And Floated And Floated

“That’s the hungriest seagull I’ve ever seen. I reckon it’s the hungriest seagull in the world. You should give him one of your chips”, said Ethan.

“You should give him one of your chips. And I think it’s a girl seagull”, replied Hazel.

Ethan, playing for time on the chip question, agreed that it may well be a girl seagull. They were both holding packages of steaming hot, salty chips close to their chests, steam came with their breath too, the cold was part of the adventure.

“We could both give her a chip?”

Hazel smiled at her friend, he really was a nice boy, for a boy.

The world’s hungriest seagull scoffed both chips in seconds, living up to her nickname.

“I wonder why she’s so cold and hungry? I’ve never seen a seagull like this before”, said Hazel.

“Only one leg too”, noted Ethan.

In silent agreement they both fed one more chip each to their new friend, the still very hungry world’s hungriest seagull.

Looking out onto the bay Ethan had a sudden thought.

“Remember that day we were out in your uncle’s boat, picking up and cleaning birds after the big oil leak?”

“Mmm hmmm. That was the day we met.”

“Was it?”

“Boys really are hopeless”, thought Hazel.

“Do you remember that one seagull we reached for, but it just floated away before we could get to it? Completely covered in black oil? I wonder . . . “

“Ooh, do you think this might be her?”, asked Hazel, then, to the seagull, “I’m sorry girl, we did our best, we tried to help, we just couldn’t help everyone”.

Another two chips were offered, in compensation to the world’s hungriest seagull.

Ethan said, “I reckon she couldn’t swim or fly, because the oil was stuck to her, so she just floated and floated, out of the bay and into the ocean, then floated and floated . . . “

“And floated and floated and floated and floated until she reached Antarctica!”, shouted Hazel, scaring Ethan, and the seagull.

“Oh, oh, and the penguins saw a black and white bird, and she could only waddle, not walk, because she was so stuck together with oil, and the penguins took her in as one of their own!”, exclaimed Ethan.

“She made penguin friends? Good for her. And played penguin games, sliding on the ice, and snowball fights. And they fed her and helped her get well again.”

And two more chips were dispensed, this time with silly penguin waddling and laughing and smiling eyes.

“But over time the oil started to wash off, which left her feeling cold because she’s not really made for penguin temperatures”, said Ethan.

“The penguins felt sad, but knew they had to let their new friend go home. I think they put her on an iceberg then all got behind it and pushed and pushed, and pushed and pushed, and pushed that iceberg  towards, well, here. And she floated and floated and floated and floated, back into our little bay”, said Hazel.

“She’s home.”

“And now we’ll be her friends and come back here to share our chips with her to make sure she’s ok”, said Ethan.

“Yes, we will”, agreed Hazel, happily.

“I’d bet the iceberg was so cold that she had to keep changing which foot she stood on, then one night on the long journey she fell asleep, and one leg was frozen off”, said Ethan, thoughtfully.

“Is that why some seagulls only have one leg?”, asked Hazel.

“I think so”, replied Ethan.

They both tipped the last crumbs of their chips onto the ground near the hungriest seagull in the world, screwed up the paper then laughed as they both threw their balls and missed the bin, had to pick them up and try again.

“The street lights are coming on, we’d better get you home before your mum freaks out”, said Ethan.

“Your mum too.”

“True.”

“The hand I took out of my glove to feed the world’s hungriest seagull is freezing”, whispered Hazel.

“Mine too.”

He held out his hand, she took it, they walked towards their homes.

“Boys can be ok”, thought Hazel.

They both looked over their shoulders at the worlds hungriest seagull, smiled at their new friend, smiled at each other, felt the warmth of each others hands, felt the warmth of kindness and love in the world.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi

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