Thursday 28 April 2011

things to do on a plane...

a) watch movies
b) read
c) nap
d) listen to music
e) get drunk
f) look out the window non-stop
g) write shit down

Well, I managed a bit of a, d, f and g.

And now here are the results of g.



Instead, Albert continued to work with Dad on the original farm, as well as setting up a farm of his own. Dad and Albert effectively formed a business partnership. On paper it was split 50:50, but in reality Dad stood aside and allowed his son to take over the management of the farm; the selection of the crops and the plots in which they would be planted and when. Dad had learnt a thing or two over the years of hard graft about deferring to the wisdom of his superiors, even if the inspiration behind such wisdom was beyond his comprehension. He knew when he was bested and took the hint with grace and integrity.

                                     *****

And while he kept visiting my lonely vista across the dam, these visits became less frequent and less volatile. Around others there would always be that invisible wall blocking off any intrusion into his crippled psyche, but alone with me on the tender slope he could let it all fly without fear of judgement or recrimination.

By the end of the war Albert had reinstated some sort of routine back into his life. Scraping together his wages from the war and taking out a loan from the bank, he first bought the new diesel tractor he had always wanted, and then bought the Craig’s farm when they left the valley out of grief for their lost son. Their daughter Felicity stayed behind with her husband and brood at the Monroe’s.

Albert set to work tidying up the three farms- slashing back the bracken, ploughing fertilizer and ash into the topsoil, replacing fenceposts that had started to rot- until the farms were restored back to their former glory. And with the energy and distraction of this work, his sleep, his relationships and his general demeanour all in time improved.

Across this new decade and the new and exciting opportunities it presented, Albert regained his magic touch with the land and his crops flummoxed everyone in both their quantity and quality. No other farmer in the district was able to match his produce- the sweetness of his corn, the richness of his tobacco, the flavour of his hops- especially considering the range of crops he produced. Most contented themselves with one maybe two different crops with some sheep or cattle to supplement if times got tough (and they were always tough), but some years Albert would have seven or eight crops, plus sheep and cattle, and still be able to harvest as much of each in total as others were doing with crops twice the size. Nobody knew how he did it and it aggravated and awed them in equal measure. They all worked hard, but it was as if Albert worked harder.

His success was such that within just seven years he had paid off the loan, only to re-mortgage the block and buy the farm abandoned by Bob Enfield all those years before, and had since been run by a succession of English, and one Greek, immigrants. The Spring’s now owned the entire Southern bank of the dam, plus the original block next to the dam wall. It was enough land to have to hire immigrant workers from the town to help conduct the day-to-day activities that so much land and so many plans demanded.

However the addition of workers making their daily workload lighter and easier also had the effect of reducing the efficiency of the yield. While the overall size of the harvest was bigger, when this was averaged out over the total amount of land being used it was quite a bit less than when Dad and Albert were working on his own. The quality of the produce, while still very high, also slipped back towards the pack. It was as though the extra hands diluted the magic in Albert’s fingers. But still they were making just as much profit for less individual effort, which gave them more time to bond with the family. Just as his father had done with him, Albert taught his son the ins and outs of running a farm- matching crops to soils, the art of fallow, soil improvement, work in the shearing shed, the cattle yards.

Together during the late winter, father and son would round up the herd and separate the mothers from their calves; inject and ear-tag the new additions and crush and sever the vas deferens of the young males. As barbaric as it sounds- and the instinctual reaction of any rational man to the description is a wince of pain and a sickness at the base of the stomach- it is preferable than the other methods around like cutting out the bollocks and feeding them to the dogs, or rubber rings which take a week to do the job. At least with Burdizzo’s it is all over within a few minutes, and short of anaesthetising and performing surgery on each individual steer it is probably the most humane method of doing the job.

Anyway, you’re not hear to read my rantings about the ethic of animal husbandry, you’re here for the story.

From the time Phillip was 7 or 8 he would help his father mark the calves. He started by helping round up the cows into the stockyards and man the gate as Albert tried to separate the cows from their calves; chasing the stock around the larger yards in circles and yelling at Phillip to either close the gate in the face of a cow or keep it open to allow a calf to pass. As they moved the animals from the larger downhill pens to the smaller uphill pens they gradually fined out the calves from the cows until they were left with a pen full of cows and a pen full of calves. By now both would be covered either in a fine layer of red-brown dust or thick black mud depending on the weather. It was tough dirty work, but there was a real sense of achievement at morning tea when they had the calves separated. For the rest of the day Phillip would split his time between making sure there was a constant supply of calves to be fed into the race for marking, keenly watching the measured movements of his forebears, and throwing lumps of wood for the cattle dogs to fetch. Working as a team Albert and Dad shared the tasks of sorting out the earmarks, ear tags, injections and neutering according to who was closer to what at that particular time.

As the years went by Phillip gradually took over more and more of the work from his grandfather. As the farm and workload increased Phillip would take on more responsibility around the yards. His grandfather would be needed elsewhere, so on top of his previous tasks he was also charged with refilling syringes and passing implements between the wooden railings to his father. Before long he was also getting into the race with the calves, sliding his thin frame between the ribs of two poddy calves and pinning them against the wooden railings so as they couldn’t move about as Albert was rummaging around behind them with the Burdizzo’s. It came to be a time of year that Phillip looked forward with excitement; to get out into the paddocks on the cold and wet winter’s mornings, chase cows, wrestle calves. By the end they would come splashing into the house, drenched to the bone and covered in bruises disguised beneath a layer of mud, only for them to be unceremoniously marched back out of the house at knifepoint to take off their wringing clothes and wash at least some of that mud off under the water tank before daring to set foot in Sarah’s house once more. But once they had, a scalding hot shower and a rich mutton stew would be awaiting them and all would be forgiven. On this day more than any other day of the year a real kinship developed between father and son, and the day became just as much about spending bonding working time together as about marking the calves.

Tuesday 26 April 2011

birth and war stories


In June the year after they were married, two significant events occurred. The first: the birth of a son, Phillip. While their love confounded everyone, the fast following of a child surprised no one. The second event, while no less momentous, had a rather negating effect on the jubilation caused by the first. War had broken out in Europe the year before and as a colony Australia had swiftly followed the emperor into battle. France had just fallen to the Germans, and Albert, along with Pat and Eamonn Moriarty, Josh Craig, and Arthur Kelly enlisted with the AIF to fulfil their duty and save their motherlands from the Nazi scourge. All five of the men were enlisted as part of the 9th Division and hurriedly packaged off to undergoing arms and combat training in Egypt. Pat, Josh and Arthur never returned.
            
Upon his return Albert would stand at night, unable to sleep; a silhouette against he blue-black sky, haunted by ghosts unknown. While he was not the most socially adventurous of men before leaving, after returning he recluded back into his own mind even more. There were things he wouldn’t talk about; things he would rather consign to the dustbin of his mind than to bring up and talk about, even with Sarah. She offered an open invitation to him to talk about it whenever he was ready, but never forced the issue, allowing instead for him to work through his demons on his own, at night, with me.
            
Some nights he would stay for hours just standing, sitting, leaning against my naked skin, talking or not talking. Often he would fall asleep amongst the rocks and bracken that sheltered my roots, waking to the soft padding of kangaroos heading down to the dam to quench their thirst.
            
Many of the stories he would tell do not bear repeating, and nothing would be gained from me doing so in detail. It is perhaps suffice to say that Albert saw and went through things that no person should ever have the indignity or misfortune to go through. He survived shrapnel wounds and a bullet graze, but worse than these the mental scars of bombs exploding all around in the darkness of the night, not knowing where the next one would land, where the next bullet would come from, the slow and protracted deaths of his closest mates in the trenches alongside him, and the constant gnawing consideration that he could be the next one to go. He held his brother-in-law in his arms as blood bubbled from the hole in his lung. Hell populated his nightmares; ghosts of comrades stalked his dreams. If he didn’t sleep he didn’t have to confront them and explain how he had survived yet they had not.
            
In public he and Eamonn would tell their stories of the siege of Tobruk, laughing along to the comedy of Lord Haw-Haw extolling the virtues of surrender to their longevity and his derogatory dubbing of them as ‘Rats’, which in the Australian spirit was immediately taken on as a badge of honour- The Rats of Tobruk- and soon became a part of Australian folklore, playing chicken against each other as the Messerschmitt’s buzzed and fired on them with machine guns, winning the Allies first major battle of the war at El Alamein. They adopted these stories of self-deprecating bravado as their truth, leaving their mythology unchallenged for fear of either appearing cowardly or causing offense.

Eamonn managed to successfully hide behind these tales and reacclimatise into life in Paradise. Yes he suffered as any man would have suffered, but he managed to disguise his pain from others, or else drown it with beer when things all became a little bit too much for him. While Albert tried to hide also, his veneer of triumph was much less convincing and people took to avoiding any reference- direct or not- to the war whilst he was around, preferring instead to limit the scope of their conversations with him strictly to farming, weather and the future, all the while whispering behind his back about how he had changed from how he was before the war.

But life continued, as it always does, in its own intractable way, and as they always say, time heals all wounds. It was a slow and turbulent process of cycles of bleeding, clotting, infection, inflammation, suppuration, contraction, and remodelling, and the scars would always remain clear and evident, but Albert’s mind was gradually brought back from the brink of madness and onto restoring his farm, his love for his wife and son. The busyness of running the farm diverted his focus from his memories and greatly aided his recovery.

By the end of the war Albert had reinstated some sort of routine back into his life and had tidied his and his parents farms back to how they had been before his departure. He even managed to scrape together enough money from his army wage to buy the Craig’s farm when they sold up and left out of grief over the loss of their son. 

Friday 22 April 2011

love and marriage


And so it was that after all this time of surreptitious courting by Albert that it was Sarah who made the bold move of stating her attraction and intentions towards him. She pushed him into an apple tree and fairly threw herself at him. What else was there for Albert to do but to go along for the ride?

The Moriarty’s insisted that in order for the marriage to take place, Albert would first have to convert to Catholicism, which he duly did without any real conviction other than it seemed to be the thing that had to be done in order for his happiness to be complete. They were married 2 months later in the little church in Sarah’s settlement in a ceremony attended by most from the surrounding communities. The church overflowed with loved one’s and onlookers curious about this union between the small and tempestuous Irish girl and the stocky and graceless Pom.

After the ceremony and the crying and fussing of the mother’s-in-law everyone migrated across to the Moriarty’s place for a dinner consisting of disparate dishes brought by well-meaning wives. They ate and drank and after nightfall the barely walking groom and his moonshine-fired bride clambered into their buggy and trailed spent paint tins, lit firecrackers and bride-and-groom scarecrows hitched by the neck with rope over the ridge and into the night.

                                                           ***** 

No one was really sure how it happened, but Albert and Sarah managed to live an extremely contented and harmonious life together. Some people hypothesise that this came about through Sarah beating down on Albert, with him just taking and going along with all of her decisions out of fear of incurring her wrath if he were to do otherwise, but I think there was more to it than this simplistic theory. From my observations- and believe me I had all the time in the world to observe the goings-on in the valley and beyond either through my own perception or through reliable sources spread throughout the area- they were truly in love. Yes she was often impetuous and prone to outbreaks of anger, but she would always return after cooling off and apologise and broker a compromise that suited the both of them. And he allowed her these flurries of emotion because he knew that at the end of the day she would have calmed down and be able to approach the problem rationally and with common sense.

Thursday 21 April 2011

Progress


So, it turns out that sitting down and actually forcing yourself to write is a very effective way of actually writing. Who knew?

                                                       *****

At about this time a new family of groupies settled on a farm directly behind Albert’s new block. The narrow band of scrubby jarrah that formed the barrier between the neighbouring group settlements separated the two farms. Their name was the Moriarty’s, an Irish family of 7 that had been moved from their farm near the south coast, which had been acquired by the government for the establishment of a mineral sand mine. They had reportedly had some success with their dairy farm on the saltbush flats, and now had to prove themselves again, in a different environment, and re-establish their farm. They had managed to either convince or force the Midland Railway Company into paying for their resettlement and the droving of their dairy cows the hundred miles through the bush to their new home. Their new block already had a house established on top of a ridge, and though it was perhaps too small to comfortably fit all seven of them, they made do admirably and straight away started building an extension onto the back of the shack.

To make himself known, welcome them to the district, and out of general interest, Albert wandered over the back fence across the ridge to their house. He was greeted behind the workshed by the bark and snarl of a wary wolfhound. He raised his hands in a gesture of submission and passivity and stopped in his tracks. With a low voice he started talking to it; trying to calm it down and convince it he was not a threat. The dog ceased it’s barking and began its slow stooped approach, keeping its teeth bared. Albert slowly, guardedly matched the dog’s movement with the back of his hand outstretched. Snout and knuckles came within 6 inches of each other when the dog gave a sudden yelp and scampered off towards the shed with its tail bent between its legs. Albert gave a start, stood and scratched his forehead in bewilderment and relief.

A laugh peeled out from a thicket of young apple trees on the other side of the shed. Albert jerked his head around and caught the flash of flax through the new leaves. A short but strong young woman in a short-sleeved summer dress (despite the cloudy wintery weather) strode out of the orchard; her head tilted back in laughter. He stood there, culpable. Lost for words he merely stood there and shook her proffered hand as she introduced herself as Sarah, the daughter of the proprietor. She looked at him confused by his silence.

Albert eventually regained some form of composure and introduced himself. She offered him in for a cup of tea and to meet her mother and sisters while they waited for her father and brothers to return from inspecting the fences and meeting with a neighbour. He sat and made small talk with the matriarch for what seemed an interminable time. He was constantly fiddling and taking hurried glances around the kitchen for an escape or a chance glance of Sarah through the open doors as she walked about the house conducting normal house duties. He was captured by her ease- of movement, of speech- and confidence, while he was the antithesis- nervous and fidgety and stilted and awkward talking about anything other than work. While there in that kitchen his mind began to wonder to thoughts hitherto untapped- of the future outside of work, of love, a wife, children. He was surprised by this sudden change in his train of thought and tried to shake it out of his head and concentrate on the conversation he was supposed to be involved in, but these thoughts kept popping back into his head. Even while Mr Moriarty and his teenaged sons returned home and engaged Albert in talk of his farm, his stock, his crops, his machinery these thoughts kept gnawing away at the back of his brain. He resolved then and there that this girl, Sarah Moriarty, would be his wife.

It took 18 months to convince her, but he got there in the end. He would take any chance or excuse he could find to go over to the Moriarty’s; generally on the pretence of learning how some new tractor or steam-powered crosscut saw worked. He would help them out with any lifting, and be there when engines were dismantled so as to learn the inner workings of these new machines and apply his new-found knowledge to purchasing his own new farm machinery. And all the while he kept his eyes peeled for any glimpses of Sarah. He would engineer himself into circumstances where he could talk to her one-on-one and his heart would race with anticipation of their meetings.

For her part, Sarah noticed Albert’s infatuation almost from their very first meeting. She didn’t mind the attention and kind of enjoyed the feelings of vanity it gave her. Something about this man, so in-tuned with the earth at the expense of the rest of humanity was captivating to her, and despite her best efforts to the contrary, she found herself also anticipating the fleeting moments they would share. She was a personality brimming with life and excitement with a passionate temper that would quickly give way to sorrow. She could not keep hidden what was on her mind; everything was writ large in her face and body.

Tuesday 19 April 2011

School & Store


So this is what I HAVE managed to write today. I'm not overly happy with it, but I did state at the outset that I would be posting anything I write on here, so I don't intent to break that vow. Here 'tis.


In all, about 60 parents, some with children in tow, a couple of shire councillors, and the local government representative were congregated in the community hall waiting for proceedings to start. Mr Monroe rose from his seat and got things underway, inviting representatives from each outlying groupie community the opportunity to speak before the local politicians took the stage, and questions from the floor were opened up.
A rare and beautiful thing happened– there was unanimous support for the proposal- and everybody wondered why they went through all the trouble of organising the meeting, the speakers and representatives when the result turned out to be so decisive. In fact things went even beyond their hopes. Not only was it agreed that a school covering grade 1 through to 10 in Karabup, but that there should be a second school set up in a settlement 5 miles away, and even the proposition of scholarships for eager students to board in Manjimup and complete year 12. The local government representative was in full support, and agreed to table these proposals at the sitting of government the next week.
The guilt of the government for their handling of the Group Settlement Scheme must have gotten to them, as plans for the construction of three schools dotted throughout the region, and the provision of electricity to each of the settlements was approved and construction began post haste. By the end of the year we had a school, a teacher, electricity, and a railway siding to a bush block just to the west. Paradise was now opened up to the outside world.
A couple of years after the opening of the school and the connection of electricity a merchant from the nearby town saw an entrepreneurial opportunity and opened a store next to the school and hall. Now the 9 families that presently made up the settlement of Karabup need only travel a few minutes on horse to gather food and supplies, rather than take a day to fill orders in town. Sure there were still some things that a small store couldn’t afford to stock that required a trip into town, but now the staples could be easily sourced from close to home.

Checkpoints and Timeline

OK. So I haven't updated in a while. Writing is proving to be a bit difficult at the moment. My brain hasn't seemed able to click into gear and GET SHIT DONE. Nevertheless, I have filled what time I have at the computer by drafting up a checkpoints timeline for the story arc that is proving most troublesome, and is also the furthest from being finished. So hey, progress of sorts. At least I now have a written structure to work from, rather than one that is completely in my head. Anyway, here it is for your enjoyment/bafflement.



Checkpoints
1928- Dam. School.
1930- Shop/Post Office open.
1936- Albert (18) buys and moves into house on Elliot block (block 5).
1939- Albert (21) marries local girl (Sarah; 21).
Phillip born 1940 à Albert heads off to war.
Men off to WWII (Albert (22), Josh Craig (31), Arnold Kelly (17))- Rats of Tobruk; Craig and Kelly kids die.
Albert returns 1944; haunted by ghosts unknown- stands alone, a silhouette against the night’s sky, for hours on end.
1945- Albert acquires the Craig farm (block 1). Felicity stays at the Monroe’s.
1952- Albert acquires land Enfield left in 1925.
Albert builds new house on the Elliot block in 1958. Parents refuse to leave old house, live there until they die, 2 weeks apart, in 1975 (Dad 81; Ma 83).
Couple of miscarriages à Phillip an only child.
1962- Phillip (22) marries Beth (19); builds house on
Whole southwest flooded in 1964. Cows swept down river, all found safe 10km downstream.
1966- Acquire the Mayfield farm (block 6).
Cyclone Alby 1978: fires; loss of stock; Henry loses an arm à Phillip makes it into a coffee table à writing partially visible (with magnifying glass) around the edge (found by Phillip, Beth or Hazel?, or leave up to imagination?) à “he’s trying to tell us something.”
1981- Phillip builds new house on top of ridge behind his grandparents house.
1985- Albert/Phillip acquire last block around the lake- that of the Monroe’s (block 4).
Albert (71) dies 1989. Sarah (79) dies 1997.

Dad born 1894, Ma born 1892


So there.

Tuesday 12 April 2011

bits and pieces


Marshall adjusted the eyepieces and torches on the dissecting microscope to best visualize the necessary parts of the mouse. Yoshi sat beside him instructing him through the surgery and extraction of the prostate, and spleen as a negative control.

“I’ve got a couple of old breeders that should probably be culled. Do you want to start up an old-age primary culture?”

“Mmm. I guess I should. Do you have any digest medium?”

“In the coolroom. In the yellow rack I think. It’s probably a couple of weeks old, though,” said Yoshi.

“Meh. It’ll be fine.” Marshall waved a dismissive hand at him. “If you want to go get them I’ll stay, clean up here and get everything set up.”

                                         *****

Marshall pulled himself out of the couch and came around the table to greet Hazel properly. She tilted her head to his kiss and he sat on her lap, propping his arm on the back of her chair to absorb some of his weight.
           
“D’you have a good night?”
           
“Meh. It was alright. Same old, same old. Not too busy, which was nice.”
           
“Cool. So, we were just talking over there and I just want to know where you stand on this: would you dump me if I got the letters A, T-and G tattooed on the back of my hand?”
           
Hazel looked across at Pilar, who shrugged. “OK. I may regret this, but what the hell is A-T-G?”
           
“OK. Well, when cells make proteins, there needs to be some sign from the mRNA to tell the ribosomes to start making the protein. ATG is the code sequence that signifies this. So ATG literally means START! I think it’d be cool to have the code for START! tattooed on the back of my hand to remind me to get shit done.”
           
“Marshall.” She turned her torso to face him front on and made sure he was looking her in the eye. Pilar gave a snort. “I have no idea what you just said, but it is undoubtedly the nerdiest thing you have ever said to me, ever.”
           
“Thanks.”
           
“That wasn’t a compliment. But to answer your question: no, I wouldn’t dump you for it. I would laugh and pour scorn on you, but I’d still stay with you.”
           
“Good. That’s all I wanted to know.”
           
“OK. Get off now; your arse is bony.” She gave him a push and he duly stood up.

“You guys right for drinks then?”

They raised their glasses in confirmation, and Marshall wandered off to the bar pulling his wallet out of his jeans.

                                           *****

So it was little surprise when, with the departure of another groupie family from the community, that Albert bought up their farm at the end of the dam and started working his very own land by the time he was twenty. Dad stumped up much of the money to buy the farm and get him started, and as a gesture of pride, love and goodwill told him unequivocally that not a cent was to be re-payed either now or in the future.

Albert moved into the shack that had been built 14 years earlier by Matthew Elliot who, 6 years earlier, had sold up and moved to a nearby community to take over the running of his new wife’s father’s farm. Since then, the shack had been inhabited by 3 different groupie families, each of which found the land infertile and inhospitable and so defaulted on their loans and moved away to the city in search of an easier life.



Wednesday 6 April 2011

out of the pub (cont.)


When I start writing I usually have a direction for the story mapped out in my mind. Every so often however, when I get into the groove of writing, the voice of one or more of the characters takes over and the narrative takes off somewhere unexpected, yet somehow right. This is one of those times.
                                                                        *****
Like animals onto an ark they left two-by-two- Hazel back to Marshall’s, and Piers and Laura back to their own houses after exchanging numbers on their phones- leaving Pilar and Alby gawping and bashful at their own fates.

They stood and laughed at each other for a minute, before Alby mustered the energy to lighten the mood by holding himself horizontal on a street sign pole and gradually lower his body towards the ground by softening his grip. Pilar threatened to topple him by draping her body over his legs, causing him to panic and loosen his grip just that little bit too much. His shoulder and hip smacked into the pavement simultaneously and he rolled onto his back and lay prostrate with arms and legs spread out. His eyes were closed but the rapid bouncing of his chest gave away the resounding laughter that was to follow. His torso heaved and tears rolled from the corners of his eyes to salt-streak his temples. Pilar initially bent over him to check that he was OK, but as she noticed the staccato rise and fall of his chest realised that he was merely overwhelmed with joy and relief at the night. It was like a valve had been opened and the pressure released from the cylinder of his mind. He laid there, a grin wide across his face laughing at the world. As he regained his composure the muscles of his face relaxed and the skin hung plump and lose on his cheeks. He lay there loose and free of any cares, the antithesis to his standard self. Pilar knelt over him laughing at him and that thing she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She peered curiously at his face watching each tiny tic and flush trying to figure out what was going on behind those eyes. As he slowly opened them the whole veneer was laid bare. They looked at each other as if for the first time. A new and different world had opened up in the space between them and they stared transfixed as it swirled and sparkled. They stayed like that for quite some time absorbing the essence of that world, until slowly and finally it evaporated into a mirage and a memory. They smiled at each other, acknowledging. Alby chuckled lightly into his throat and Pilar lowered her mouth to his, a pure moment.

“Do you want to come back to mine?” Pilar asked.

Alby looked at her cagily. “Why?”

“Well, Donna and Zach are at yours, and Hazel’s gone back to Marshall’s, so my house is empty.”

Alby giggled for lack of anything witty or intelligent to say. Pilar stood up slowly and pulled Alby to his feet. He straightened out his clothes and cleared his throat. She started walking towards home, and Alby followed like a puppy new to its lead.


Monday 4 April 2011

out of the pub


When the house lights were switched on Alby and Pilar were entwined on the couch no longer aware of the goings-on around them; Mattias was propped against the bar commentating on the action on the couch with the drummer and lead guitarist from the band; Zach, Donna and Hazel were in passionate discussion with a group of three others about the quality of local support for young artists; and Marshall, Piers and Yoshi- who had appeared as if an apparition from the night- were pontificating on the state of political discourse in Australia. Topics serious, mundane, whimsical and frivolous had all been broached; characters had been invented, stereotypes mocked and existentialism theorised.
They had to be hounded out of the pub and into the mild spring night; the staff unwilling to even consider the suggestion of a lock-in. Alby and Pilar untangled from each other and stood around shuffling their feet and trying not to arouse mocking in the others. Mattias disappeared westward on the arm of the drummer, while the guitarist angled towards an invite back to a random girl’s flat. Donna and Zach huddled against each other for warmth and affection, and a distinctly intoxicated Marshall leant on Hazel for support. Piers picked up the thread of an abandoned conversation with the Arts bureaucrat that had been talking with Zach and Donna., while Yoshi disappeared without warning from whence he came.
Those remaining formed a circle on the footpath and talked amicably. While the reasons may have been different from person to person, not one of them wanted to be the one to break up the huddle or suggest the next move for fear of their motives being found out and opened up for mockery.
Eventually Zach bit the bullet and took leave of his friends. Donna naturally took his arm and they started the short walk down the hill to Zach’s place. Alby was hopping around from foot to foot caught in two or three minds as to what he should do. In the dark of the pub it was only naturally to hook up with Pilar, but here in the cold light of the streetlamp his judgement was impaired by the eyes of his peers.

Sunday 3 April 2011

in the pub (cont.)

She poked her tongue out at him again and turned to Hazel. “So how was work?”

“Oh you know; tiring. It fills in time and gives me money so I shouldn’t complain.”

“Boss still giving you grief?”

“A bit. We weren’t too busy, so he had no reason to be stressed and get on my back. He keeps letting me come back so I must be doing something right. Anyway, how’s your night been?”

Alby bought over a glass, filled it up with beer from a jug and placed it in front of Hazel. He bent down and they embraced. “Cheers. Congratulations.”

“Hi-ya” Alby giggled and waved the compliment away with an effete flick of the wrist before turning and wandering off to a new conversation.

“The night’s been fine. Got here early and had a chat with your scientist about the past. It was nice. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a proper conversation with him. I mean we’ve bantered a lot, but never really talked of serious stuff. I can see why you like him.”

“Ha. Yeah. Once you get past the whole nerd thing he’s great.”

“You’re in looooove.”

“I don’t know about that…”

Pilar gasped. “You do! Hahaha!” she pointed at her mockingly.

“Shut up. You’ve made me blush.”

Pilar squealed with delight. “Let the mocking commence.”

“You can’t tell Marshall. It’s not true, but you can’t tell him.”

“I won’t tell him.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Or anyone else.”

“Not even Piers?”

“Especially not Piers.”

“I’ll tell Donna though.”

Hazel narrowed her eyes.

                                                        * * * * *

The perception of time unravelled across the night. By the time last drinks were called it felt to the gathered as though barely an hour had passed, and yet the memory of conversations and deeds would only be restored across the coming days, and the implications thereof would last for weeks until all details were adequately unpicked and untangled. Seats had been traded and conversations entered and exited with fluid motion until the borders of conversations could not be determined, and the focus of their attention for hours could have been any number of people or subjects. It was one of those glorious nights where all forget their weapons and take down their guard and interact with the purest lines of thought and intention and enlightenment looms large above the throng.

Friday 1 April 2011

down the pub

They made the most of happy hour, downing their $10 pizza and pints. As the minute hand rolled around towards the twelve they descended on the bar and stockpiled drinks. The roster of patrons swelled until all the chairs were taken and extras huddled around the bar and in the darkened corners of the room. The central tables were mashed into bizarre shapes consisting of squares, rectangles, circles and triangles of assorted heights. Some leant forward intent on hearing and being heard above the din, while others seemed content to lean back and soak up the noise and laughter filling the room.

A dark-clad figure squeezed between two men leaning against the doorjambs and into the room. Stale beer, leather and wet carpet laced with the sweet smells from the kitchen hit her nostrils causing her face to curl. She scanned around the room, squinting against the dull light emanating from the fluorescent lighting before pushing her way down the line of the bar, all the while keeping her eyes peeled for her friends. A hand reached out and grabbed her bicep. She turned towards her accoster and, recognising the face of an acquaintance, stoped to exchange pleasantries. After a minute of back and forth she excused herself and continued her hunt.

A voice called out her name over the hubbub and she turned in the direction it came from. Zach was sprawled out in his chair resting a glass on his belly as he waved in her direction. She lifted her head in recognition and raised her arm in reply before apologising her way through conversations to emerge at the tables opposite Zach.

“Congratulations! It’s so exciting!” she said and leaned over the table.

Zach stood to receive her hug. “Thanks. This is going to be fucking awesome.”

“I know. Do you know when you’re going and how long?”

“In March. Dunno for how long yet. See how much money we get from Merge and grants and shit.” The effects of the alcohol were noticeable to Hazel, but seemingly not to anyone else.

“It’d be great if you got to do some shows in New York or L.A. or something.”

“Shit-yeah!” He raised his glass. A tiny bit of beer sloshed over the side. “Whoops,” he said as he brushed it off his jeans.

Marshall turned from his conversation with Piers and Mattias on the couch, grinned widely and motioned for Hazel to come around and sit on his knee. She smiled, waved and blew a kiss, but laid claim to the seat just vacated next to Pilar instead. Marshall put on his hangdog face. Hazel laughed, but remained where she was. Pilar poked her tongue out at him. “Nerds smell,” she said and held her nose.

"Well, so do Darkies, so there."

She poked her tongue out at him again.