlines slides along the runway
The tarmac is huge, clearly military
China Air scuds away, China Eastern scuds away We follow 43
[FLIGHT 02451 SEOUL/INCHON – FRANKFURT] 18 11 09
In 40 seconds lift off In 50 seconds already at altitude In 60 seconds we already veer to the left
Mud, mudflats, powder blue waters; a scatter of islands Mud flats that appear a long way out
That reach a long way out and appear a long way out
Rocks Two boats racing, the wash trails white behind them
Racing
Racing for no good reason
Just to race
Yellow Sea, Bohai sea Towns with immense apartment buildings, row after row Fields Fields streaked with snow Fields fallow for the winter
Snow in the mountain valleys Snow on the sides of the mountains but thickest in the valleys Snow on the crests
Snow everywhere
Snow everywhere and solitary roads, tracks
Great plains of whiteness
Mauve peaks Orange peaks with blue shadows Lands without people Tracts without tracks
Irkutsk, Omsk
Yekaterinburg Nizhniy Novgorod
Talinn, Riga, Vlady
North of Tula North of Moscow
Szczecin to our left, Berlin ahead Potsdam, 43 miles Potsdam, 23 miles
And everywhere the cloud, everywhere the same blanket of cloud 44
There is a moment when we descend into the murk That moment is now
Let me remind you: an in-flight magazine is not a guardian of culture They do like to tell you where to eat
The murk I think must go right to the ground
Despite assurances that my luggage is forwarded directly to Tegel, I am doubtful
We’re still at 30 000 feet
Now the exercises begin, now’s the time for the exercises to begin
He looked cheerier when he got on, now he looks ravaged
The sky is brilliant, brilliant blues and pinks of various intensities
No forms to fill out We haven’t received them
There is a plane below us; our paths cross
A Mozart clarinet piece
The sky flares into a true Götterdämmerung Right on cue! Brilliant orange, brilliant red A startling unexpected blue
And now the sudden swift fade! 45
Undercarriage down A landing in 6 minutes seems unlikely
Frankfurt on our right
I chide the hostess for letting the gentleman opposite put his bag in my access route My exit route in fact
The autobahn streams with traffic
5:07, excellent landing
So here is heaven, here in Terminal A
Young men should not wear suits (Joop) No one should ever wear suits (Joop Joop) Schoolboys might wear suits but with elaborate braiding Red Alternating blue and white Otherwise let them be jaunty
It’s now 2 in the morning or thereabouts, Seoul time 4 in the morning in Sydney (I’d be thinking about waking up) There’s not an ATM in sight German is the language of the hour Listen and you can think you understand it There is one newspaper in English, The Wall Street Journal There are no papers in French – or anything other language for that matter
I’m still peeved about the ATM
Frankfurt appears to be closing down for the night It’s only 6.30 I’d ring Britta if I knew how I don’t carry a mobile though Linda would I wonder what Sławek has in mind, a crazy trip in the dark?
I’ve already been up the best part of 20 hours I’ve had three meals I’ve got angry once
Passengers leave a flight from Hamburg, they all walk brusquely The hoi polloi, the ones in Economy, are less hastened They don’t have time to burn but they do have time to expend
She slouches, he reads angrily, one-handed He seizes the magazine in both hands He lifts the magazine to his face, too close The gestures are deliberate He reads intently
His right foot is hooked over his left knee He shakes his right foot but only gently When he turns the pages he no longer shakes his foot 46
Somewhere the world has taken a wrong turn If people are driven to cheat it must be for a reason
Give me the reason
Here comes someone eating a giant pasty something See, another wrong turning
I’m not sure that people should be reading all the time Or checking out Internet
At least they sit side by side
If I have to take the train tomorrow that’s three days on the road
Our flight will be called at any moment
Yes, she sniffles, she sniffles Yes, she is the person who will infect me Infest me
She sniffles
She sits right next to me, long-legged and sniffling
Ah, the wind; ah, the storm; ah, the tempest We will crash or land We will crash We will … 47
The car park is empty Welcome to Berlin The car park is empty Taxis wait like sharks Taxis lie in wait like sharks
Dresden or Leipzig? Dresden Frankfurt or Cottbus? Who gives a damn
There is one thing that matters: the border We will not cross the Oder till later We will not cross the Odra till much later Caught in the gusting wind, caught in the flurry of blown leaves We will soon hit the side roads We will soon hit history
(The autobahn has no history, the double carriage way highway has no history The autobahn deletes history, the super-highway deletes history The autobahn is designed to defeat history The super-highway is intended to delete history and to delete space Time and space, singularity and history all deleted Skill deleted Calculation deleted All travel turned into simple intention
The destination is the purpose, there is no journey The arrival is everything, the journey is nothing)
Stopped by the cops near Gubin Stopped by the polizei near Guben We enter the blustering night Stopped by the cops (show your passport) Stopped by the cops Stopped by the polizei (show your papers) We escape across the border (That is the whole idea) Escape across the border into Poland
The border crossing is vast, abandoned, filled with ghosts The border crossing is huge, deserted It is not absurd to say you feel the ghosts of the past A space of extreme disorientation
Skateboard park, skateboard park
Skateboard Skateboard 48
I thought I knew things, I know nothing I thought there were things I knew I know nothing
There are memories and nothing else Nothing Memories only
Something has happened I know nothing and there are memories only Memories of nothing
Everything is familiar but nothing exists Everything is familiar but out of whack Everything is strange but it is known already Everything is known
The city is full of pretty buildings, pink, green There are trams and pedestrian crossings and statues Here and there, everywhere there are statues
They are ugly, they are not beautiful They seem somehow abandoned They are quirky, they are familiar, I know nothing about them Even when I read about them (in the town guide) I know nothing about them They seem somehow amateurish
There are plaques There are plaques One of the plaques says in English «denizens of Bydgoszcz» I don’t think they mean this I don’t think they mean to say «denizens of Bydgoszcz» I don’t think they mean this but maybe they did Maybe Bydgoszcz is full of denizens Maybe that is what Bydgoszcz is, a town full of denizens
[image: statue of a bear with its jaws wrapped around a wolf] 49
If I survive the smoke I may survive If I don’t survive I won’t survive
Truths are as simple as this
I have no idea yet what I shall perform
First things first, I need to wash my hair That is the first thing
On account of the smoke, of course
What there is on the walls I have no idea Bows and arrows A décor to end all décors …
We will get the complete list of things later
For the moment it is bows and arrows 50
The more familiar the more foreign Not strange, unapproachable The language is familiar, I understand nothing ‘I’m an angel from today’, he says Which provokes me to say, ‘I don’t trust angels’
No, definitely not, angels are not to be trusted
At any moment you might hear the roar of a lion You might hear a lion roar
But for the moment all is silence, silence
You will see nothing, you will hear nothing Only the vaguest hum You will see nothing, you will hear nothing No wolf will come to your door No wolf, no mongoose No cobra, no viper Just a shake of green leaves Just a cry of wild plenty Just a cry of wild ergot Just a word or two in some strange disconsolate argot Just a few wild words Just a few wild words amid the rows of potatoes Just a few wild words amid the rows of stale cabbages Just a few wild words amid the flowers on the altar
What to think, what to think here? What to do, what to do here?
We are on unfamiliar territory What is permissible or not is not clear Everything is doubtful, obscure
There is no history, there is no history to speak of We drone like gnats We moan like mosquitoes We imitate the laughter of insects We imitate the sly rictus of ants We drown in fish fingers We feed on buttered scones We want for nothing, we want for nothing
We are cast adrift 51
Moaning, yes, moaning at breakfast[1] Folkways, mores Faded glory
Who are we to speak?
Heaviness, no, not dour, heavy
Spring on the wall Printemps, été
Yes, breakfast is served (‘Isn’t it romantic, isn’t it romantic’) Breakfast is served And no lobster by the tail
A long way home Terms of engagement unclear Terms of engagement not announced
Foreign is foreign is foreign There is no stepping back No stepping back
52
We said foreign, we said no No compromise We said
We said No compromise, the foreign is unforgiving
They will kill us with their smoke trails It’s not just in my eyes, baby
Pal, pal uwa, pala mu’i Puy, puy uwa, puy mu’i
Coming and going
Sit down, sit down why don’t you I’ve been here a week I’ve been here a week, I’m none the wiser
The footpaths are not flat The footpaths are not flat which makes walking difficult
Watch each step, you must watch each step
You shouldn’t have to watch each step You shouldn’t have to make such a goddamn effort Watching each step, I mean
There is no need for this, no need at all 53
I am the invisible man, he said Everything makes me invisible
He has hair down to the ground It touches the ground His hair He’s not exactly invisible, not at all He feels invisible
He’s made it his problem, to feel invisible You can’t look like that You can’t look like that and be invisible It’s just not on
We come from the same part of the country He comes from the Big River I come from the Small River
He comes from the Big One, that Big One river
His mob, the Bandjalang Mob, they straddle both rivers
They’re upper river people, freshwater people Topside People
Freshwater and saltwater don’t really mix He’s freshwater He’s freshwater but you wouldn’t know it
He does nothing at all to make you think he is a freshwater person
He’s a blackfella, I’m a whitefella We know each other, we know each other very well We’re friends
We’ve known each other a long time It might seem like centuries We’ve known each other a long time We haven’t always been friends
The sun rises in the east, we all know that The sun catches the top of Mount Warning, Wolombin That’s its proper name, Wolombin Wolumbin the cloud-catcher It catches the clouds and it catches the sun
We’re all from the same part of the world
What does that make us, it makes us countrymen Sort of But we’re not countrymen We’ve left that country We’ve followed separate paths but still there is something the same A vague point of contact Nothing you can really put your finger on
It’s nothing special but we speak the same language Sort of
I can make him laugh I can make most people laugh But him, I can make him laugh
Which is good
If he were here he would speak for himself I’m sure he’d prefer to speak for himself We’d all rather speak for ourselves except when we’d prefer someone else to speak for us
That can happen, that can happen when something important is to be said Something where our real identity is at stake We hand it over to others We hand it over to others to speak for us When it’s important, when it’s really important We have to have someone we trust and they speak for us, they perform for us
This might seem something of a mystery and it is If you talk too much about yourself you can disappear You disappear behind a veil of words, a veil of self-utterances That is how you disappear
It’s not invisibility really, it’s something related to it I don’t know what to call it You disappear but you are really not invisible You remain visible You may continue to be present There you are! But you have disappeared You appear like a brick in the roadway You appear as if you have become an impediment You have thrown the first stone Now you must pay the price You wanted visibility but now you are just a stone in the road A blockage A sort of obstacle You’ve tricked yourself well and truly The sun appears but no, it doesn’t appear for you And your shadow, your shadow Is not the first that ever burst across this Across this Across this cold sandy shore
There is no real name for it It doesn’t have a name Yet we know it, we know it very well
The name for it eludes us, it eludes us utterly
Sometimes we must crave each other’s forgiveness It doesn’t count for much but it’s something 54
They didn’t look at us very friendly when we stepped into the restaurant They didn’t look at us very friendly when I put my coat in at the cloakroom I did however get a big key, a big piece of metal It said 12 It said 12 in big metal letters
I can’t escape the smoke, I can’t escape the smoke, it’s partout It’s everywhere It’s in my clothes, it’s in my coat And despite the fact that I washed my hair, it’s in my hair
Smoke always settles in the hair
There’s not much I can say about all this except to say it’s barbaric, it’s an active health hazard It’s ruinous 55
In the sick room In the sick room where the doctors suddenly enter For a brief moment the walls show a shadow
At any moment now it will be my turn for attention
Language, it kills us slowly 56
They operate as if their two eyes work They operate as if their two eyes will work forever All assume normal working order
The table is broken, one leg is shorter than the other There is no reason that things should not work
My favourite doctor has a day’s stubble at least He purses his lips when he sees my gall bladder on the ultrasound Very bad, he says, very bad And the lips purse He makes a gesture as if he’s cutting his throat ‘cut it out’ ‘Cut it out’ A slashing motion with an invisible blade: ‘Very bad, very bad’ If I had the time I might teach him a word The word for the occasion: calamitous
He needs that word: calamitous, calamity He needs that word That is the word he is reaching for
* * *
My second favourite doctor is called Piotr Dr Piotr He’s taller than he looks with a round face and round eyeglasses He makes me think of that other Pyotr, the one in War and Peace
War and Peace, War and Peace
Today they change the sheets ‘Prosze’ they say when they’re finished Today is Wednesday, it’s the first day they’ve worried about the sheets
There is a new nurse There is always a new nurse Today’s nurse wears a pale green top
She talks to me I don’t know what she is saying
My companion is back in my room The men are either bald or they wear ponytails If I had my hair cut off I’d leave something of myself in Poland An image
I’m sick of my life I’m sick of my life that brings only problems There is nothing in my life other than problems
The pen says Stabilo Exam Grade I don’t know what this ‘Exam Grade’ is about
My companion has left the room with a roll of toilet paper The toilet paper is grey; Other toilet paper is green
I’ve got something like the hiccups The romance of life is a big con
Dr Piotr makes an appearance He apologizes for the non-appearance of the surgeon-general The surgeon-general should have checked me out yesterday but he did not 57
There is no point saying that outside it is grey Of course it is grey
There is no point saying anything else either
Poetry is the language of pointless things
When we feel better we feel better Simple When we feel not so good we feel not so good And not so simple
Life is for the unworthy
We can say any old thing and get away with it
My companion spends much time on the telephone I have a feeling he’s getting ready to leave 58
Blood in the tube A new patient with dyed hair
Why do I feel in the presence of crooks?
I’m being cured of something but what?
The bread tasted good The bread tasted very good
Bushy eyebrows like John Howard Other politicians might come to mind though we would need to force the issue
This is not my way
The bread is an improvement over what Dr Piotr calls ‘the pap’
(Yes, he knows this word in English; it is the perfect word The perfect word for an imperfect substance)
You too can appear on Bydgoszcz television
There is no way that is satisfactory Thought returns but there is no way that is satisfactory
Road closed
Road closed but maybe temporary 59
There is no intelligence There is no what intelligence isn’t, either
We are caught between nothing and nothing
If I weep will anyone notice If I scream will anyone seek to restrain me
For the moment it is nothing And nothing And nothing 60
Hello, is there anyone here? Hello, anyone?
The stink of the place is upon me The stink of the place is right here
You too can be dead and bruised You too can fall into the pit And not the pit of forgetfulness only
You too
5 days makes you Polish 5 days in Ward 5 makes you a Pole The hospital, see, is the very thing – to grab you, to hold you, to convert you
Ward 5 61
The word is not out Chopin is not dead yet The keyboard is covered in blood
Oh yes, it’s a slippery business on the keys
Shall we bid our farewells or no
They’ve gone silent, perhaps suspecting a refugee They’ve gone silent knowing a traitor when they see one 62
[Hotel in Nitra, afternoon, and raining; and the concert performance after that point at which I sat down]
I can’t say anything about the décor I can’t say anything about the Asian presence I can’t say anything about the black lacquer furniture
Ostentation is ostentation Comfort is always a sort of company Companionableness
The soul is restless, the soul is a disturbed country The business of the air The business of attention, full and half-baked
The next turn will come The next turn will come in several seconds The next break will come in half and hour
Sławek’s capacity to focus is strong A great sound track in the making invitation to a nightmare invitation to a nightmare that is invisible remedies soundless disasters precision The buzz of the crosscut saw
No break, no party fever
The drums go ‘Polish, Polish, Polish!’
And break …
63
The last 20 minutes
Situational was the word I needed, not merely interim, immediate Shock the local, make it present
Now in the last 5 minutes Indian love bells, Russian tabernacle Machine-gun fire
Clip clop, the horse is dead Clip clop, the Western is dead Clip clop
Clip clop
Don’t eat jaffas, don’t eat juicy fruit Don’t praise the pope too fulsomely Don’t undo your pledges to yourself or to others Don’t undo the threats you offer Don’t undo your promises to yourself 64
Another day to depart Another day of departure Another cigarette Another day of complaints
Who shall pay for breakfast? Who shall pay for the parting of the waves?
There is no parting of the waters; The Nitra runs shallow without conviction The town is not drawn sweetly to its banks It’s a bad day all round A general malaise, a general distemper
My wit falls heavy on earless recipients My natural enlivening cast into the streets like a piece of offal
A plane flies overhead Bratislava, maybe Wien A grinding tool, something that cuts stone
We are barricaded within I long to go
A green stench falls from the walls 65
Twice in three days, I thought but no, only once
There’s the sign now, off the A4 Oswiecim
It‘s night, the tourist buses are put away The officials who man the gate and collect the entry fee Now at home, their feet up, thinking nothing And today’s children silent before the screen Chewing gum abandoned for the moment The shyacking given a break
10.30, that was the first time 10.30 at night
History is never witnessed, it escapes us utterly
History is display, explanation
History itself escapes us
Yet, yet we are there In that thing now In that history that witnesses nothing And turns all to display
We crossed the border at Zwardon Indecisively Without conviction And most certainly without fanfare
We were not witnessed, not that we noticed
66
Out in the cold Yes, it is suddenly cold
The church on the corner is busy The pews are occupied
No, this church is not for show This church is not for show only
Cold
Cold
Vestiges of last night’s frost and the chill air
Cold
This is not my country but my country is not my country either
Where is my country Tell me, where is my country 67
In the eyes In the eyes evasiveness The blink
No, your glasses will not save you No, your glasses will not spare you though they may protect you a little Un très petit peu Especially, see, when the whites do not show
THE WHITES BETRAY ALL
(Hold your fire Hold your fire until you see the whites of their eyes Hold your fire Hold your fire)
Ok, the blink, you can evade as you wish; The eyelids, the sudden fall and snap of the eyelids, occlude nothing They do not create anything They do not inaugurate a break There is no true closure They do not make the face blank They do not offer protection; The blink is the most anonymous gesture, it tells us nothing
The involuntary is not a land of meaning
It is the mouth that shows purpose It is the mouth that opens and shuts It is the mouth that purses itself in readiness It is the mouth that says ‘Hold your horses’ It is the mouth that is the site of defiance and refusal
There is no kiss and make better
It too could blink, open and fall
The mouths of the men are shadowed They are shaded with a slight shading
No matter, no matter
The women have lipstick Two of the women have lipstick None of the men have lipstick
No matter, no matter
The axis of the mouth must be played against the axis of the eyes and the droop of the eyelids; The eyes are a blue I cannot describe
The flat axis of the mouth heightens the sadness of the down-turning eyes
Sadness, sadness
A sadness beyond melancholy Nothing defeated but a sadness that is ingrained Imprinted Customary
As if to say, ‘This is our custom’ 69
We have spoken about defiance already
One boy is defiant One girl is defiant
They issue a challenge even if there is no one to issue a challenge to
To life, says someone
There is no point issuing a challenge to life for life will always win This the others understand, somehow Not well
The defiance is a different defiance It says ‘Chin up’ It says ‘Keep your chin up’
When she dips her chin she does something As if the whole face is an eyelid As if the whole face can issue a blink As if nodding to herself As if nodding to herself then looking back at the camera Forced to look up because she has blinked She has nodded She has lowered her chin in a gesture of being present But now she must look up The camera is above her
To assert herself she has had to nod, as if in an act of entire self-acquiescence To herself Not to anyone else Not to her situation Just her Her
She acquiesces to no one and to nobody She acquiesces to no one but herself
In acquiescing to no one but herself she acquiesces to no one 70
The old women are best In saying this there can be no surprises They know things They have lived the gaze and now they live somewhere else
Men, too, live the gaze but they don’t know what to do with it; They never fully enter it So therefore they can never completely escape; They are wary as young girls and less knowing
Those who know the gaze best simply gaze towards it Softly As if nothing is at stake Except this: to retain the constancy of the self against the gaze In the face of the gaze, as we might say
The gaze is an old camel that knows nothing The gaze is an old camel that froths at the mouth and knows nothing
There is nothing in the gaze
The gaze fools itself for it thinks ‘All will be revealed’
Nothing is revealed The face is a great deceit Nothing is revealed
(These four short texts — texts 67 to 70 — are a partial response to an exhibition patre, a set of videos prepared by Wojciech Zamiara and shown at the Galeria Kantorek, Bydgosczc, as part of the 5th MOZG FESTIVAL.) 71
French at breakfast Spanish perhaps at afternoon tea
This day is deader than all others
Berlin awaits
72
We made a decision We made a decision I don’t know that I will stick to
A theme song, yes, a theme song
I listen to horrible rhymes, one after another Horrible rhymes
The chairs are heavily varnished They aren’t stuck together particularly well
In the corner the waiters cluster together The young waiter has a deep voice
We leave for Berlin in two hours More or less
Expect delays 73
The serviettes for luncheon are more elaborate They are putting them out now Luncheon it seems is a serious affair
Breakfast only brings forth a simple serviette Folded once Simple
We have switched nations, we have switched continents We are now in Amerika
(Bring out the sausage, bring out the roast lamb)
Honky tonk piano, honky tonk piano Skitter and skate the keyboard of that honky tonk piano will make you skitter and skate Hurry up, berate the keyboard of that honky tonk piano
Note, it’s a simple progression upward One-two-three-four A simple progression upward
That’s the way, that’s the way A simple four-note progression upward
They call it the spirit of the age They call it the spirit of a rising estate They call it something Made up for the rope Made up for the tractor shoot Made pretty Made perfect
Cosmetics applied
Where did daddy go? Tell me Tell me, where did papa get to? He never told me a thing about the father (That’s his father) Not a thing
He told me nothing
His mother, she was French A French woman A nice woman A pretty woman Pretty as a picture Tony was pretty, too And his brother, Lockie The two of them, pretty Handsome And if not handsome, pretty
Lockie the brother, visited me once A surprise visit He visited me the next year at the second university I went to He turned up unannounced He turned up unexpectedly He hunted me out He hunted me out in the shower room I heard a voice, it was him He turned up unexpectedly and hunted me out At the college where I was staying I was in the shower at the time, there was steam everywhere I was young, 18 He turned up in the shower room There was steam everywhere I heard my name being called out It was him
Lockie
Yes, it was Lockie with his tousled black hair His tousled black hair and his pale skin
A very French look Not that I knew it then But later, yes, I would recognise it as a very French look The way he walked, the way he stuck his chest out
How he knew I was there I have no idea How he knew to find me there I have no idea 75
I find it funny how people sleep while it is sunny While the sun is shining
It seems strange
I find it funny how people sleep when the day is at its brightest They bring themselves to life at night, when it is dark
Dark is when they are alive
Dark is when they are alive As if As if, somehow, they are sheltered from the day (No, I shall say nothing about the harsh realities of day Day is not a harsh reality; it is day It is day, merely)
The morning is bright, this morning This morning is bright, bright as day The sky is clear, there is blue in the sky And the shadow The shadow of a small mobile falls on the wall, near the door to the kitchen
In the kitchen is a sound system It seems broken Mostly it seems broken But it’s an odd thing even so to have in a kitchen Yes, a sound system I haven’t before noticed the large bowl of cut Bohemian crystal
There is a single large comfortable armchair Big Big and very ugly but it is comfortable It is comfortable also
On a scale of nought to 10 it would rate an eight For comfort But for ugliness it’s off the scale A ten plus A ten double plus
It faces oddly, I notice this It faces oddly towards the bed It sits at right angles to the bed
There is a reason for this, a good reason What it is facing is a huge screen A huge tv screen That is what it is facing
The whole room smells There is a stale stink to the whole room
I watched videos yesterday I watched videos on the laptop I watched short videos of men kissing It’s what the laptop threw up I watched a video of two young men, one English, the other Asian Trying to connect
At least I think he was English
Things ended in tears Things ended in tears and recriminations
Love is difficult between young men, even when they love each other
76 I regret nothing of the trip
These days I try to say yes Yes to everything
No one in their right mind would have said yes to Bydgoszcz but I said yes No one in their right mind would have driven to Nitra the very day they got out of hospital No one in their right mind would be sitting in a small apartment in Tegel contemplating a further 33 hours of hard travel back to Sydney
33 hours 15 minutes to be precise
Not to mention the 2 hours plus hanging round Tegel Airport (Yes, I just love hanging round, it’s my favourite activity!)
We will leave here in about an hour
(If I listen carefully I can still hear the planes landing)
Last night there were prostitutes in the streets Long boots and heavy coats In Ku’damm Between the cars, leaning against the cars In the Kurfürstendamm Tall girls, tall girls dressed against the cold
(It wasn’t in fact all that cold)
The trip from Bydgoszcz took the best part of 8 hours We ate at a place not far from the border A hotel-restaurant built like a fort or a castle Fake With bad food With an atmosphere of the Wild West Ranch house but not a ranch house A castle, a fort With towers and crenellations And wooden tables inside, and ugly chandeliers made of wrought iron And fake candles
The fish was advertised as Halibut But this was crossed out The Halibut was crossed out, with a neat but firm black line And I was served Kargulena
There they sat on the plate, curled and tragic and their little teeth showing
It was very bad 77
On Monday I get my stitches out Which means I have to talk to my doctor
Which means that I’ll have to ask him How come?’ How come you didn’t order an ultrasound? How come you let me travel in that condition? How come?
Sławek wants me to write something about my time in Poland I said I’d write something (Say yes; yes, say yes) I said I’d write something but I don’t know what
What do you say, ‘I was most of the time in hospital’ Is that what you say? 9 days in hospital For 9 of the 20 days I was in hospital: University Hospital #2 Jana Biezela Clinic
The rest of the time I was in a car going somewhere 7 hours Bydgoszcz to Berlin (via Gubin, of course) 11 hours Bydgoszcz to Nitra, via Katowice and Zwardon (500 miles, 500 miles) 15 hours Nitra to Bydgoszcz, via Krakow and łodz and Wrzesnia 8 hours Bydgoszcz to Tegel, Berlin Bydgoszcz to Berlin via Wrzesnia, Frankfurt an der Oder; and right round the southern perimeter of the city
Some of this time I was doing the navigating
I never rode a tram, not in Bydgoszcz nor anywhere else I never went to Torun The trip to scenic………. fell through I never travelled by train I never travelled by train or bus
I did, however, visit the main station in Bydgoszcz The main train station I counted the steps from Gdansk [street] all the way down ……….
I did a trial run to see how long it took and to see how far it was And to get information for a performance that never happened
A lot of things never happened I never got to the Oper I never got to see the local production of Tosca (It went fine, said the chief flautist, a brilliant musician they all said, agreement all round) I never saw any of the performances on the Festival programme I did see the little theatre where the local company performs A theatre I liked very much and would adopt as my own if that were possible
I did see Jim Denley tuning himself up during a sound check I didn’t see Schaeffer (many said it was a highlight) I didn’t see Evan Parker (many said that was the highlight) I didn’t see myself, not in performance
Having said that But having said that I did, I did get to stand on the banks of the Wisła I did get to see a cat, running across the road at Szubin I did get to see the train station at Gniezno, the several platforms I did see, at a distance, the school where Gzrgosz taught for 30 years I did hear Grzgosz sing and speak to his own performances on the drive to Berlin (The sweet corn of domesticity, the kitsch of the jungle, the brazen call of the wild)
Trumpeting, trumpeting
An aesthetics of yearning A yearning focused on what exactly Scenes, scenes of desolation A landscape turned to desolation The obliteration that farming produces in a flat land The colour of eyes I never finally determine A desert with people in it And religion, yes, religion
Always, always religion
A pity that, a pity Piety is rarely convincing 78
A cat goes by, Miao! A cat goes by, a single Miao
Miao
Just like that
As if in protest As if in protest at the ignominy of it all
Put in a cage Taped in with ugly tape To have your peerless marmalade Couleur de marmalade Scorned Dishonoured Put to shame
Shame, shame
Yes, travel is a shameful business
There are two lanes into the lounge, gate 8/9 as they proclaim it (eight slash nine) A fast lane And a lane described as neither fast nor slow intended for Yes, intended for the likes of you and me, the hoi polloi
A slow lane for us And a fast lane for
THEM
THEM being THEM The rich, the famous, the wannabe And the plain ordinary up-themselves
Yes, for all those seeking recognition, their proper worth
There is a choice A clear choice You can enter the fast lane (most do) Or you can be an honest warrior an ordinary shit kicker one of the volk and enter yes, enter sans pride
And surely it will surprise you Surely it will surprise you greatly that Most choose the former
But here, here is a woman now, a true democrat And another And now a tall bloke with a bald patch on the top of your head, mate Entering Entering without fuss or rigmarole
I’ve entered via Poland, I’m one of the hoi polloi an also-ran a bloody mongrel an alien an undesirable a dangerous piece of scum riff-raff a piece of turd on wheels something the cat dragged in a waif a stranger a total nobody an illegal something or other
Anonymous Berlin where no one is no one People without histories People without a personality to their name
They remain thin, lean They don’t know Cassio In general they have no Italian relations But they remain thin 79 [BEWARE THE WARM COAT OF KNOWLEDGE!]
You’re a pain in the arse if you know things People don’t like it If you know things keep them to yourself; it’s wise Keep them to yourself If you know things people will hold them against you
Look, Tony, if you had been prepared for some of the rough stuff it might have been a different story I’m not sure, of course, how could I have known for certain I’m not sure you weren’t Into the rough stuff Roughness and tenderness, the rough stuff and true tenderness, in about equal measure That seems to be the go Unadulterated gentleness is for pansies I didn’t take you for a pansy I did however take you for a desperate drunk No doubt about it, you were something of a desperado
I’m sick of Australia (My Native Land!) I’m sick of this land of all white cloud everywhere Total coverage I’m not sure what fun we might have had (It might not have been fun) I mean, if we’d sorted it out Somehow Yes, somehow if we’d sorted it out
I wonder if you ever had a wife, a missus Had kids Played the patriarch
I doubt it somehow
I regret I haven’t seen you since
This is true even if I forget you entirely There is nothing about you that I remember
I know you but I don’t remember you 80 [THE LONGEST BEARD IN BERLIN]
You have You have The longest beard in Berlin
He corrects himself
You have You have The longest beard I’ve seen today in this airport
You have You have
He doesn’t mean Berlin, he means Frankfurt, Terminal A
In Krakow our drummer voiced a similar sentiment: People are happy to see your beard It makes them glad Look!
Here we are in Interzone, it’s expensive Everything is reduced to nothing German Apfelkuchen Any other tart or tartlet Nothing Made nothing
Thai food becomes ‘Wok Dishes’
No one buys anything Everything is dead Surely, you think, it would be a special zone A special international zone – without taxes But somehow, somehow It’s become nothing Not international, nowhere
It’s a nowhere zone A vision of the future Nowhere Where taste itself is simulated taste An added flavour, carefully calculated Carefully calibrated
How come then it masquerades as the authentic?
I hear two Americans They are the first Americans I have heard on this trip (Star Trek has landed, Star Trek has crashed) Pleasant they are, these young men Friends
Affable Companionable Civilised
They both carry laptops
A flight to Washington is announced as I speak Flight UA933 to Washington
It’s just after 4 now 4 pm I wonder what time they’ll arrive There, at John Foster Dulles
As for the earlier conversation, if you want children get married Having children is a good idea If you want to have fun hang out with one of your pals
Young men know each other very well They spring with the same life
81
I’m looking forward to a good cup of coffee when I get back The coffee here is most unsatisfactory
That’s one thing
Another thing is water Ordinary tap water It’s hard to get
In any case they warn you off it
Europe is a sad affair; it doesn’t see its own tawdriness (Seek not and you will find) The man drinking coffee from a mug is a little like Jadran Same head Same long skinny legs Same posture as he sits
Here nobody talks to each other
The woman in the striped top leafs through a book She has long purple boots, I notice
A plane leaves for Toronto
A young woman in a pink top and pink cardigan eat a roll of some description She eats with her mouth open
The last time I was in Frankfurt people looked much more stylish
Lufthansa, I note, has flights to Warsaw Warcawa Warcawa!
I know less and less about the human condition The older I get the more it escapes me The older I get the more it evades me
No one is eating at the Thai restaurant No one
Despite the tall standing statue of the Buddha Despite the tall standing statue of the Buddha
Empty 82
The doors to the Arctic are open The cold wind blows
Icy
Having children was once a reason for living What is the reason now?
We will not recover our powers We will not recapture the careless impulses of youth
I recall a beautiful girl I recall a beautiful girl, maybe the most beautiful girl at the university But something was wrong, something was Disturbed Disturbed – and profoundly disturbing
She was beautiful She was
I was one of the last to discover that something was wrong
That beauty, that beauty was surely perfect She was a girl so beautiful you could not suspect something was wrong
The fact is, you wanted everything to be right with her
She couldn’t even dance
DW could dance, the girls at Brunswick Heads could dance But she could not dance
She looked perfect but there was a deep flaw An egregious fault or tare
I was appalled, it was appalling I was struck dumb
I see a couple now, he’s in a plain white shirt She’s wheeling a trolley loaded with booze They can’t take the trolley up the escalator But they don’t see the lift, the door to it I mean, they fail to spot the lift So they turn on their heel
Where they expect to go I have no idea
There’s a little boy full of energy He runs from pillar to post Yes, literally There are pillars and posts and he spots them all
He has places he runs to He spots places to run to He runs, yes, from pillar to post
He’s a robust little boy 83
not desires, ambitions (Random schemes, proposals just for the sake of having them) I wish to perform in Bratislava, Bucharest, Belgrade Budapest also
Tell me, why doesn’t Brno get a guernsey?
All the Bs but Berlin does not figure Dresden does not figure Leipzig does not really figure
Warcawa, yes Minsk, yes Riga, yes
I know I am beginning to stink I know that I’m starting to leave things I know that, I know what that means
I give myself a squirt with my Dolce è Gabbana That sweetens the atmosphere I want to perform in places that are deprived; There is no point in performing into conditions of superfluity There is rigour in poverty, harshness You cannot take it or leave it in conditions of austerity
Superfluity breeds contempt, superfluity means you can pick and choose Superfluity only listens with half an ear
Superfluity cannot attend, there is no urgency It’s not attentive, it lets things slip Its greasy fingers let things slip Its fingers coated in lard let things slip 84
One day I’ll get you mob to laugh I will You’ll laugh You’ll die laughing
Make no mistake, I’ll get you mob to laugh If it’s the last thing I do
Yes, it’s not so bad, to laugh To laugh, laughing The whole laughter bit
(We won’t say anything about earnestness It’s a killer We all know that: Earnestness kills)
And so And so, having said that …
Pcim, every country has one Yass, Back o’ Bourke The forgotten place Unlikely Out of the way In the sticks In the backblocks
But more than that, more than that The place no one wants to go to
But there it is, there it is nonetheless The place no one wants to go to But there it is, full of people Full of people going about their affairs, their daily business As if, yes, as if in fact they’re at the centre of the universe Not full Not full of people But enough People going about their ordinary business People who People who, not for a minute Question where they are, or why
Such places carry on minimally, sort of They maintain themselves They do
And if Pcim is one such place And Yass is another Then what about łodz Or Canberra for that matter Just as unlikely Just as forgotten Just as nowhere
And if łodz has a street of lights Colour Clubs Well good for it
Pcim has a club, it’s called Club Pcim It’s where you do all unlikely things The more unlikely the better
Pcim will not condemn you, so don’t condemn Pcim And if the railway station at Yass is one hundred miles from the town Should that disturb us Or should we merely note the fact 85
Tartu Vyborg Pakov
The places list off
Overnight they disappear It’s as if the world does not exist
Today the whine of the hostesses is enough to make us vomit Kahamsamnida, kahamsamnida
The future?
A dubious question Or rather, is it the answer that is dubious
In the upstairs corridor they sleep lying on rows of chairs or on the floor; the floor looks the best option
There is barbarism in all we do 86
No one in this country takes responsibility for anything The blackfellas do it to themselves The doctor is innocent, the condition was merely ‘missed’ The dentist ‘slips’ The footballer alone has to watch his step
Tientsin, 67 miles; we have already proceeded
The Bohai Sea is a sea I hadn’t known of before this trip
Tomorrow, I have no idea Wednesday, I have no idea You wait on a wing and a prayer and neither existing
The arbitrary, let us commit ourselves to that
Why was I such a liar, why was I so needy?
The experience of the locals doesn’t amount to much
All my efforts to do things properly have been in vain
87
There is no social at the Pod Orłem You might as well be a pig on the moon
We slow slightly We engage in a slight descent
The locals I know will race to the exit (It’s the beginning of everyday)
I was wrong about slowing down, we have just speeded up
What to do, what to do?
I am no Moses; and there are no chosen People The Chosen are bound to disappear As certain as the flight will inevitably become ‘delayed’
‘Through circumstances not of our choosing … ‘We apologize for any inconvenience’ So routinised no apology is intended
(Give us this day our daily bread, give us this day)
The bloke in front leans back (Oh Caucasian wonderland!) He is of course lord of the universe
Seoul is in our sights 40 minutes or less to touchdown 88
Business Class (See how they run) Business Class (See how they run)
The boy from The Ramones opts for the massage The boy from Leipzig opts for the massage Training partner at the Olympics Catch as catch can Olympics 2000 Training partner 10 days only
Here we are in row 16 Seat G, aisle seat Mother and two babies A young boy (He eats potato chips, he eats potato chips from the packet) And a baby, a proper baby Still at the breast
The little boy is not curious, not at all curious Not about me, not about anything else as far as I can see An incurious little boy wrapped up in himself; I am a mater of total indifference to him
He sucks from a bottle
I’d rather be talking to the German boy, the one from Leipzig The one who’s the public custodian
I’m not sure how the mother will manage the two children The baby is a big baby
Time for a catnap 89
As usual the return is easier than the outgoing Easier the return than the outward journey
This is a truth of planes but not a Truth of cars
Breakfast? Breakfast awaits
Surprise us, surprise us
Collinsville, 42 miles An old haunt An old haunt of the Pipeline days
We forget, we remember
At 6 they turned on the lights Promptly at 6
All these northern flights All these northern flights, not exactly superseded
The trip? Too early to say
I’m not glad to be back, I’m not glad to be returned
The little things, we have not noted them yet the light switches the religious cards above the bed the avoidance of tap water (‘That water is not a good idea’, he said, weaning me away from the tap) the scarcity of animals the booze in the service stations Mateusz’s haughty manner his penchant for quoting Baudelaire and his facility in Latin the firm handshake of the me the ever-whingeing Pom
now tell me, what happened to the film Sławek was to make the film of yours truly
the estimated time of travel keeps on getting pushed away (it’s snuck up to 7.52) in thirty minutes I shall put on my shoes unusually, the eta has been brought forward don’t get excited: by one minute
we’re still at 37 000 feet our ground speed is still over 550 mph
the eta has slipped back 1 minute
I know this text is boring There isn’t much I can do about it The text is boring but no more boring than the condition it describes
No, there’s not much I can do about it Neither the text nor the condition 90 [FOR BROKEN HILL]
Tell me, what is there to celebrate What is there to write home about
Tell me
Surfie culture, yes, that was something
Anything else?
We’ve forgotten
You think of light You think of tedium You think of pretentious academics You think of arch-conservatism You think of ‘good time’ You think of shallowness You think of eavesdropping You think of window dressing
You think of travelling salesmen You think of death in the suburbs You think of death in the old folks’ home You think of miscommunication
You think about putting on your shoes You think of silent abuse
You think of deviations or deflections, about being put off the track You think of cultural illiteracy You think of a social chill factor of –73°C
You think of indirection Even now we’ve been asked to make a ‘detour’ Yes, round and round Even now we’ve been asked to make a detour Yes, round and round Round and round 91 [HOLDING PATTERN]
You can go all round the world Yet here in Sydney it’s holding pattern (Round and round, round and round) Yes here in Sydney it’s holding pattern (Round and round, round and round)
There will be more lies yet, you can be assured of it
First time round, the complete loop Second time round, the complete loop Third time round, the loops is well on its way
(Hello Woy Woy, hello Dubbo)
Very soon we will be an hour late (What a joke!) Very soon it will be an extra hour (We’re already 10 minutes late and another ‘loop’ on its way)
Let’s have a diversion Let’s put on a programme about Africa Children Soccer ‘Their real needs’
My real need now is to be on the ground Landed Arrived
But no, let us delay, let us delay delay Another half hour to go Half hour to go Half hour to go Another half hour to go
We clear immigration in two seconds exactly (The advantages of the new special chip passport, and the assistance of a pleasant young man) Of course, none of this helps get the luggage out onto the carrousel or through customs; The queue is immense; the queue jumpers as shameless as always (I live, I prevail, bugger you others)
My son is not there to greet me, despite promises They’re waiting, they tell me, at gates A and B My flight just happens to exit through C and D
Oh happy life, happy life Oh happy life 92
Everything in the country is a lie The lakes are a lie The rivers are a lie The mountains are a lie Any authority is bound to be a liar
I’m sick of having to complain I’m sick of not complaining
On the train there is nowhere to sit There is nowhere for anyone to sit who has luggage Nowhere to sit if you have luggage Despite the fact that this is the Airport Line (The Airport Line, the Airport Line) Despite the fact that it is the Airport Line
Appointments here mean nothing First they ask for a referral despite the fact that I know as a fact this appointment was calculated to fall within the period of the last referral The appointment was set for 2 pm; It is now 2.30 and no one has seen me 93 [CENTRAL CASTING]
It’s hard to set things in stone, or possibly not a good idea
Victor and Victoria, take a bow (Yes, Victor, we know your arm is in a sling And you, Victoria, those eyes of yours look suspiciously blackened, though we won’t make too big a deal of it)
Conflict is such sweet incitement The body alive, supercharged in any act of making-up The sex something special, all sparks flying
Victoria, we know you dream secretly of his dick Victor, we know secretly you dream of your own Profligate in your favours And harbouring a secret lust to be fucked by a Russian soldier (The two polizei stroll by, bum buddies for sure Solid and sexy in blue dungarees And a walk more or less thuggish) 94 500 mile (envoi)
500 mile, 500 mile. You’re not going anywhere, brother 500 mile, 500 mile. You might as well stay at home
500 mile, 500 mile
He decided to put on a rival event, $20 dollar meal and a free video (You too can be Queen of the Desert)
Hear the elephants trumpet, hear the elephants blare Hear the wild beasts attend Carnival
(See how they run, see how they run Listen to their raucous cries)
The Farmer’s Wife, the Farmer’s Wife Off with their tails with a carving knife Farmer’s Wife, Farmer’s Wife She hasn’t saved a cent since last payday
Great and glorious are the expectations of the past Great and glorious are the expectations of the present Lay down your arms, my friends, there is nothing to be achieved Lay down your arms
The days of the righteous are long spent You can from now on only expect misery and decay If sighing will make you wealthy you will sigh If crying will make you crippled you will cry also
Do not exist within expectation, it will betray you
500 mile, 500 mile 500 mile, 500 mile 95
How come How come I have the sense I do all the work yet have to pay for the privilege How come?
Today is today and not tomorrow Today is today; we demand a different tomorrow
What can we demand? We can demand nothing
Suck arse and see, that is the rule Suck arse and see You gotta crawl You gotta get treated like shit by the receptionist You gotta wait You gotta crawl You gotta play the buffoon
Them’s the rules, mate, them’s the rules
Remember this: there’s no incompetence but yours There’s no incompetence except can be laid at your door 96
He’s pretty as sin, he’s prettier than sin White top, pale blue jeans White sneakers, pale blue eyes White-bound book
He strokes his chin He sits with everything screaming at the crutch Drawn tight, no room for manoeuvre
How shall he stroke his hair How shall he touch his hair?
The rain comes down, a fine mizzling rain
Jo has opened her new gallery Gaynor wants a copy of my thesis The Bridge needs a new paint job, a Golden Gate red, I think We swiftly approach our target, the shore The City is dun and dirty No, it’s off the menu for today We slip round the back of the Collaroy We slip past the stern
It hoots
We are a small child of a vessel Bells ring A child hollers
The boy in the blue jeans reads attentively He scratches his wrist
A child screams
Up high flags fly at attention Down below they droop
Yes, they droop 97
You’re right, I’m wrong You’re right, of course, I’m nothing at all
How come you have a mortgage on the truth
Yes, I’m wrong, you’re right I’m wrong, you’re right
What day is it today, Wednesday You’ll make it Monday for sure, or Tuesday And if I say Thursday you’ll make it Friday
Saturday never comes And Sunday, yes Sunday, that’s your day of rest See, even the gods have their furlough days
You are a strange creature, a strange creature But why say the obvious, why say what we all know?
You strum the guitar, out comes the sound of the ukulele You bang the drum, out comes the sound of the tin whistle You squeeze the guts out of the piano accordion Now tell me, why do we hear the sound of an atom bomb You, we know, have a flea in your ear Who told you to translate that into the screech of the clarinet Who taught you to play the parrot, who told you to play the possum
See how they run, see how they run
The farmer’s wife is still forearmed See how they run
The farmer’s wife still froths at the mouth See how they run She picks up her mouth organ, the birds flee in terror
Twinkle twinkle little star The ghosts are against us Twinkle twinkle little star The meteorite splits the trampoline asunder Twinkle twinkle little star Much nonsense has been sundered, ripped to shreds Twinkle twinkle little star The 7 o’clock train for Quilpie leaves precisely on time 98
Victor and Victoria didn’t come to the party, despite the invitation to come Needless to say they didn’t make it to the ball either What happened was they rang and said ‘Come over’ And I said ‘When?’ And they said ‘Straight away’
So that is what happened
Those days it was still booze and weed on the menu Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and anything else going Black Sabbath Earth, Wind and Fire And other bands I’ve forgotten for the moment Not the Beatles, not The Who, not The Clash, not James Morrison and The Doors, except on special occasions Not The Band
Yes, we had our favourites and we stuck to them
Being stoned we were stoned Being stoned we were stoned and up for anything (Caution set in later) 99
We have to listen, all about Tiger, infidelities Yours truly on the make
He was good, she says She doesn’t say he was bad
Sex is news, infidelities, that’s news
We wait in queue, we wait in line We stand for an hour (Fitness certificates issued later)
I’d rather go blind, says the bloke up front What, is this a deterrence policy?, says another, a guy from Gosford In Darwin you don’t wait 10 minutes In Darwin you don’t have to wait That’s what I might have said
(You see, we are all experts in this business An expertise we might prefer to do without)
Today’s nurse from Japan, Narita ‘Country girl’, I say ‘Suburban girl’, she says
English, 8 out of 10
We do our best, she says, the nurse from China We do our best … with limited resources
They’re trimming the Christmas tree
Nurse Lesley says Try Susie, she’s the one who hides the presents Try her
It’s Christmas spirit all round It’s Christmas spirit all round and we all wait It’s Christmas spirit all round and the eyedrops beginning to take effect The eternal atropine
Zimbabwe, I say the word Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe
There are many things without meaning 100
Hasn’t the ward got gastro I didn’t get it
We await the next advice, the next bulletin
Bells ring, chimes
A young man is wheeled in on a gurney The ambulance guys in blue overalls
I await; limbo has seized me There is no sense of progress, procedure; The snails are having a party
A ‘phone rings, an old-fashioned ring The doctor in the blue shirt stalks the floor
Nothing doing
In 20 minutes I’ll have been here 3 hours
India comes by in green; she looks more mannish than her husband
Achilles is next up; he’s a slight thin man Security strolls by, the customary pair (Me and my offsider) I have no sense I’ll be seen by anybody
Let’s stroll, let’s stroll The rhythm is slow Let’s stroll 101
The tide is out, well out The dense pattern of waves ripples over the lighter green And over the darker green also
The wind swirls, but the ripples ripple A smooth surface
Waves really there are not
The ferry is far off It leaves Kirribilli as I walk down the gangplank
I hear the heavy chug of the ferry now And the greedy squeal and the half-choked garble-gorble of the mulberry birds; That’s my name for them
I shall splash water in my face in a minute
At Kurraba Wharf they are often sexy but not today Today the typical style and panache are absent
Maybe she liked to think of herself as sexy When I was 5 she was only 33; She behaved like an old woman
Now the waves have gone they remind me of battleships
The people of Warcawa are snobs, they all said so They walk with their noses in the air Even though Even tough, only yesterday, they were all peasants Mere villagers
It was a remark I heard more than once 102
Heat, Christmas heat, shopping, heat
The bus slams the encroaching ute The bus slams the front of the encroaching ute
(That’ll learn ya)
Welcome to Oz, the city is alive with heat and people and taxis For every bus there are 10 taxis
We’ve run out of cranberry sauce, he says He does not mention the shortage of Turkish bread
Men in turbans, young men with bandy legs A Filipino woman with a ponytail and pink top A slim young woman with good legs We’ve just missed the train so we wait the full 10 minutes
We wait no longer 103 [OVERHEARING THE WORLD]
(1)
You were born in the States 17 years ago You arrived from the States, what, 5 days ago
In Poland I don’t hear an American voice, not one Not an American song, not one Not an American newsreader
Baggage is the most important thing And you can never deal with the baggage So I decided So I decided to have a girlfriend with no baggage A girlfriend who had nothing No past No boyfriend No nothing
Yes, he will drone on, he will drone on forever
No baggage, no baggage, no baggage (2)
Overhearing the world
The husband died, one of the 6 children died Elizabeth and Alma My father grew up with his nieces
I’m sitting here, I’m sitting here waiting to be served I’m sitting here waiting, waiting for attention I’m waiting
Fury can descend for no reason or it can have its reasons 104
Marilyn is not dead, she’s alive and well in number 13 With the death of Michael we await the next superstar (The white glove hangs in a closet unknown) Elton strikes a new raw chord 105
Cheap little shit hole of a country No I don’t call Australia home! (overheard remark)
‘Next time maybe they’ll want a third lane’ The Chinese driver gets it at last, sniggers At least he stopped at the bus stop to let me on: Martin Place
Mother and daughter chew gum, identical teeth, eyes A knowing look, I don’t get the lingo Spanish, I decide, Portuguese; The father talks at speed Si, perche …
He’s got a cute look, that Chinese boy His girlfriend, his wife (maybe she is) Frowns
I don’t know how she can resist him She yawns; her teeth are perfect right to the back of the mouth
Tombstones
We ask the Zoo to arrive, here it is now The Zoo, the Zoo: 9.15 And a thousand snapshots at the ready
Mother and daughter play a game (Clap hands, clap hands) The mother watches to see if I am looking Yes, I look
(Clap hands, clap hands)
Others play the same game: two sisters
Seagull screech and squawk; remain invisible Out of sight
The toy the child has left is a good toy; it makes the pigeon ugly
The first banana of the day is eaten; it’s not at the Zoo 106
At 90 I wonder what the tat will look like The butterfly wrinkled, the flowers shrivelled, their petals fallen
She scratches the butterfly, it refuses to fly
None of the family wears hats; they do however wear matching red sox
Quarter to 10, says Dad, arriving at last He wears a white cap and he doesn’t wear red sox
He looks like a jockey; he probably is a jockey
The ferry to Kirribilli is the biggest ferry in the fleet, there are 4 of us on board, maybe 3
I sit on the left side in order to catch a geek of today’s harbour event The Rhapsody of the Sea
I’m not sure they call it that Maybe the Incredible Hulk Or The Bulk
Its whiteness reduces the Opera House to a desert cast-off Something tainted with orange dust
Today the sky is a simmering sky; the day does not yet simmer
Flags blow to the south-west
A long line of cloud lies north-south
It sits there with no apparent reason 107
There is no reason to terminate, we may not ‘I can’t wait’, she says, and utters a chuckle The sea glitters but it is not a pleasant glitter
I see the same palm trees; they look different But slightly Slightly only It’s because the fronds on the eastern side are dead; The wind catches them and swirls them to the south-east; See, the airs are erratic
The Harbour is bare; the yachts are in hiding
Neutral Bay, Neutral Bay, all is neutralised
108
Here the ferry makes an inauspicious entry Gently enough
A pair of plovers ignores the fisherman She walks with a lop-sided walk Bends through the fence
I decide to leave this country It’s a woman of 40 who decides me Fat, someone who thinks she has a right to act as she pleases Her first commandment: Act unaware
The Frenchman gets off the bus with his two children, one boy and one girl The little boy races the bus along the street He runs fast He runs fast, his knees lifting high up
He runs fast as if he likes to run 109
Pin the tail on the donkey but the donkey don’t exist
Pin the tail, pin the tail
The next century they were still short of ideas and the century thereafter (Your little friend will only cost 14 dollars, special price) 110
Yesterday it was the Rhapsody, today it is the World
Glory be!
And yet, and yet Frank eyes in frank faces It is more than a glance but yet not a challenge
They swat flies in Cammeray They swat flies in Mosman, Palm Beach, Dover Heights Elsewhere the mosquitoes are busy
A wrecking ball wreaks havoc A wrecking ball destroys half the suburb with a single swing of the ball; Do not call this exaggeration
By rounding the Point at the hour There is a rough chance the bus will be waiting
Otherwise we remain in a state of total disconnection 111
On the Point a setting of tables and chairs No, two settings
The timber is bleached but it is not a case of inviting time
Such a great cloud, such a great white fluffy thing Promising storms later
Roots crawl on rock and die dry-dead
The kiosk sits alone; there is no true shelter 112
STYLE
right there in the middle of his chest
glittering
the joke is all on him
check this driver, he says is it enough?
he gasps politeness 113
Shit food, shit anything
Christmas
(Nibble your life away, nibble your heart away)
Virus + antibiotics makes alcohol prone
(Nibble your heart away, nibble your life away)
Man in the Moon, Fragments, Elements of Desire
(Squeeze that brick, make it dry)
The rainfall of the hour makes it dreary, unintended
Dead prawn heads dry in the yard brioche and deadpan croissants make it to the bread and butter pud (So the chef informs us)
This my friends is the Voice of the Expert 114
By Way of a Postcript: [IN THE INTERNET CAFÉ]
On the streets there is always everything The disagreeable old man The fat man in his early thirties
They all get lovely as you get older At 70 there’s no such thing as an ugly woman Or an ugly Man
Where the horns should be there are two tufts of red Proper to the occasion
I’m delighted by these emanations If not the snuffling sneeze of the boy sitting next to me Looking for a job on Heron Island
The chef should not kill
And that other boy, of course The one with the bleached crown And streaks of blue As if he embodied some fountain or other One dedicated to the latest plague Depression (Just a millimetre from hope)
We might stand aghast and sometimes we do
There were other things There were other things I have forgotten already
How come, how come we forget?
Stopping for the cars in the road The short queue in the post office The silly woman who ignores my comments about my eyes As if I must be a liar or something
We endure, we endure
Sometimes we are glad, sometimes
We alternate between this and that Like waves in the sea Sometimes flat, sometimes uplifted
Somewhere yes betwen the trough and the crest
November – December 2009 OPENING LINES 1 Departure approaches 2 Luscious, juicy, juicy fruit 3 10 to0 3, the train on platform 10 4 So, they said, green balloons … 5 Your take on reality … 6 You will not ward off the banality of the world … 7 What shall we say of the wayward … 8 The traveller must have a suitcase … 9 I exit exactly at 11 [Lest we forget] 10 He sits on the very edge of the kerb … 11 Once I was ignorant … 12 No truth today … 13 The purple bells of the jacaranda … 14 Just now … [The man with the papered head] 15 Of course he hasn’t phoned … 16 10 dollar steaks, all the go 17 Today’s storm, today’s insult 18 A Star of David, for no reason 19 No, not yet 20 He comes and goes, death planet 21 Waterfalls, they want waterfalls 22 A visit to the rifle range 23 Refusal, I refuse 24 Do you know we are moving forward [… and so the Minister speaks] 25 The anthem, he he he 26 Mighty Mouse takes refuge … 27 The project, our project 28 Give us a break 29 They run down the stairs 30 Shut up, first of all shut up [Notes for a performance] 31 Hi bro how’s it going [The way things are] 32 The first of the crazies 33 They sleep, yes, they sleep [Sleepers, awake!] 34 Slumbering death, such a strange sensation 35 Hell, the miracles of modern travel [The miracle of modern travel] 36 Today I’ve written two texts 37 The bone china is as expected excellent 38 And reappears just like that 39 No, the towels are not de luxe, they’re not even fluffy 40 It will be a long wait … 41 Some things are the same 42 Procedures are no0t the same 43 In 40 seconds lift off [Flight 02451 Seoul/Inchon – Frankfurt] 44 There is a moment when we descend into the murk 45 Undercarriage down 46 Somewhere the world has taken a wrong turn 47 The car park is empty 48 I thought I knew things, I know nothing 49 If I survive the smoke I may survive 50 The more familiar, the more foreign 51 Moaning, yes, moaning at breakfast 52 We said foreign, we said no 53 I am the invisible man, he said 54 He didn’t look at us very friendly … 55 In the sick room 56 They operate as if their two eyes work 57 There is no point saying that outside it is grey 58 Blood in the tube 59 This is no intelligence … 60 Hello, is there anyone here? 61 The word is not out 62 I can’t say anything about the décor 63 The last 20 minutes 64 Another day to depart 65 Twice in three days, I thought … 66 Out in the cold 67 In the eyes 68 It is the mouth that shows purpose 69 We have spoken about defiance already 70 The old women are best 71 French at breakfast 72 We made a decision 73 The serviettes for luncheon are more elaborate 74 Where did daddy get to 75 I find it funny how people sleep while it’s sunny 76 These days I try to say yes 77 On Monday I get my stitches out 78 A cat goes by, Miao! 79 You’re a pain in the arse if you know things [Beware the warm coat of knowledge!] 80 You have [The longest beard in Berlin] 81 I’m looking forward to a good cup of coffee 82 The doors to the arctic are open 83 Not desires, ambitions 84 One day I’ll get you mob to laugh 85 Tartu 86 No one in this country takes responsibility for anything 87 There is no social at the Pod Orłem [CHECK SPELLING] 88 Business Class 89 As usual the return is easier than the outgoing 90 Tell me, what is there to celebrate [For Broken Hill] 91 You can go all round the world [Holding pattern] 92 Everything in this country is a lie 93 It’s hard to set things in stone … [Central casting] 94 500 mile, 500 mile [500 mile (envoi)] 95 How come 96 He’s pretty as sin 97 You’re right, I’m wrong 98 Victor and Victoria didn’t come to the party 99 We have to listen, all about Tiger … 100 Hasn’t the ward got gastro 101 The tide is out, well out 102 Heat, Christmas heat … 103 You were born in the States … 104 Marilyn is not dead, she’s alive and well in number 13 105 ‘Next time maybe they’ll want a third lane’ 106 At 90 I wonder what the tat will look like 107 There is no reason to terminate, we may not 108 Here the ferry makes an inauspicious entry 109 Pin the tail on the donkey … 110 Yesterday it was the Rhapsody … 111 On the point a setting of tables and chairs 112 STYLE 113 Shit food, shit anything 114 On the streets there is always everything {In the internet café] 1 The ‘blind man’ on the escalator is George. George … The Maori guy from Upper Hutt. Djon knows him as well. The catalogue he is referring to is the They Are Meditating catalogue, on the Arnott’s Collection of Arnhem Land bark paintings. He’s passed my article onto Neil …., who commissioned me to write a long text on Spinifex Art. The paperwork never arrived though I said I’d do it. At the time I thought I could see a connexion between the missing catalogue piece and the reason for the delay. Now I read it differently. At the time I just thought: ‘Oh the catalogue ended up with this dealer in Melbourne. Oh yes.’ Now I suspect that the gallery person responsible may not have liked the piece at all – and in reality wanted a different kind of writing. I haven’t had any negative feedback on this piece. But then you get little if any feedback at all ever. The feedback I have had is good. But it hasn’t changed how people write. Convention rules even when it is completely outmoded – and unable to deal with the political or ethical questions that the contemporary situation throws up. No wonder later I find myself unable to think, unable to speak, and … Well, Jo the Gallerist is Jo Holder who has a long history of engagement and commitment to ‘good works’. Gallerist is a truly horrible word. ‘The Cause’ keeps a lot of people going. I call it false concreteness. I am deeply suspicious of any false simplification. There are lots of Cause Queens and Cause Groupies. It’s what others call the Vulgar Left. There are of course plenty of The Righteous on the Right – but The Cause in the case of The Right is apt to be the self. It is at this point that the far Right and the far Left can collide – and coalesce into a single entity. Warren is Warren Mundine. If he has come out against The Intervention no one in the family has heard of it. I quiz Djon explicitly on the point. ‘Ha’, he says, ‘it’s not what Kay and my brother are saying …’ By brother he means his brother Roy, I suppose. My reference to Helen of Troy and the Greeks escapes me now. Helen of Troy makes me think of Marlow but … No, it must have been a reference to some conversation I overhead. Anyway, predicting a Greek calamity seems to have been prescient. I give myself no brownie points on that score, however. Yes, something about dealing with the shit – but what? 2 As mysterious to me as it seems. There is nothing I can add. A string of observations, probably based on a ferry trip. 3 Circular Quay station. I can re-visualise the scene easily. The odd thing is the ‘all-trains-lead-to- Campbelltown’. But I’m not going to Campbelltown, not today. Yes, all roads lead to Rome. So they say, but it is not true. As becomes clear I make my way to Medicare. The Wynyard branch. It must be a Thursday. It is only on Thursday that they get such huge numbers. But because many of the customers have to go back to work the queue can shrink dramatically. Having written this it could be Tuesday. I rarely go on a Tuesday because the queue is so considerable, at the end of the lunch period. Yes, the time tells me it is a Tuesday. There is a shop in Wynyard Arcade that sells teriyaki chicken and hoki fish and boxes of sushi. I frequent it reasonably often, but maybe not in the future. I establish habits only to rupture them. 4 The gradual deadening of the life world. It happens in front of our noses. History is being deleted. Nobody stands for anything now except themselves. The possibility of transcendence is being removed. We are now all smaller than we are. If the Cenotaph is to commemorate the fallen of war, what might the monument to the fallen self look like? It is no accident that the poem begins with balloons. The fact that they are green says something maybe about global warming and the crisis of the environment. Yet I see the current crisis in quite different terms. People will always fetishize the environment (for this read, the weather) in conditions of real existential crisis. It gives them something falsely concrete to cling onto. Like the baby it’s bottle, or the drunk, his bottle … 5 The death of Nic Waterlow ‘shocked’ the art world. Like all crises it mobilised. I didn’t go to any of these events. I met Nick on at least 50 occasions. On each occasion he’d introduce himself. It was as if I didn’t exist. I was ‘forgotten meat’. Yet he knew who I was even if he didn’t know what I was. One might think of him as shy or diffident. Margaret Farmer has written a competent if uninspiring (meaning conventional) obituary in the latest issue of Art Monthly (March 2010). Educated at Harrow he was clearly a person of privilege. What brought him to Australia? He followed the love of his life, an Australian woman. Even so he seems to have quite early made his escape from Britain, studying in Grenoble and Florence. The review does not indicate the taking of any degrees. I’ve always praised the Spirit + Place exhibition at the MCA, though he might have scrutinised more intently Djon’s Aboriginal Memorial (1988). It is undoubtedly Djon’s though the fact is not always noted. He might have questioned the ‘once and for all’ impact of colonisation, rather than seeing it as differential and progressive and relentless. It isn’t the 200 years of sameness that is at issue, but it’s relentless commitment to itself. Colonialism is a very conservative project. It works through repetition. It seems incapable of questioning itself, or working out the true nature of its modalities. There were many Invasion Days, not all at once. This is not a personal remark but the Nick phenomenon raises fairly starkly the issue of Pommie curators of the Sydney Biennale. Nick is not alone. David Elliot is the current curator. Meanwhile Liz-Anne reigns at the MCA. And Edmund at the AGNSW. On my count that makes it (in terms of the principal art institutions operating in Sydney) three out of three. Three Brits. Liz-Anne might legitimately question being lumped in with the Poms but she’s a Brit. Maybe that is why the tartan is so important in marking her ‘difference’. Instead of playing his double bass outside the MCA Sławek might consider playing the bagpipes …
DJM will make a number of appearances in these texts. Here he is at the Catholic Club in Campbelltown, at the gym. He’s on an exercise régime. His presence seems to disturb certain other frequenters – whether it is his long Medusan dreadlocks that trail on the ground, or his penchant for disrobing in the change room. Perhaps it isn’t the frequenters at all but management, and management alone. Perhaps they have a special envoy of the Pope, with a single function: to maintain proprieties. Maybe he should apply for a special dispensation. Racism in Australia takes many forms. In each and every case it involves over-scrutiny and the invoking, suddenly, of rather quaint notions of respectability. It is from a world of imagined respectability and proper behaviour (appearance) that Djon is outcast. Daniel makes his appearance. My circle slowly announces itself. The notion of circle is important to me. 6 The criticism of Oz continues, the improper taking up of local possibilities, the whole notion of transplantation. Transplantation is the horticultural (stylistic) equivalent of transportation. Is immigration still thought of under the head of ‘transportation’? We surround ourselves with what are in fact penal colonies. We have in recent years taken them off-shore. That matches the general fondness for ‘outsourcing’. This does not make us global, it must serve to strengthen the sense of isolation and the drive to exclude. The drive to exclude doesn’t make us exclusive, it makes us exclusionary. There is nothing new in these thoughts. 7 Jennifer (another member of the circle) provides me with a suitcase for the trip. It’s flash, green, Benetton - and bloody awkward to pack. Yes, I should carry it empty. That is the perfect way to leave here, empty-handed. We talk over breakfast – at Club Central aka Petrol! Yes, it is with trepidation that I go to apply for my passport. Surely someone will put something in my path. I go to Head Office, near Central. I need it in a hurry. It costs me extra. 8 The application process is painful. There is a nice woman trying to assist me. She normally works in a Post Office, but here she is doing ‘special training’. When I leave I realise that she has not taken my signed photographs. Hello, I say to myself, if I had not picked this up what chance getting the passport in time? Rather than taking a position back in the queue I bowl straight into the ‘exclusion zone’ (yes, there is such a thing) and hand them over: ‘You may need these’, I say. She flusters an apology. She’s decent. As I leave one of the lesser national ceremonies is in progress: a mini-ANZAC. The 11th hour … And yes indeed the irony is not lost on me: my application at the 11th hour. An old digger stands stiffly at attention as they play the Last Post. He looks directly at me. His eyes do not waver. Ah, the old Australia! But no, this isn’t the local RSL, it’s a sandwich shop. The reality question is about my beard. I’m frequently approached because of my beard. It’s a talking point, like Djon’s dreadlocks. I hadn’t really considered the issue of whether I’m really being taken for a ‘bushie’! Bushie beard, you must be from the bush. There’s the underlying folk logic. On the train back to the Cross the New Australia appears, in full brazenness. Sexy Arab girls with virtually nothing on. It’s their day to be sultry. Every day is their day to be sultry. An instant harem with purring sensuous catlike creatures stretching themselves along like dusky river dragons … Our soldiers went to the Middle East. Now the Middle East has come to us … 10 The multicultural theme is taken up, different lifestyles, different customary gestures and postures, the fact that our habitus is full of alternative ways of doing things, all taken for granted. Asia predicts Asia. Not that I’ll be there for long. But the reminder is there: that soon I will not be able to assume my capacity to be understood. Yes, English takes us a long way. Perhaps too far and too easily. But the assumption of communicability can no longer be assumed. Incommunicability poses the question: WHAT AM I? As soon as one is in a zone where normal functioning can no longer be assumed our being is up for grabs. Not our identity, merely our capacity to operate or function. Yet we always manage. We are all more resourceful than we think we are. At the end of the text a further member of the circle makes her appearance. To be praised, to be praised in that particular way (‘I am proud of you’) is disabling. We collapse. We collapse in the face of its annihilating onslaught. For what are we, the gourd itself? We shatter. We lose our self-possession – and all sense of responsibility to the self. This I know from my friend. 11 In praise of the spot, the tare, the fault – a theme already announced in the previous text. This view of things is forgiving. Beauty is best in any case when it arises surprisingly. If we look for it … No, better when it slams us in the face, without warning. Even our own beauty. 12 What shall we say of Sławek? He’s a key figure of this account. Something of an absolutist, whatever that means. Everything is black and white, or at least clearly delineated. Maybe there is more wishful thinking than might seem to be the case. His absolutism is a challenge. Others might call it authoritarian. I don’t think of it that way. There’s a take-it-or-leave-it – and a sense of absolute priorities. The compromises are instant – or not at all. I suspect there’s a great personal cost involved. Yes, something admirable. The bison runs head down. It’s as if the woolly collar around its neck pushes the gaze downwards. Even when they run over the cliff they fall head down. Down but not bowed. The bison is addicted to its one blade of grass, its one lodestar. This is not Pascal’s roseau pensant. It is not the thing that bends. 13 Appearance, pretension, the desperate remedies people are driven to in extremis. The jacarandas are a thing of beauty also. Yes, I’m back at Medicare. All the years I’ve been going to Wynyard – and before that, Martin Place – Alessandro has been there. Alessandro the perfectly coiffed, Alessandro the perfectly attired, Alessandro the helpful, Alessandro who tells me his personal woes – but discreetly. Even when I don’t end up at his counter (it’s rare these days; once he was able to engineer it) he gives me a wave. 14 Apparitions. Martin Place is a good place for apparitions. Maybe because it is constant. Constant places allow us to see the strange, the aberrant, the untoward. These things are important to me. And ordinary observations. We had teachers at school who had plates in their heads – from the war. Others might say ‘silly old farts’. But ‘silly old cunts’ is also in currency. What is the cunt in this connexion, something missing? 15 I hate it when people don’t ring when they say they will. It’s an abuse of my time – my time and my expectations. Others are very cavalier in their use of the telephone. They unplug without a care in the world, make their calls when it suits them, become unavailable when they choose. This I cconsider selfish and discourteous. I can understand it sometimes, the need to disconnect. There is a power trip in the telephone call, too: ‘I can ring when I like’. Note that it is the caller who always thinks they have the right to put the phone down. At once initiator and terminator. Dingly Dell is the name of the cottage where the famous horseman and poet Adam Lindsay Gordon lived outside Mount Gambier. I remember the broom and its yellow flowers. I don’t know why it appears here. Maybe it’s spurious ‘Englishness’. 16 There is no end to the smugness of the middle class. It is a sea of satisfaction. It smiles its seaweed smiles, lank and wan. 17 The bread is not gluten free, that must be the issue; or it has wheat in it. Beetroot is so salt of the soil. You’re a true democrat if you eat beetroot. 18 The images are clear. It’s how they’re assembled and read. A Star of David cut into the head. Maybe punk. Shostakovitch, himself Jewish, being patronised by another Jew. (Shostakovitch is several thousand light years ahead of Berlin.) An ordinary mother-daughter pairing, dirt poor and dirt cheap, but pretty. There is something there. If you could protect you would but they’re already consigned. Their fate has overtaken them. It makes them tragic, grand even. I’m at Central, at the Railway Square end of the long underpass. Quark, I have no idea what it is. I go to pay, I’m 10 cents short. She lets me off. That’s how I remember it anyway. Maybe I’ve just collected my passport. 19 Yes, a passport to somewhere, a passport to nowhere. The Steve is Steve Irwin, the crocodile man, dead on the end of a stingray barb, pierced through the heart. Dolores is almost certainly a figure of my imagination. But maybe Diana Dors who also came to a sticky end – except I’m muddling her up with Jayne Mansfield. (Yes, whatever did happen to Mickey – the Hungarian Mickey Hargitay?) Paul is Paul Newman of the impossible blue eyes. They die of over exposure. Paul Newman – but also Jack Thomson and his horrible barbeque sauce, widely distributed at Garma in 2008. I purloined one of the bottles; I have it yet. Exhibit A, as they say. Savour or saviour, take your pick. It’s a mere editorial choice. 20 The me as me me me. Choice, they will say, has become the done thing in an age of consumerism. I wonder then how they consume themselves. Painlessly, tastelessly? Read it as you will. The consumption is all yours. 21 This is before I saw Avatar. I’ve always thought that there should be waterfalls tumbling from the heights of tall city buildings, with micro-environments at their base. (‘Where lithe lianas coil!’) And recently I’ve come across an artist (Olaf blah blah blah) who has been paid precisely to implement this idea. (See, it’s the implementation, not the idea.) What this tells us about art I don’t know. It’s beyond art. Each of the things cited could be an art event: burning jetties, burning pines (not to mention the topless towers of Ilium!), temple doorways in flames. Why not? Sounds good to me. The cocktail glass is a thing of beauty – and refinement. But as to our other cultural products … The art of excess. The art of plenitude. The art of Aladdin’s Cave. Open sesame, open to all. An art that is not about hoarding but openness, display, availability. Even the thunder that roars is contained, brought under control, diminished. There is something amusing in this. But only for a moment. Even the thunder that roars can become an advertising gimmick. 22 A wish list, a moment of self-definition, self-objectification. Towers, rivers, prisons! No, the catacombs do not appeal. No, I have never been down a mine and I don’t intend to start. It’s not important. Minds yes, mines no. And this, we don’t need to experience everything. The left bank is my natural predilection. The right is murderous. Then ordinariness. Well, that’s what I take it to be. Even so there is a curious satisfaction to be had from the ordinary. 23 But even the ordinary will end by assailing us. We need to build up our resources first. Yet we are assailed anyway. The media assails us, the radio assails us. If you have television, it assails you. You are told what to think, what is important, what you must buy. It inserts you in the now. But the now is the same as that now, the thing you are inserted into and nothing more. To resist requires refusal, a certain aloofness. I won’t repeat my hatred of ‘good works’. The responsive gesture or act, now that is another matter. To care, that is another matter. Not to drown yourself in the misery or misfortunes of others. 24 The Minister is Minister Wong. Penny Wong. This is a direct if incomplete transcript of an interview she gave on radio. No, it doesn’t matter what it is about. It’s about the Murray-Darling, of course, whatever that is. There may be a river, a river complex, but that has been replaced by something else. I don’t understand this process entirely. It’s when things have been administered into total non-existence, so that all that is left is a suite of further administrative moves. It is administration creating the conditions of further administration. Let us not talk of efficiency, or care, or anything at all. It is a further bad dream commenting on another bad dream. It is not regressive. It is indeed progress. But what it progresses to is a very precise form of extinction. What we do to the river we do to ourselves. Global warming can be seen as a fantasy representing not the desire to limit human action but to extend it further and further. It’s a war of sorts. The weapons are undoubtedly easily identified, but who can be bothered? I have a suspicion – yes, it grows – that at a certain point Senator Wong merged into Minister Garrett 25 The strategies of the political. The will to power. The will to power domesticated – by creating the domestic as the general sphere of action and being. Or everything modelled on the domestic. This is why there is such an insistence on family values. But if you have given up on the family or the domestic as a sphere of anything! There is no action possible in the sphere of the domestic. It’s a flat earth. It has activities, repetitions, tasks – but no action. Sorry, they’ve put in a development application, certain modifications to the family abode. 26 Return to 25. 27 From another angle. The loss of personal integrity, I suppose they would call it. 28 Another bad day at the office. How odd that I am being asked to talk precisely about this, Southern Perspectives, otherwise known as The North-South Dialogue. There is no North-South Dialogue. The South is anything excluded from the main game – the main conversation. There’s only one answer: try harder, no, not at thinking, sport. That’s the go. No, it doesn’t take much brain power to sell iron ore. It’s easy to sell, but on what terms? You can always sell it if someone wants it. There’s more of course but this is some of it. How to create an intelligent abode? The principal dialogue has to be here. There is no conversation, just deals … Some of my stupidest friends are very good at this. They grow orchids in their spare time. They’re always doing things. If it isn’t the yacht it’s the golf course. The smarter ones grow orchids and do home repairs. Elaborate home repairs. They’re very skilful in a fashion. They’re already antiques. 29 A real scene. Martin Place station just before 9.00 am, what the French call ‘les heures d’affluence’. It’s the crowd at its inattentive best. That’s why it’s called the herd – or the mob. It’s bestial. There is no attention to others. It’s all destination. When they’ve arrived there what next? Ah, they take off their shoes – and sharpen their pencils. There’s always things you can do with paper clips … Further up the food chain there are always meetings to attend. The lower echelons organise the sandwiches. They haven’t thought to poison them yet. I know this, I’ve done this. The herd arrives by train or by foot. Their superiors arrive by car. If they’re from out of town they may walk. After all the hotel is only a hop and a skip from the office, the meeting chamber …You call it exercise, Yes, just a little stroll … It pays well.
Martin Place, it’s a very important site for me. Even so, despite my best efforts I’ve had great difficulties getting anybody to film it for me, or to stage little ‘insertions’. I’ve written about the beggars. They’re some of the best installation art in town. The office workers who smoke downstairs, they’re the worst. Them and the bosses who join them. 30 More things you see. The status game, metonymy in (unfortunate) action. You are what you eat, you are what you consume, you are what you place close to your skin. Yes, a second skin, the skin of identity. 31 A young man on a mobile. A young man who definitely thinks he is somebody. A young man who has clearly got talent. I mean, he’s got the performing bit down pat. If we were to create a typology of modern conditions he’d have to be there. ‘Hey baby!’ I finally got round to getting my shoes back. I might have taken them back to Armani; I should have. Now that I’ve got one shoe glued the other is almost certain to become unstuck. For that reason I felt tempted to take the pair of them to the shoe-repairers. (There’s a famous shop in the Strand Arcade. It’s expensive.) I haven’t got anything against Armani shoes. I have a favourite pair. I call them my coconut shoes for they look as if they’re covered in scattered dried coconut strands. Wonderful shoes. But they need new soles. I wonder if it is possible. The old men at the end of the text are almost certainly Greeks. They’re old companions. I see them on the train. 32 31 is the final text from part 1: the pre-trip section. 32 takes us into the zone of departure. The next section, the trip itself, could be treated, together with texts 1-31, as ‘Outward Bound’. That gives a very simple and conventional overall structure to the work, ‘Outward Bound’, ‘Being There’, and ‘The Return’. An archetypal structure, if you like. It aligns with another tripartite structure: ‘Death’, ‘Limbo’, ‘Heaven or Hell’. As I write I feel the choice has been made, but only because there are no real alternatives. The Heaven, the Hell, is here. But it is in fact a Limbo of another sort. No, I won’t call it Purgatory. The crazy man is a good way to announce a journey. He’s a crazy man with two sets of papers. Maybe he’s in a quandary not knowing which set to use. It’s a very public display. People can only declare they’ll kill themselves if they feel already dead. It’s to make the condition secure. People are neat in that way. It’s what’s called logical. The rational is to make yourself what you already are. I don’t feel two people; I don’t even properly feel one. By creating myself as a person needing assistance – I do – I give myself a strange alter ego. I surrender to others. It’s not really being looked after. It means I come last. 33 They’re off somewhere. Me, too. They know where they’re going. Maybe it is that that allows them to sleep. I don’t know where I’m going. Maybe it is that that forces me to remain awake, conscious, taking everything in, no matter how tedious it is. Airports, aeroplanes are meant for people who know where they’re going. They’re not for people like me, people who have no idea. I exist in a state of expectation; but I expect nothing, nothing except the occasional problem, problems that can’t even be predicted. I can understand Gaynor’s sudden fear when she finally had to catch the plane to Tokyo. She hadn’t been there before. She’d prepared but it was new. She didn’t know what to expect. She was expecting but she wasn’t knowing. Her ambition was vague, undefined. I enjoyed writing the section about flying over Cape York Peninsula, down the east coast and needling towards PNG, imagining the view from the ground of our flying overhead. I could, of course, visualise clearly the terrain we were flying over. I’d mapped much of it, I’d been there. It was a mythic country that I knew intimately. It no longer existed, it was a bygone era. I was flying over a forgotten land, a thing no longer, a time in the past. I was flying in present time over past time. It was odd to think that I’d been there. But that was another time. It is truly past. I was already a dead person. This was not an upsetting thought. Even so it is a strange condition. To be so intensely in something and then to be elsewhere … I was returned, but imperfectly, to a previous life, a previous existence. And all around me they slept, and not even to dream what I knew, what I’d experienced.
As to the ‘bastard Moss’, that is Bob Moss, the skipper of the barge we used to map the east coast of the Peninsula, from Lloyd Bay to the mouth of the Stewart River. He was a bastard. He drank my scotch and pretended it was broken. There was a bottle of something else, probably brandy but maybe rum. He lived with one of the Boyds – the Merric Boyds, the Robin Boyds. She looked like a Boyd, she behaved like a Boyd. I was in my early thirties. They’re probably dead now. The son will be somewhere. We never slept on the barge, we always slept on the land. Since it was the wet season we had to put up tents everywhere we went. Big army tents.
Princess Charlotte Bay is the site of a disastrous cyclone that destroyed the pearling fleet out of Thursday Island and hundreds and hundreds of men, numbering, as I recall, into the 500s. This is hard to believe. This was back in the 1890s, for memory. A great catastrophe. Furry Short remembered WWII and the Battle of the Coral Sea. Airmen were parachuting into the jungle and onto the unwelcoming slopes of Cape Melville. Planes were coming down everywhere. One of the rescued airmen took him to the States …
I wrote what I wrote without looking down. It was unnecessary. I felt it too vividly. I didn’t need to look. 34 Self-evident, as far as I can gather. In the face of death we struggle back into being – through activity. Meditation alone leaves us in the death space. We become a missile of the night. Maybe we can grieve silently, for ourselves. The flight attendant, is this not a death companion, ushering us towards death, dissolution? The dying pillow? A crossing, but to what? The rowboat is an appealing image, the rowboat that rows itself. Go along for the ride! 35 The terminal at Inchon. Air terminals constitute massive spaces, full of emptiness, like a vast crypt. Pulguksa, the famous Buddhist shrine, in Kyongju. I’ve never been certain what its fame is based on. This night I will pass the Lotte Hotel in Downtown Seoul. There is a bright array of Christmas decorations out the front … Trees, for memory. 36 There is nothing to add, nothing to explain. Check-in is polite, efficient, painless. 37 I don’t need to say who Alexis is. Those who know will know. We can if we wish add Alexis and Toni to the ‘circle’. But one is central to it, the other on the edge. 38 The notion, the nature of reappearance. There’s something mystical about it, like an emanation. The ‘ghostliness’ of Seoul is made manifest in wreaths of smoke or steam – steam, more likely – rising up from the tops of the taller buildings. It makes them into bodies that breath, things that exhale. It gives them a strange eerie life – which in fact is no life at all. It gives them an odd sense of belonging – a belonging in which one can participate for a moment or two but which one will soon be forced to quit. A graveyard. Signal fires emitting signalling to no one. Sunlight shining on one’s fingers creates a sense of presence. Not illumination so much as being there. Tangible somewhat. The woman, rightly or wrongly, represents a sort of maturity. Another plane, another plane of being. 39 Luxury comes in strange guises. Often it is the hotel towels (signs of quality). In Queensland, as I like to joke, it is the quality of the pawpaw at breakfast. Lime instead of lemon. I don’t recall the Han ever being blue – this pale pastel powdery blue. I remember the checkpoints on the bridge, at 5 in the morning when the curfew had just been lifted and you could start to drive round the city. A city more or less deserted but the young men in their military attire guarding the bridge and tracking movement … I don’t know this yet but the form of urban development in contemporary Seoul is preparing me – unwittingly, as I have stated – for Eastern Europe. This is more Socialism than Kapital. The key difference in Poland, I will discover, will have to do with the disposition of the buildings. There they are set out higgledy-piggledy, not in rows or neatly in parallel to each other. They’re all set, I like to think, to catch the light. The image of reeds with fluffy tops is a recurrent image. We will encounter it again in Poland. It is always a reference to my much regretted friend, Peret. Agu pimpa, a place of reeds, in western Cape York Peninsula. There is a telltale patch of reeds in a small bay below Black Mountain in Canberra, in Lake Burley Griffin. Peret himself explicitly made the linkage. It was a little patch of ‘home’. At least, a recurrence. Sites, of recurrence, yes, an interesting topic.
Death is a recurrent theme. I am somewhat shocked at this. Maybe surprised rather than shocked. I don’t want to moralise about it. To prepare for death, it is not so much melancholy as an increasing detachment, a taking leave. There is nothing essentially bothersome in this.
Yes, a taking leave. We have to re-visit in order to leave. But to record a leave-taking, how do we do that? Not via photographs, I think, or videos. They create new attachments, new presences. The train is a sign of another way of being. Trains exist in another order of reality. There they are – over there. 40 In the context of death and dying waiting takes on a new force. It’s almost a paralysed state, I think to myself, but this is not right. Maybe suspended animation. There is something abusive about it. Korea has been curiously empty. When I think of the mountains – in reality they are little peaks – their shape, their contours impose themselves on me. They are imprinted. 41 More or less sociological observations. I’m not sure they mean much. They can connect, they can connect us. The sudden intrusion of the modern condition, young soldiers in felt slippers. Like a pack of sleek panthers. There is something sinister in their padded synchronised run-by. Even more than the kalashnikovs or whatever they are carrying across their bodies. 42 Yes, the airport is a prodigy of departures. All roads lead to … 43 No, the speeding speed-boat is no göbukseon (Turtle Boat). Admiral Yi is not to be found in these parts. The transition across China is rapid. It is an oddity that the snow is at first heaviest in the valleys … Later I shall see the floaters in my eyes clearly, silhouetted against the ‘pure whiteness’. 44 The anxiety of arrival. The imponderable of possible things gone wrong, things not properly attended to, things unpredicted. There is an exercise video shown each time before landing. Why it is not played earlier I don’t know. A young man and a young woman. Stretches. Ritualistic, I suspect, there is no real expectation that anyone will do them. Lip service to the hazards of midair thrombosis. The ravaged man arrived all glamour and style. A prince of his time. The cabin crew doted on him, he could do no wrong. I thought he must be a television star. He made himself absolutely at home, arranged his luggage halfway round the cabin. At the end of the journey his whole appearance had collapsed. But then there was the task of arranging his luggage for departure. It is then he encroached – dangerously, in my view, certainly improperly – into my space. I complained. Unusually. But in fact it was an outrage. I would ban cabin luggage. As to the Götterdämmerung effect, it is always gratifying to find a direct analogue in the real, a direct inspiration, as it were. Nothing could compete with this sky – though why it should signal ‘the twilight of the gods’ I do not know. An absolute ‘Kodak moment’. 45 The mechanics of landing. Yes, whenever we’ve landed in Frankfurt the city has been there on the right, over-present. Reach out and touch. It’s western European; Berlin by contrast is eastern. Things may change but it will take time … Despite its promise of cosmopolitanism there is nothing cosmopolitan about Frankfurt airport. I wonder what Europe means in this context. How is Europe coming into being, or is it still rampant parochialism? How is the ‘national’ constituted and maintained in these conditions of change and realignment? Indeed, is there any realignment? As for the foot-shaking (foot-rattling) it intrigues me. I always see it as a form of undisguised sexual urgency. I saw another instance of this yesterday, in Campbelltown, at the restaurant of the regional gallery. Two men in their early adulthood sitting opposite each other, both jiggling away merrily – and compulsively. One sat with his ankles crossed, the other sat with his feet apart. The latter was more discreet, the former more violent. Yes, I wish to recreate such scenes on video. It is always disturbing to witness such agitated displays. A sort of weird distorted erotic dance. 46 I don’t like being sententious in this way. I am suspicious of such statements: ‘Somewhere the world has taken a wrong turn’. But yes, the notion of a fall, a sudden blight. I’m truly horrified to be sitting next to a sniffling if attractive woman. Late thirties I guess. It seemed incomprehensible that she could be allowed on a flight in these days of swine fever. It seems incomprehensible this can be permitted or that she would take it upon herself to act thus, so irresponsibly. I’m sure I’m going to catch the contagion. She’s sexy, she reads a Hollywood-style gossip magazine, she wears highly patterned stockings. Her long legs stretch and stretch. But then the sniffle returns me to that reality … 47 My luggage is there, my flash green suitcase. Sławek grabs it. Yes. He’s there and my luggage is there. I soon discover one of his habits – a move he makes, bordering on a compulsion. It’s the drive to leave the main road and to take a side road. ‘Now why do I do it?’, he inquires. We make it back onto the autobahn. It’s a motif that will be repeated, the autobahn and the elsewhere, the back road, past and present, the sudden unfamiliarity of the ‘new road’, the deletion of history. There is always the impulse for me to enter the position of the navigator, even in unfamiliar parts. We might have crossed the Odra by ferry. ‘Yes, a good shortcut’, says the petrol station attendant, clearly a local, ‘a very good shortcut. Unfortunately the ferry …’ Yes, the ferry stopped at 6.00pm, not to resume until 6.00 in the morning. At night all the towns looked the same; even the trees along the road, the same. Too close to the road, real hazards. I worry for the young blokes of the future when they all have cars, or aspire to them. There will be deaths here, and each tree implicated. The petrol stations are full of booze, rows and rows of liquor. The same in Germany, they tell me. Meanwhile the past asserts itself, and the interventions of the new. Sławek only has his Australian driving license. I – with my German name (this has already been noted) and an Australian passport. What an odd couple we are, It is then I decide to demand that my name be pronounced in the proper German fashion. In conditions of everywhere we can all reclaim our proper past. It’s not about conformity or assimilation. We are all signs of an elsewhere. The border crossing is already an antiquated reality. You can detect the border now by the shift in the mobile telephone signals – an array of beeps and bleeps. Sławek could not wait to leave Germany. In his panic he stayed there longer than he needed. A sense of entrapment, maybe. History imposes itself on him still. It is made manifest in his relation to border crossings. ‘This is a good crossing’, he says of the road to Wrocław (Breslau), ‘it only takes 2 hours’. Maybe he corrects this to 4. ‘Frankfurt could take 2 days …’ I understand now why Frankfurt (F. an der Oder) was so scrupulously avoided. 48 A consequence of being in the unfamiliar, trying to give it meaning and shape and to feel a sense of belonging. We might call this dislocation but it’s a term, a sense of things, that doesn’t mean much to me. Normally it would reassure me, engage me. But there seems to be little to engage with. We arrive in Bydgoszcz at 4 in the morning. The wind howls. Sławek complains about the new roads, the new roundabouts. He is the one dislocated, not me. The wind howls. It has torn the big banners from the museum building. Some of the stonework has been damaged. Not the ravages of war but of something. It remains to discover what this something is. My early morning inspection is taken up by an early morning walk. Little Berlin, it is known as – or has been known. Neo-classical buildings in pretty colours, art deco, hints of flamboyance and church architecture that is as much ‘orthodox’ as western Catholic. I seek sites of movement. There are flower stalls outside the churches. I ask, ‘What’s this all about?’ My hosts are ignorant of this obvious fact. They look at me, obviously nonplussed. It’s for funerals, I say. They accept this but still claim they haven’t noticed. It seems that death and funerals are all the go. Men come up to me in the street and speak to me at close range. Face to face. Accosted, we might say, but what they are accosting, what they see, I have no notion of. Of course I cannot speak. Even if I could speak it is unlikely that I would have anything to say. I am more than mute, I am silent. 49 In a short time I find myself fearful of the smoke. My chest hurts. The smoke has a particular smell. I cannot describe it. There is certainly no sweetness to it. It’s a dull odour, with something of the quality of wet dish clothes. But there is of course no dampness to it. Bitterness, rather. Yes, there is something bitter to it. It envelops, but more than that it insinuates. It infests, it infects. Yes, it is a disgrace. I will never complete my inventory of the interior. There were chairs – more stools than chairs – made of welded metal. Like the bar in Star Wars. At any moment Chewie might appear. Maybe it is me … 50 Given my previous remarks I can now understand why the thought of lions entered me. My companion was lively, skull shaven shiny smooth. Mephisto, I call him. Funny, amused, obliging, with superb English. His job? Translating how-to books into Polish. How to manage hotel staff, that was the latest treatise. He read sections of it to me. Hilarious. I wanted to build it into my performance. We made tentative arrangements for this to occur. Hilarious – and frightening. Nobody talks about the relationship between fascisms and managerial practices. But it is no accident we call these management types apparatchiks. The apparatchik mentality … 51 Breakfast at the Pod Orłem. Faded glory. Heavily recommended, the fourteen dollar breakfast. (What’s that, 30 zlotys?) It’s not exactly welcoming, it’s not at all sociable. An ethic of service retained from the 19th century. There is nothing contemporary about it. Yes, the scene of reference is France. The triumph of the French chanteur tradition, Jacques Brel, Yves Montand, others. Here’s La Mer being belted out exaggeratedly. Art deco prints, Été, Printemps, but no Hiver or Automne, embodied as female figures … I walk to the main railway station before venturing into the hotel. I need a trial run, to see how far it is and to check the timing. 943 steps, that’s what I assess it at. As usual the station had a scene going but I did not investigate it. 52 Pal, puy, coming and going. Come here, go away. Push and pull. Nhiina, sit down. The walk to the station is difficult, for the footpaths are uneven. There is no notion of the smooth pavement. There is courtesy in having an ‘easy way’ – for it frees us to think and to consider other things. None of us should be required to explain our way. 53 Djon, who should have been in Bydgoszcz but wasn’t. He wanted to do a piece called The Invisible Man. About being in the spotlight, the invisibility that arises from being ‘overlit’. How we can disappear even though we are at the centre of things. The condition, the condition of the blackfella, made invisible, but why, how? ‘No’, they say, ‘you must be … you must be somewhere but please, not here.’ Friendship is a strange thing. We all need to speak for ourselves. But there are times – in conditions of over-determination – when it is important to have someone to represent you, not as your representative but as someone that takes on the burden – and the imagination – of speaking for, of bringing into speech. 54 Entering the foreign space. No, not so friendly. But then again, there is no real basis of connexion. They can pretend you are already connected; or they can recognise for what you are, a stranger, a newcomer. Being a newcomer one is subject to the threat and the reality of contamination. Infiltration, we might say. It may work in two directions. How do we infect the other? The newcomer is wary not to infect or infest. The newcomer, the outsider, is given a number: 12. A big metal slab with a number on it. The price you pay is to hand over your skin, your cloak, not of invisibility but of appearance. 55 A response, powerful, immediate – and entirely beyond interpretation. A dangerous remark to make for the moment we deny the interpretative possibility it rears up and smacks us in the face. Yes, that ridiculous caption on the Magritte in the (old) Tate – to the effect that ‘This work lies beyond interpretation’. Yes, «Le Dormeur téméraire», can there be any work where the interpretation is so over-determined! 56 In the ordinary of the other, in their self-naturalising habitus of self. What a strange encounter this is! You are implacably there. No mistake. To exist in the gaze of the other, to be suddenly subject to the inquiry, to the attentive inquisition. What are they looking into? It is by no means obvious. What is the move, what are its implications? Are you merely patient? In any case, what is that? What is a patient, what is the patient? Are you already a dead man in their eyes? To be looked into, to be spied into? What are the consequences of having one’s privacy violated in this way? Are you thereafter ever the same? You can be x-rayed and remain utterly other to yourself, as if the x-ray ain’t. It ain’t. It’s an image of an elsewhere, and not you, not at all. The strangeness of his gesture, as if he’s cutting the throat of an unknown enemy. I’m already excised, subject to the excision.
The nurse is not nurse Maddalena, the sexy nurse Maddalena. She makes her appearance after my second bout of surgery, when I have the ward to myself. Sweet. She made major efforts with her schoolgirl English. I admired her guts, her sweetness, her sweet bravado. There were nurses who wore sensible black skivvies, with no cleavage. Maddalena had a cleavage, and hair streaked with colour. The young women with blond ponytails all had a cleavage. The others did not. Maddalena had a history even if it was thin, without reverberation. A true local girl with no ambitions – except to be present. Yes, she made herself present. She was there, real. And full of sentiment, like the people who love me in Aurukun or Edward River. She too might have cried when I left. Instead it was her who left – but not without coming in first to say goodbye. Monday was her day not to be here. It was only when she came to say her goodbyes that she became shy. She had three children, all by different fathers. Her mother lived with her. 57 ‘Poetry is the language of pointless things’, I like that line. 58 Simple things, the reintroduction to bread. It was good, without butter (though they brought pats of butter to spread on it). Butter didn’t seem such a good idea at the time – but the sliced meats served with it (a single slice each time) was itself fatty. Later I’d be served a boiled egg when eggs were themselves strictly prohibited. My surgeon, the admirable Professor Arkadiusz Jawien laughed about this. ‘Ah’, he says, ‘institutions!’ Then pouting his lips in order to blow the hair out of his eyes. It is easy to appear on Polish television. Just perform an art event – like opening an exhibition of Aboriginal art. (Yes, they let me out of hospital to do that. It was I think a lively performance.) Polish television is about to change. The arts will disappear, live events will disappear. They too will be fed a diet of disasters and things to keep their anxiety meter ticking along nicely Anxiety, the new method of social control. Once it might have been an incitement to social action, an inspiration to confront. 59 Self-pity. The moment of it. Like a reality check. A release of sorts. The dynamics of self-grieving. Nothing remarkable about that, I suppose. 60 The hospital is an insistent site. 61 There is a precise reference, to Roger Woodward, the local exponent of Chopin. An early evening performance at some school of other in Darwin, an upright piano, Roger playing Chopin’s études with the greatest of difficulty. On account of the heat, on account of the sweat dripping onto the keyboard, on account of the inherent difficulty of the music. He would get up from the keyboard and retire to the boys’ toilet. Someone would come and wipe the keys with a towel. Then he’d reappear. It was one of the most engrossing performances I have ever witnessed. After the performance – we gathered briefly for tea and biscuits in a drab staff room – my companion (DB) and I ventured out of town to a paddock covered in horse jumps. There we joined others in dancing the polka. It was progressive, wild, fun. Somewhere near Howard Springs – or Berry Springs. The exact site is not so important. 62 There was a decision to be made, to include the texts from the Nitra performance (written the morning of the performance itself) or to keep them separate. There is a case for including them – but I haven’t. The history of our drive to Slovakia, the ‘500 mile, 500 mile’ of the journey (I heard a wonderful reggae performance of this once on the radio but have been unable to trace it since), almost exactly that, in fact, 800 kilometres. The direction of history, the ‘turn to the right’, the issue of surveillance and security, locals caught in the crossfire of transience, the drive-through world – onlookers at a ghastly unfathomable and constant ‘passage’, a ‘through-pass’, the elsewhere always invoked but never made precise. Being in hospital. Being in Nitra. John Dobie accompanying the ‘journey’, an intended plucked performance on the electric guitar that was supposed to conjure up a sense of country-and-western. Sławek on the double-bass doing the hospital stay (his choice). And Qba on drums and percussion accompanying the rain piece (a rainy day in Nitra, how we are all embraced in the rain, how our gestures, our bodies, take on the same moves). This text leaps from a hotel where Qba found a facility for accessing his e-mail to the actual performance. In the hotel we saw a lone Asian, a middle-aged businessman from China. The décor was a strange semi-oriental fantasy, comfortable and lurid. I felt as if we were interlopers. In the performance we were more than interlopers, we were true aliens. The more alien we were the better. I felt aggressive, but not in a nasty way, more forceful than anything. Sławek was concerned about his own performance, I considered it sharp, focussed. The room acoustics were difficult. Maybe it was why I projected myself physically into the room. It was fun to be active, not tied down. After my own performance I was wound up and felt compelled to write. 63 The last 20 minutes is the last 20 minutes of the ‘concert’. These performances are called concerts. They last an hour. That seems to be the convention. My own performance had run 25 minutes or so. It concluded in an ensemble with everyone participating. When I felt finished I sat down and left them to it. Our host suggested that I should have returned at the end, to frame it. Maybe. He said I was lively ... ‘Nothing to report, nothing to report’. He picked up on the refrain in the first piece, the security guard and his patrols: ‘Nothing to report, nothing to report’. As a comment on the current condition it will do; there is in fact nothing to report. We have to do something else. Create something, in fact. Any form of assertion is a form of self-assertion. It’s not against the void, it’s against something else. Annihilation, maybe. The annihilation of Ward 5 and its display of sinister icons. The hospital ward as Death Valley. 64 Leaving Nitra. We strolled around the city the previous night, after dinner. A strange Italian restaurant that wasn’t Italian at all. I had minestrone based on broccoli. I was careful about my diet. The soup was excellent, an excellent choice, and very cheap. After the ‘Italian’ restaurant we ended up at an Irish pub. Horrible. I decided to leave. There were locals talking loudly, showing off their proficiency in English. Heavy American accents. Big-noting themselves and speaking totally vacuous piffle. The town was too small for that. When we arrived the previous night – about 2 in the morning – there were young women leaving a bar and falling down in the street. It had a big neon heart at the front, in red I recall. A police car guided us to our hotel, a vestige, all agreed, of a bygone era: the communist hotel. Bare, basic, with a giant bathtub in the bathroom. At breakfast we were given coupons. There was a coupon for every slice of bread. Once I could not have resisted the temptation to explore the town, climb the hill to the ecclesiastical complex that dominates it. The town itself is dominated by a large mountain, called something like the Bison’s Head, or the Giant’s Head. The Gorgon’s Head. I forget which. Our hotel took its name from this eminence. Memories of Woolly Mammoths and hunting parties. The Palaeolithic is near, near at hand. 65 Ozwiecim, Auschwitz. The surprises of history. How we converge on things, how things converge on us. A certain inescapable. No, Auschwitz is not somewhere I need to go to, not now that it is made a site of instruction, a tourist destination masquerading as ‘instruction’ or ‘necessary site.’ I don’t need to go to Auschwitz to be reminded of Auschwitz. Auschwitz is anywhere. Auschwitz is everywhere. There are many such sites. I’d prefer the unknown, the forgotten, the unexpected, the hidden, the private. Certainly the unofficial. It’s become big business, official site of horror. The gate attendants could have been there then; also as gate attendants, ordinary functionaries, ordinary people doing their job. (You are at Auschwitz as long as you are at Auschwitz.) Is Auschwitz escapable therefore? We do not avoid it by avoiding it. 66 Back in Bydgoszcz. I say nothing about Krakow. There is much that can be said. I lit a candle in the cathedral, to a friend. I didn’t want to geek, I didn’t want to join the queue of foreigners, I had no desire to be a tourist. If I am in things I want to be in them. I forgot to remove my hat. I was in a weird sort of panic. What induced this I do not know. I object to paying to enter a church. Yes, Bydgoszcz had suddenly become cold. On the drive back of the night before Sławek was checking the temperature to establish whether there was danger of ice on the road. It hovered around 1°C. (The weather was soon to become very cold indeed, down to minus 25, minus 30.) I was out on my early morning walk, with a camera. There was a men’s clothing shop I wanted to photograph, very trendy, with good American music. (Yes, there is such a thing.) Old people are entering a church. I wish to follow. I do follow. There they are inside. I don’t get a strong sense of religiosity – even belief. I do get a strong sense of relief from the cold. That is the burning issue; not religion, not belief, not piety. Piety begins with the senses. Piety begins with survival – and self-interest. The question of country follows from the issue of self-interest. Where would my interests be best served? This question remains. 67 As I explain in a note, this is the first of a set of texts devoted to an art exhibition. I’m under instruction to see it. A set of videos. A set of videos that focus on people, how they react to the fact of being recorded, of being placed in front of the camera and over time. Nothing new in this idea. The issue of evasion, evasiveness. Conversely, the issue of candour. 68 The site of purpose, yes, the mouth. The mouth is always purposive. The oral phase is never dead, never superseded. The mouth speaks, the mouth utters. The mouth says things. It gives itself away. The mouth is, therefore, a site of betrayal – of the self as well as of others. The Judas Kiss is no accident of history. The play of the face, the mouth set against the eyes. The eyes do not have it, certainly no alone. The mouth is a slit, an extended slit. It is the place of closure – for the precise reason that there is choice in the matter. The Polish look has evolved. It is adaptive – but to what? What are the conditions of its appearance? 69 The notion of self-acquiescence, the moment of self-acceptance or the acquired capacity to accept oneself. A bowing to one’s own condition. 70 This cannot be questioned: the older women are triumphant, the most resolved. If there is triumph at all it lies with them. It is a success, an achievement. It is an acquired resilience in the face of the gaze. It is a self-appearing intended to live beyond the gaze and not to be dependent on it. 71 French, Spanish, German – all to the west. Romance and the Teutonic – but where in this the Slavic? If you define yourself endlessly against an elsewhere … Yes, I know the Romance Bloc, I know the Anglo-Teutonic Bloc, I don’t know the Slavic Bloc. These are first steps. Divide the world into blocs and work with them all. 72 What was anticipated is what happened. My ‘fears’ were well justified. We did not leave until something like 9 hours later. Dilatory departures, the requirement to wait. There is nothing much that can be said about this. It’s an odd matter, driving out of a country. The afternoon was full of messages: ‘We will leave in …’ I already knew these adjustments were unreal, unlikely. They were a statement of intention rather than anything else. A sort of goodwill. In any case Grgosz had to close down his apartment, hand it over. It was a proper departure. No doubt he feels he follows the tide of history. 73 Waiting we are forced to attend to the most trivial things, whatever appears. We are at the mercy of time – and others. Both are merciless. Waiting is cruel. We are put to the test. 74 Memory intervenes for there is nothing else. A regression of sorts. Old regrets, probably unreasonable. Scenes from the past. We can’t call them all lost opportunities. Some things are already set in concrete. Our choices have been made for us, there is no turning back. Even when we are innocent there is a sort of knowing. This text was extended – then savagely pruned back. There is still possibly something unsatisfactory. We can have no guarantee of resolution. It happens of its own accord. 75 Berlin. A seemingly abrupt transition. Now we are there, in earshot of the airport. The building is noisy. A literal rendering of ‘jerry-built’. (Yes, my friend confirms, it comes from the German.) It’s surprising such shoddiness. Love and companionship, they’re on the agenda. I am abandoning Poland. The separation is necessary. The text ends naturally at Love is difficult between young men, even when they love each other And so I shall terminate it there. This failure of love between young men is an absurdity of the current condition. It is overcome in different ways. I have noted some of them on this trip, not because I was on the lookout for them but because they came my way. Casual admissions suddenly unleashed, moments of sudden fleeting candour. (Blink and you might have missed them.) Delicate, casual admissions – and signs, miniscule signs. Off flickering glimmers. Doors suddenly opened into personal histories – and the histories of friendships. Love is love. That is what I would think now, without knowing properly what love is. A form of self-recognition that requires the existence of the other, that’s what I think. Self-regarding broadens the more one accepts the mirror of the other. It is doubtful that the self achieves itself by narrowing. This is why I espouse the doctrine of ‘say yes’. One has to keep within the game of love. Once I might have been more apt to see it in terms of a progressive narrowing, a focussing, a purification. This is still up for grabs. This move whereby I allow myself to terminate where I terminate allows me to abbreviate the poem. But I shall retain the residue here:
It was watching these videos that made me think of Tony
I’m not sure why I didn’t let him do what he liked But I stopped him I stopped him, simple as that
As I’ve said already he might have said he loved me But he didn’t He didn’t say that He didn’t say anything at all
It might have made all the difference, it might not I think it might have made a difference
It might have made a difference but then it might not It might not have made a difference
I have regrets I have regrets now; they are real
In fact, let me say this, I’m somewhat annoyed at myself
This is not a sentiment that is likely to last
I see my refusal as a limitation, maybe even cowardice. Who is to know what is right and proper? Yet maybe there was a significant component of self-protection. I do not know the rights and wrongs of this case. I was after something else, after something that was not on offer. I did not find it. As to the matter of my self-annoyance. True, I know myself well enough on this point. We announce our regrets only to abandon them. I also know that we can deceive ourselves. 76 No sooner thought than spoken. Yes, the ‘say yes’ of my contemporary practice. No, I no longer assert that identity arises through refusal. Well, not only. It has to have the confidence to assert itself anywhere, and to remain silent when it considers it prudent to do so. No, it was foolish to go to Bydgoszcz. What is there for me there? Very little, I suspect. But then again it was entirely the right decision. I entered another world, one I did no know existed. A whole new sphere of the human condition. And somewhat trustworthy. It has crippled me financially, the cost of the air travel, the hospital bill. But too bad. There has been a tiny realignment. Not much but something. We have to be grateful to these tiny seismic shifts. I’ve always sought them. I regret nothing of the trip. Not that it points to a new way. 77 Monday is back in Oz. 6 December. The prospect of seeing my doctor, of having to see my GP, does not please me. Partly I am angry. I’m very angry over what is – very clearly – mistreatment, insufficient care, insufficient caring. In the afternoon I have an appointment at Save Sight. I am not looking forward to either of these encounters, GP (my GP of 24 years!) and Save Sight. My experience at 78 A cat like an Albert Tucker cat, aghast, on the verge of screaming, trapped in a cat pack, a pet pack. (Where are these animals stored on the plane, in the hold?) We identify as fellow travellers. It’s already distressed. The cage would quite possibly be better darkened. Class, that hated phenomenon. Yet what was curious about Poland was how class had drifted down, seemingly untouched, from the 19th century. It was a society of old classes and old class cultures. I felt this intensely. Not that I felt or encountered any simple one-on-one relationship between class and attitude to the communist regime. Greed, says Professor Jawien, is the curse of the new order. He happily reconciled Church and Communism as both involving ethics of care. In the most unexpected quarters there is a belief in the Caring State: from cradle to grave. There is little sense that State can be both Cradle and Grave. But if it is a choice between the Swaddled Citizen and Open Slather, I know which I would endorse. Poland is no doubt full of patriots. I found it a remarkably homogeneous society, certainly in ‘look’. There was a true democratic spirit, especially among ‘the workers’, the village people. (I found this also in East Germany. It was refreshing.) Yet there are accusations of haughtiness; and instances of true aristocratic haughtiness … 79 Hide what you know. Learn how to hide. All this in preparation for the return. Australian democracy resists any form of knowing; it demands ignorance. It is in ignorance that equality can be guaranteed. An egalitarianism of nothingness. Rightly or wrongly I did not find this in Poland or Slovakia. Many food outlets – along the highways – were run by Russian women. What do we say about this? What does it require us to think? The nature of desire, the nature of the ‘turn-on’. Masculinity, the fiercely masculine. A valorisation of the masculine. (No, this doesn’t mean macho. It means reliability, firm action, discretion, a capacity to withhold, clear statements of principle.) No, I’m not into ‘pansies’. Gay culture is an abomination, a purely simulacral, anodyne condition. Anything that hints at domesticity, domestication, ‘niceness’, even bitchiness, such things appal me. The Chamber of Commerce is never far from our door. It requires its own soft options – and endless protection. An endless exemption from the harsher realities. It demands the Mafia, in whatever form that takes.
80 Frankfurt, Terminal A. The international terminal. I’m accompanied from the domestic to the international by a talkative young Indian woman, from Gujarat. We have, she tells me, to pass via a tunnel. It’s a long walk. Despite requesting assistance at Tegel there was no one to assist me on arrival in Frankfurt. A security guard came to my rescue and took me to the appropriate office. There they were all help and assistance. The Nowhere Zone is beyond Interzone. Here everything is reduced to a pale imitation of itself. It’s an installed zone which imitates an elsewhere where things actually taste, where things have actual flavour, where things have substance and vitality. In Nowhere Zone things crumble in your hand. They exist in a world of appearances. Luxury goods have something of that quality.
In Krakow it was sweet of my young host to take me on an extended walk – to see the sights. He was aware of the impact we were making. There is generosity in that. There is always generosity in awareness. Krakow was not Nowhere; nor was it Interzone. It hovers on the edge of something unexpected. It sits in the midst of great ugliness. 81 We were sitting in MacDonald’s. It was more or less comfortable. Nearby there was a bookshop. I looked through the books and the magazines. Many were in English. There was a large book – a large format book – of photographs. Taschen. A thing to have but not to buy. Something of the tawdriness of which I speak. Not tawdry enough, however. On special offer. Not the sort of thing to have to lug onto an aeroplane … 82 The flight from Seoul has landed. We are the return version. 83 Sometimes it is good to set arbitrary targets. Create a frame and see what happens. The Bs are a recognition of proximity, a part of the world I had never considered. Yet there they are, more or less close together. The notion of sites of deprivation, It’s reasonable. Surfeit issues a killer blow. It is as I say careless. Yet deprivation can enact itself by enacting itself further. 84 To laugh, to laugh, we all know this. To lower the tension, to lower the heat, to narrow the gap between this one and that one, this state of affairs and that state of affairs, this concern and that concern. Laughter mediates. It mediates and it disrupts. It’s a crack in the ice. The notion of the forbidden place – and not so much forbidden as condemned, already consigned to the outer. OK, so Pcim may be on the frontier, or not far from it. But I doubt it gets its reputation from that, it’ll be from something else. Yass is part of my own personal mythology. To what does it owe its reputation, in my mind? Because it’s a place you pass through, it doesn’t detain you, it’s on the road to nowhere and from nowhere. Once it might have been a staging post. Now it’s more or less nothing at all. It appears to have no raison d’être. Despite the substantial courthouse … It has been ripped apart by passing traffic. Far better for it to be truly off the track; then it might become something. Canberra were it truly abandoned might become something. At present it is nothing at all. A truly derelict town. 85 The return to Seoul-Inchon is inconspicuous. The world is annihilated. The whine of compliance is impossible to take. This ‘insincere’ obligingness, let us put a stop to it. It’s insulting; it’s deeply insulting of the human condition. Nobody needs to be subject to it, not to have to utter it or to be on the receiving end of it. It is dismissive. There is a backward look, back to Frankfurt. Yes, people in the upstairs corridor asleep on chairs or on the floor. It gives people the appearance of refugees. Their interim condition seems permanent. It’s as if the war has not ended. This is the barbarity, part of it: the dismissiveness. An annihilation of the soul. Ha, bad pun! 86 For no apparently good reason we are suddenly back in the Land of Oz. A forward prospect. If in approaching Seoul, the halfway point, we look back, now we look forward. A sort of scanning, backwards and forwards, two ways. The primary issue? It appears to be the refusal of responsibility, inattention. It may be something else. (As I sit here writing these notes I’m bombarded by mosquitoes. My fingers, my ankles itch.) Part of the inattention is not to get things right. We don’t have rivers, we have something else. We don’t have mountains, we have something else. We don’t have forests, we have bush. None of this is bad, it just has to be recognised for what it is, subject to proper identification, properly thought. For some reason I recall the mud in Poland, on the walk near the Wisła. It seizes you, it clings to you. All of us who walked there are mired in the same condition. There is something good about that, the involuntary sharing of an experience or a condition. This makes the mud a habitus. It is habitus that shapes us. Unless we can agree what the habitus is, what constitutes it, we can share nothing. Just fibs, deceits. It’s not even wishful thinking, it’s a vast nothing at all. We don’t share a condition for we refuse to speak about it. We are mired in complaint but without acknowledging the generality or the righteousness of the complaint. A shared condition that is somehow avoided. Things happen but they always happen to others. We have no life. We are instead fed the tragedies and triumphs of others. We never achieve the condition of selfhood. We’re all martyrs to the cause. It is the silencing of the general condition, its inability to establish itself as a spoken real, an acknowledged thing, that is oppressive. It cages us. We’re like the cat in the travel pack. Except the cat makes its displeasure known. It’s manifest. Part of the human condition is to conceal distress. It may be a survival mechanism but it doesn’t help survival as anything more than that. OK, we survive, so what! As I write planes land overhead. None of us like it but we won’t mount a campaign. We suffer, we suffer in silence. We have to put up with things. It is the local, the locale under assault, and without any prospect of benefit to the local, or even accountability. Talk about greenhouse gases. I’d be content with proper silence, not this silencing into which we thrust ourselves, apparently complicit. Earlier there were birds, thin piping calls, pure, wonderful! We make our thin piping calls but they are in vain. It’s all about ‘making do’. 87 The Pod Orłem will do as a sign of something, this ‘vacancy’, this refusal to enter into a proper engagement. You sit there, you eat, the buffet beckons. It might be a trap. There is a scatter of seed beneath the bird trap. Crash, down it comes. We don’t hear the crash.
Silent entrapments.
The cabin is a trap, the flight is a trap – but like all traps they are traps of a different order. They can’t merely be assimilated to each other. We flee entrapment. Sometimes the acknowledgment of the fact of entrapment is enough to allow us to escape it. One of the traps is to become the leader, the guide to salvation. There is no salvation, we might as well give up on that idea. Moses should keep his trap shut. Each apology announces the fact of entrapment, the delayed arrival, the delayed departure, the unwelcome intrusion. Rudimentary thoughts. Rudimentary for they are not properly experienced, just in a shadow way. There is a responsibility to announce things properly. 88 Business Class means a rapid escape, a more rapid escape. I escape at last to the hotel where for $US50.00 I’m allowed a 6 hour rest in a pleasant soundproof room. It’s good even though I awake every hour on the hour. The boofy young man with the Ramones t-shirt or jacket – I forget which – opted for the massage. He tells me this when he catches up with me. (Of course, from a certain angle Korea equals massage.) He’s friendly, an East German, somewhat on the make. From Leipzig, he says. He’s learnt to recognise the possibility of options. It’s not heroic but it does involve a certain openness, even courage. He’s turning up in Bexley on speck. His host doesn’t know he’s arriving. Unfinished business from the 2000 Olympics … The little boy beside me makes himself at home. He’s surly. He insists on speaking to his mother in English. Not a word of Korean passes his lips. He’s largely taciturn. He goes to sleep with his legs over my lap. I don’t mind, not at all. The mother is embarrassed, or acts embarrassed. ‘No really, I don’t mind …’, I say. There’s more kahamsamnida politeness. The fact is, I don’t mind, not at all. For someone to hand themselves over to you so casually, so entrustingly, it’s a compliment of sorts. 89 The return to the familiar is easier than the departure to the unknown. This is true even when there is no desire to return to the place of returning. The return journey tends to seem shorter. Outward bound is full of anticipation. Anticipation stretches time in a particular sort of way. All such truths are uncertain. Truth in general is uncertain – except there are some forms of truth which are not uncertain at all: when we encounter something as the truth. The truth as truth is not apt to last. It is by its nature a provisional thing. All truths lurch towards uncertainty and question. A time of reassessment. What have you got out of the trip? Time will tell. Boring texts have to be permitted their own reality. Boredom does not make illegitimate. Boredom has its own force in the world. We are already readying ourselves for escape. 90 Why this text is dedicated to Broken Hill I have chosen the Korean meals on all sectors. The pibim bap was not really as I remember it. No egg on top. I assess my prospects on return. What am I returning to? It’s not encouraging. Australia cannot be approached directly. As soon as there is direction – directness – the place disappears. It is not a direct country. It is full of meanders and sudden disappearing acts. It’s reasonable to ask whether it really exists. It’s oblique, wary. 91 The notion of ‘holding pattern’ could apply to the whole national estate. A land on stand-by. Its dynamic is illusory. There is hidden privilege – privilege that is very content with itself. It’s based on a strong sense of deprivation. Racism, we always suspect its presence. Now if this was a Qantas flight would we be put on hold or invited straight in? Invited straight in, I suspect. And what is the fuel cost of being ‘held’? It’s a gross inefficiency. We are accustomed to lies and lying. Sudden efficiencies coupled with bottlenecks and snarls. It is one thing to speed up immigration but then if we spend an eternity in getting our luggage, or going through customs! 92 The theme of the lie is continued. What is a lie exactly? No, I don’t mean simply as an untruth, but as an act: the act of lying. Why this form of evasion? Wouldn’t the truth be simpler? We lie and we condemn ourselves. The danger must be great to be prepared to pay such a price. At the Eye Hospital I’m asked for a referral. Yes, in a heavy American accent. I say it is unnecessary, she persists. No, I say, getting angry, this appointment was made explicitly so that it would fall within the timeframe of the existing referral. She did not want to listen, she knew better. You won’t get your refund, she says, you won’t get your Medicare rebate. Now tell me, where is this woman coming from? The Kiwi receptionist intervenes. She invites me not to push it further. She says she’ll explain it all later. She says their system has crashed and they’ve had to re-enter all the appointments and referral details and whatever else goes into systems registers. The fact is I’m itching for a fight. A good question, says the eye technician, when I ask them what their appointment policy is. She’s more than ready to dob in the doctors. Dr Kervassian or whatever his name is, he’s always late, she says. Between having my eyes tested (I refuse the game of ‘scoring well’ on the charts) and waiting to be seen by the aforenamed one I watch old men, older than me, crawling to reception in order to be treated well. They make monkeys of themselves. I swear to myself not to play this game, the agreeable, the buffoon, the court jester. When I see Kervassian (the name will do) – neat young man, dapper, with a slight French accent (the name tells me he is Armenian) – he attempts to ease his way past the organisational chaos. It’s systems, he says, as if they have failure and inefficiency built into them. Systems can work, I retort, they are meant to work. It’s how individuals respond to them, I say. They don’t need to fail. Institutions don’t just institutionalise themselves He has no come back. And suddenly the floodgates of care are opened. In order to get rid of me, I suspect. Suddenly I’m told to make contact with Dr Playfair – in his rooms. Griggs has disappeared off the scene, as far as I’m concerned anyway. There’s been a deterioration, says Kervassian, we should operate. I interpret this as getting rid of the nuisance, the troublemaker. Later in the afternoon I will have to see my GP. He comes over all solicitous about the eye operation when I see him. I’ll keep my eye on it, he says. That of course does not occur. There was never any contact made with the eye people. I rang Playfair myself. I was asked to see him at the eye clinic (at the Eye Hospital). When I see him, yes, something has been decided: they will operate. And in double quick time. To such a degree that the nursing staff and the people at reception are mortally offended, as if I’m queue jumping. No, the operation is scheduled well within the normal waiting period. Efficiency plus. But out of nowhere. Inexplicable except that I think I’ve hit on the explanation. The ‘unknown factor’ is that there has been an infection at the hospital and they are way behind on all the lists. But how that translates into instant action for me I don’t know. 93 Central Casting, my nickname for the emergency department at the Biezel Hospital in Bydgoszcz. Yes, we have somehow returned, looped backwards. Unfinished business. Yes, what a spectacular array of characters, all worthy of some film production. Victor and Victoria, my favourites, a super-sexy couple. There are others there as well, men drinking vodka from bottles wrapped in brown paper or newspaper. I forget which exactly. It is a great crime to appear on the streets carrying bottles of vodka, a heinous crime, I am told. But it’s apparently OK to swig on your bottle in the waiting room. Sławek, while appalled at this behaviour, is solicitous of people he finds in the street. One man was lying on the footpath, virtually in the middle of town. He tried to rouse him. The man refused to get up. I’m alright, he said in Polish, leave me alone. The weather was not then at its coldest but I could easily see how people could die of exposure. 94 More unfinished business, the theme song from the Nitra performance (500 mile, 500 mile). I must be feeling vengeful. The restaurant proprietor at Pearl Beach put on a rival event to our concert. He offered a 20 dollar meal and a free screening of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Apparently nobody turned up. This was a cheering result. The trumpeting refers back to Grgosz and his trumpeting trumpets. 3 Blind Mice was one of the themes of our first performance. A call to arms, an escape, a girding up of the loins for future combat. Or some entirely different meaning. Who is to say? 95 A breaking from the old habitus of the self. A recasting of practices. No longer to be the bunny, the patsy. A refusal to crawl. But when is obligingness crawling? Mostly, probably. (See the discussion text 92.) 96 New beauty, new possibility. Display, exhibitionism. Possibility is juxtaposed against the demands of the hour. The demands of the hour almost always stand against possibility. Somewhere between exaltation and the drear. But there is no need to say this, for it is already there. Maybe it is an actual fact of life, therefore some balancing act required. The call of duty, the call of possibility. They are not always so different from each other. 97 A palpable return to the issues of the first performance, at Tin Sheds. But not resolved, that is apparent. There have, dare we say it, been reminders, recurrent efforts to drag one down, in, to implicate. The responsibility issue remains paramount. Or should we merely say, in the air? 98 A time when things were open, not yet set in stone or arthritic. Is that the word? Sclerotic? The recurrent appeal of the ‘wild one’, the one who is not responsible and self-willed. Even so, boredom is not far away, shallowness, lack of purpose. It is this that drives me from the irresponsible. 99 A return to the clinic, in this case the retina clinic at the Eye Hospital. Yes, I’m by no means the oldest in the queue. We’re made to stand. We don’t even shuffle along. The old bloke ahead of me has driven overnight from Cobar. That’s a long way. It is grotesque that we have to stand. We are being managed. There is a new strategy of patient management. We are individually attended to. What that means in fact is that we are isolated, forgotten, abandoned, set apart from each other. We are shuffled here and there so that we no longer stand in a queue that, from time to time, issues a tiny movement, that is drawn into a slight shuffle forward. This is not quite a danse macabre. After an hour I have not moved. My experience of the clinic is now considerable. My experience of the clinic here does not draw me into the Australian condition, or if it does it is a condition quite unspeakable. I can try to make it speak, but it’s difficult. Unlike Poland I do not have my foreignness to fall back on. It is this session that earns me my place in the elective surgery queue. It all happens when it happens in 10 minutes. Less. 100 You do not write the interaction. What we write is the non-interaction, the waiting. We do not write the interaction itself. The interaction itself passes without record. Somewhere there is a file. It’s full of annotations and comments that no one reads. The file is no more real than I am; it isn’t even a guarantee of my reality. It’s precise status needs yet to be clarified, rendered clear and unassailable. 101 Such odd random thoughts when the day is apparently at a low ebb. Neither fish nor fowl. Mulberry birds ate the mulberries from the trees that grew alongside the verandah of our house in Byron Bay. Occasionally they would panic and fly into the panes of glass of the French windows that gave access to the verandah. Purple shit full of half-digested fruit would splatter down the wall. Birds haunted by their own reflection. Is that us, creatures shaken by our own reflexion? The mother makes a sudden guest appearance. A young woman who was never young. Earnest, resourceful but not vital, haunted by her own self-image and memories. She lived aghast to herself. Snobbism is a response to belittling – to its actual occurrence or to the threat of it. The shitting bird is a belittled bird. It takes itself unawares. The encounter with the self is a dreadful thing. 102 The city goes berserk. It’s the Thursday before Christmas. That’s how I remember it anyway. The chronology is probably wrong. Ordinary things are not available. It is supposed to be a time of plenitude. It would be a pleasure to be able deliberately to misread oneself. To lead oneself astray. 103 This overheard conversation occurred at Petrol. It was oddly compelling, breath-taking in its blatancy. I based a performance on it, at the Friend in Hand Hotel, Glebe, at Richard Hillman’s book launch. (His collection of poems did not appear on the day; they should have.) Eventually I interpreted it as an effort to arrange a marriage. I was convinced it involved the Scientologists. The audience at the launch was noisy but they shut up totally at that point of the performance when I dealt with these overheard remarks. 104 A neighbourhood brimming over with celebrities, or committed to the idea of celebrity. They believe in it, here they believe in it. They know all about it. They are very knowledgeable, forgiving people. They know all about life, how fragile it is, how wanton, how cruel. They know things. They know all about haircuts and hair-tinting and buying avocadoes and decent coffee and nasty people whom they insist on naming. They are friendly, they say hello, they smile at you. They do not fill the bucket. Just a drip or two of not much. They leave it mostly empty but even so they won’t throw acid in your face or dob you into the taxation department or engage in any other gratuitous nastiness. Their voices are fresh, girlish; or they rumble with the weight of history, foreign parts. A voice comes forth like rich fruitcake, but not fruitily. There is no real affectation. They’ve been around, they’re good mates. Their nails are sensible. 105 Yes, I comment on the traffic, to the bus-driver. There are drivers all over the road, thoughtless, inconsiderate. The bus-driver takes a moment or two to get my comment, but then he does and he laughs. We’re heading down to Circular Quay. At Circular Quay there is a mother-daughter pairing on the jetty. At number 2. People spotting, it’s a favourite game. 106 The oddities of scheduling. Do we really need such a big ferry on the Neutral Bay run? It’s that time of the year when foreign vessels come into port, the big cruise ships. Rhapsody of the Sea, it isn’t much of a name. Like Love Boat. It’s kitsch beyond belief. The interior is never far away. It can announce itself unexpectedly. Yes, the Opera House is still coated with the red dust from the storms earlier in the summer. In my street there were drifts of orange-red dust, and the windows stained, and the cars streaked. Observation is a way of inserting oneself into a scene. It’s an adjustment inwards. An effort at entry. 107 The slight mysteries of the everyday. The difficulty in pinning down the affect of ordinary atmospherics. 108 It is the High Street wharf we speak of. There is frequently a fisherman there, an eastern Mediterranean man with leathery skin and a flamboyant moustache. It’s from another world, another time. It will not exist elsewhere. A heavy woman clambers through the fence. She does it skilfully, a practiced move. It’s almost graceful. If there’s identification there’s also its opposite. Here’s one now, one of the pushy ones. A great slurping hulk, consumed only with the idea of ‘getting ahead’ and devouring all reality she comes into contact with. Proximity disappears. There it goes. Yet for every unpleasantness, there is a countervailing something, a delightful surprise. Today’s surprise is the little boy who runs along the footpath, racing the bus. How forcefully he commits himself to his chosen task, how pleasing that he feels free to follow his whim. 109 The text does not annoy me as a text in itself. But as something to be interpreted, as something demanding a commentary, it is a curse. We have no alternative but to let it be. 110 There is nothing exclusive about the flyblown estate. It can strike us all! There are equalising tendencies as well as the pursuit of advantage and privilege. Change is constant. Not just the wrecking ball but the mere – and constant – fact of decay. Young and free is already the end of days, a sly antiquity. 111 Inviting time, what is that? Surely a calculated ambiguity. The tables are set but they appear far from inviting. Various signs of ‘promised futures’. There are no real sites of insertion. It’s not so much foreign as simply uninviting. Partly it has to do with the privatisation of space. This reminds me that space in Poland is a complex affair. Poland is strangely spacious. 112é Style, is that all there is? He negotiates with the bus-driver. There is something here I wish to approve of. 113 Leftovers. Leftover brioches, leftover croissants, these end up in the bread and butter pudding. The chef tells me so. What are we to do with the residues? Are there any residues? No, not really. We have, I think, achieved a sort of completion, no loose ends. No, nothing for dessert. 114 The chef makes his appearance, the maker of confections. Another chef sends his résumé off, Barrier Reef islands, elsewhere. The ordinary pursuit of ordinary pursuits. The world is in motion. Unequally. A moistened cake mix in the mixing bowl. A world in the making, not yet cooked. Raw, more or less inchoate. Not yet ‘baked’. Perhaps we shall be permitted to lick from the bowl. The seemingness of things is hard to detect. Not to detect, but to pin down with anything like accuracy. In significant respects the world is in decline. It’s reactionary, not up to the challenge of the now. There is arrested development, something like a chest infection. It wheezes. John von Sturmer Sydney, 8 March 2010 Note: In the few cases where the poem has a name it is noted in square brackets. In the case of poem 32 [The first of the crazies], the name of the poem is taken from the first line – so it seemed unnecessary to repeat it.
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