Family

 

He’s standing in the wings of the stage. 

This is it.

This moment.

As if he is dying, his musical life flashes before his eyes, from his aunt showing him a G chord, his obvious aptitude, from folk to rock to metal to his own sound, his own band, his own tour, to this stadium. 

He wonders what will happen to the feeling in his belly that keeps him awake at night, the frightening combination of rage and emptiness that others call fire. Now he’s here will that feeling let him sleep? Or battle more fiercely? 

The support bands have finished. The tension in the crowd is building, he knows making them wait is part of the show, but he wants to get out there.

Across the stage he sees a roadie, a friend, he waves and grins as the crowd begins to chant. The roadie looks nervous. He nearly didn’t make the gig, afraid of the chopper ride in, eventually coaxed and sat in the middle and distracted the entire way. He is struck by how close he feels to this man. 

Family.

He laughs at the idea of the helicopter. It was really for the fans, some bonus glamour, it would have been easier to walk from the hotel. He recalls lugging amplifiers and guitars all over his home town, cars, borrowed, driven by friends, eventually his own. A helicopter, crazy.

He thinks of all the friends who drove him here, in cars and in spirit, and of the friends who didn’t make it, in music, or in staying alive. The desire for this moment was too heavy for many.

He looks to his drummer who holds up one finger, one minute, he always knows the right moment to hit the crowd, just as the chants of the band’s name are dying out, just before they become disgruntled, a little down, then a surge of up.

For a moment he doubts himself. Is he ready? For a stadium full of people, expecting so much? Is he ready? For one moment he lets himself think about turning around and walking back to the hotel, walking back to his home town, happily playing small venues, maybe settling down a bit.

He looks at his bass player. The bass player knows. He mimics Tony Soprano and Silvio boxing in slow motion, while the keyboard player whistles the opening music of Raging Bull. The whistling can’t really be heard over the crowd noise, but they’ve done this before, they can all hear the music in their heads. 

The drummer nods. The time for shadow boxing is over.

This is it.

This moment.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

To Wilfred

 He stopped me, pointed to a house across the road. 

“That one, the last small one, beside the big two storey joint. It would have had an outside dunny and laundry back then, but it looks pretty plush now.”

I looked at him, wondering why I was looking at this house. A pretty standard, nineteenth century three room workers home, corridor down one side, a couple of bedrooms, a main room with a fireplace, a kitchen on the back. 

“My great grandparents owned it, over a hundred years ago, I don’t know a whole lot about them. My grandfather didn’t live here, lived back up near Cudgewah, worked for the post office, back when knowing how to drive a lorry was a rare skill.”

Again, I looked at the little house, lovely roses in the front yard, then back at him, why was he telling me this little history of a family I didn’t know?

“But I know, from records and all, that my grandfather stayed here a few nights, he enlisted for the First World War using this address, embarked from here.”

There it was, finally, some action.

“It would have been a working class paradise back then, train station at the end of the street, pub on the corner, pub on the other corner, corner stores on the other corners, fish and chip shop . . . around the corner, proper wide streets to let the smoke clear from all those home fires burning. Working class paradise.”

“So, your grandfather, he served in World War One?”

“He did. But he came here first. Down from the bush. I imagine to see his folks before he went.”

“Right.”

“They were strict Methodists, so I doubt he went to the pubs, my guess is there were a few last home cooked meals, before he left.”

“Some Methodists refused to go to war back then.”

“Indeed. My grandfather went as an ambulance officer. One night when my father was drunk he regressed to a child like state and told me his dad was braver than the other dads because he drove to the front without a gun.”

“So your father wasn’t so strict, you know, as a Methodist?”

“I think my grandfather came home a very quiet man, possibly not the world’s greatest dad. Nearly everything I know about my grandfather I found out for myself. War, it does things, you know?”

I said nothing, looked at the house, looked at him, looked at the house again.

“I feel closer to my grandfather than my father. Is that weird?”

“A little, you never met him?”

“I just recall his feet, looking up at a hospital bed, wondering why he was wearing shoes, and a suit, but lying on a bed. That’s my only memory of him.”

It was getting awkward. Why was I there? He could have looked at the house without me. 

“He left his fiancé, came to see his parents, then boarded a ship for the war to end all wars.”

“But he came back, right? You met him, so he survived.”

“He did. But he didn’t. He raised three sons who didn’t really come back from the war either. One of those sons raised me.”

“Listen, I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.”

“My grandfather came here, spent a couple of nights with his parents, in that house. I think it may have been the last happy moments of his life, despite his looming enlistment. You’re an artist, right?”

“I . . . I am.”

“I want you to paint it, the young man, here in a working class paradise, at table, drinking cups of tea with his Methodist parents after dinner, I want to see what that looked like.”

“A rosy home sweet home thing, but with a hint of trepidation? That sort of thing?”

“Yeah mate, that sort of thing, paint it with the last of the fish and chips on the table, the newspaper wrappings, dim electric light, the young man trying to read the headlines about the war, his mother close to tears, his father looking up, not sure what to say or do, paint it like the young man is there, but already gone, alive and dead, like all soldiers, paint it like it’s the last supper for the working class paradise, the moment before men were sacrificed to machines, before generations of working men were both alive and dead.”

“I don’t think I need to paint it, you just did.”

“Did I? Maybe I did . . . there’s one pub left on one corner, can I shout you a beer?”

“A toast to your working class grandfather, and to the end of paradise.” 

“To Wilfred, to the end of paradise.”

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Pavel Kushnir

Pavel Kushnir stood up from his piano, closed the lid, turned the key, knowing he would never play again.

Men in black coveralls took Pavel Kushnir away in a van, placed him in a stark white box, turned the key.

Pavel Kushnir refused to eat the food of his captors, then refused to drink the water of his captors. 

Alone, cold, the ivory of his bones visible through his bruised and blackened skin, Pavel Kushnir died, silently.

Instead of flying to Berlin to play in plush recital halls, Pavel Kushnir stood up from his piano, shut the lid, turned the key, and stated that he opposed war.

Pavel Kushnir, rest in peace.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

What Are You Thinking About?

 

Me? Oh, I was thinking about the planet Tanikauhi, where the dominant species has evolved external souls. Their souls are cylindrical, a little like the baton at an Olympic relay race. Some smaller and more luminous, others larger and deeper hued.

The physical action of carrying around a soul, remembering where it is at all times, taking care of it, helps those people live deep, rich, contented lives. They can’t  help but be involved with their souls, the physical reminder is always there.

When people who are destined to be friends or lovers meet their souls hum, purr, there is no game playing on Tanikauhi, everyone knows who their people are. 

Lovers often carry around each other's souls, when they are apart. They report it feels the same as being in contact with their own soul, but different. The same, but different.

They have a word for that feeling, when two people are individuals, yet feel like one person. A word for the same, but different. Perhaps having a word for such a feeling would cheapen it? Maybe the very absence of this word is the reason for art? If our souls were external, obvious, we might have a word for it too?

Anyway, you asked me what I was thinking about, I was thinking about the planet Tanikauhi, and two souls, and stuff.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Sew/Reap

 

From a photograph by Kris Reichl

Willy Junior loved his wife.

Beth-Ann was everything he could hope for, she cooked superbly, she kept the house real nice, she was surprisingly fun in the bedroom. And she was a great dancer, loved to step out with her husband, she was as proud of him as he was proud of her. Beth-Ann was perfect, as close to perfect as a wife could be, apart from one small thing. Beth-Ann could not get to terms with a needle and thread. She tried, bless her, she tried, it was a skill she could never master.

It mostly didn’t matter, Willy Junior earned well, they could afford to buy all their clothes, but it did seem a waste to throw out a good shirt for the lack of a button.

Willy Junior took this small quirk in his wife in good humour, mostly, but things came to a head when he began attending klan gatherings, when he was accepted as a member and had to attend his first meeting wearing a white robe, and a white pointy hat. Beth-Ann tried to turn a sheet into a uniform her husband could be proud of, but he ended up looking like a Halloween child ghost wearing an old man’s sleeping cap.

Willy Junior had no choice, he had to delay his debut with the klan, he invented a family emergency, told everyone he had to stay with his sister out of state for a few weeks.

Willy Junior locked himself in his basement, with a sewing manual, needles, cotton, all the old sheets in the house.

Willy Junior taught himself how to sew.

His friends always said there was nothing Willy Junior couldn’t turn his hand to. In this case his hands had found their calling, Willy Junior was born to sew, in a society where men did not sew.

That time in the basement changed Willy Junior. Alone, with time to think, his mind focused on learning a new skill, he became peaceful, saw his life more clearly than ever before, imagined a true path. A plan formed in Willy Junior’s mind.

Willy Junior attended that first klan meeting, was hazed, initiated, welcomed. His perfectly fitting robe, his hat, the tallest and pointiest in the room, were the envy of all. In his first speech to his brethren Willy Junior told the story of the good Lord blessing the hands of his wife, a woman who famously didn’t know which end of a needle to hold, and showing her how to sew his klan garments. Willy Junior shone on that stage, he glowed, a pristine white preacher.

Willy Junior loved his wife, and she him. She happily greeted his fellow klan members and took their measurements, promised to sew them the best robe and hat that god would give her the power to sew. Secretly Willy Junior would make those garments in his basement, then smile as his friends and colleagues handed over wads of cash to his wife and thanked her for her inspired work.

Willy Junior and Beth-Ann were invited to speak at klan rallies across the south. They were feted and fed, met mayors and governors, police chiefs and judges.

They became wealthy enough to pay a maid, a young woman who they foolishly treated badly. She soon saw through the holy robe and hat scam, asked a friend who owned a box brownie to take photos through the tiny strip windows that looked down into the basement.

Beth-Ann loved her husband. For years she sat on the porch, waiting for him to come home. She knew he never would. One night Willy Junior went out to his klan meeting, and didn’t return. Despite asking mayors and governors, police chiefs and judges, no one would reveal to Beth-Ann the fate of Willy Junior.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

Milne Therapy

 

Find a landing you like, 

On a flight of stairs

You find pleasing,

And sit on it.

That’ll sort you out. 

Parkstreet 

Ko-Fi

A Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Rice Bowl

A Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Rice Bowl, a still life, an offering of love. The peel turned back to form petals, the segments of fruit loosened slightly, an opening bud. 

This rare bloom, A Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Rice Bowl, is placed on the coffee table before her. Her eyes brighten, she leans forward, reaches, reaches over the work of art, grabs a handful of salted nuts.

The public of one never warms to A Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Rice Bowl, the artist goes unrecognised, his muse apparently unaware of her role. Following works, Warm Mushroom Salad With Shallots And Seeds and Sushi Fetched In Rain, go equally unappreciated. 

Somehow he knows that a shop bought chocolate cake with I Love You written in icing would be a popular gift. He resolves to continue producing works of the ilk of A Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Rice Bowl until he finds an audience, until these gifts of love are understood.

Parkstreet 

Ko-fi