how does it feel
to be on your own
like a complete unknown
like a rolling stone
Bob Dylan
Wordless examines a life without anchors, without precedents and without hope in eternity. It examines life in the dark, without the illumination of understanding and description. It is a meditation on losing a faith and unbelieving in God.
Now Showing at C3 Gallery at Abbotsford Convent
3-21 February
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Thoughts on Wordless
I was originally flattered that my brother asked me to write something for this exhibition of work, but then, after having grappled with it for a while, I began to wonder if he just enjoyed messing with my head. Only he, having shared the same upbringing as me, would know how this simple task might give me that first little push down the slippery slope.
I initially assumed that gathering my thoughts would be a simple matter. I thought a story or a fable to succinctly communicate my ideas on religion and faith would be just the thing. But after some aborted story attempts followed by some failed essay attempts, which then turned into a fable about three old rabbits, I realised that it was going to be more difficult than I expected. It seemed I might actually have to decide on some things before I wrote anything down.
In this collection I see a lot of my journey and the questions that I have grappled with over the years. They make me think about my childhood beliefs and how I view them now: of those magical years before adolescence, when God and the church were as real as the joy I felt when singing on Sundays. I remember my teenage anguish when, I, lost in a drama that ‘no-one could possibly understand’, felt that there was nothing but an empty abyss ahead of me. Even through my twenties I toyed with theories amidst the confusion and chaos of a life in music, only to end up distracting myself with a new and ridiculous drive to succeed.
My brother and I are the sons of missionaries and have grown up with Christianity intertwined with our daily lives. Faith and God were there at the beginning. They were present in the songs we sang, the books we read and the stories we heard. In discussions with friends who have also moved away from the teachings of their youth, I found that many of them felt it necessary to fill the void left by faith. They looked for a belief structure to define them. Many teachings say we can’t know where we are going, unless we know where we come from. Surely, it’s also impossible to know where we’re going unless we know where we stand right now.
On leaving the church as a teenager, I read about Yahweh and Vishnu, Allah and Jesus. I browsed like a window shopper through Jainism, Judaism and the teachings of Krishnamurti. I wrote prayers on little scraps of paper in temples in Japan and was confused and amused by the practical approach to sex and courting in the Koka Shastra. But these things I always experienced as a tourist, never a local. Through the years, one question followed me: one question that always led me away from any possible new direction. How can I trust any of these religions, when I can’t trust my own?
There is a scene in the one of the early episodes of the TV series Mad Men, where the character Don Draper explains what is necessary to the conceiving of an idea. I paraphrase, but it is along these lines. Think deeply and for a long time about the question you are facing, and then put it out of your mind entirely. When your mind is clear and the pressure to find a solution has dissipated, the idea will eventually present itself. Despite this being a TV show set in the consumer-driven paradise of 1950s America, there is a lot of truth to it. A quiet mind, free of judgement or expectation, is more likely to be open to fresh ideas, though this isn’t exactly an easy state of mind to achieve.
Most of us think about our place in the world and our reason for being here all the time. It inspires us, confuses us and often leads us to despair. We pass down stories, honour loved ones and create symbols to make sense of the contradictions of life. In doing this we develop belief systems and moral codes to live by. But when religions are built from stories then confirmed by tradition, can you convince one person to follow one over another? How do you convince someone that what he or she thought yesterday is not the right course of action for today?
The complications continue the more we read. Religious shysters often have as many followers as those that seek the truth, and those that appear to have found the truth are sometimes the ones who say there is no truth. The having of faith turns theory into fact and so creates certainties where before there were doubts, but nothing can be proved right beyond all reasonable doubt and nothing can be proved wrong beyond all reasonable doubt. Each school of thought has it’s own reason as to why it is the true way. Some say God is good, some say he is bad (though not many), some say he is mother nature, some say he is a she and others say he or she doesn’t exist or simply doesn’t care. Some say he is one while others say he is many, but all the while people are talking about it, thinking about it and trying to convince each other of what they believe.
I’ve played out biblical and Islamic themes in my songs and in my stories. I’ve had my moments of clarity and moments of bewilderment. I’ve made grand (sometimes drunken proclamations) for and against too many points of view to remember. Thinking about it now though, I realise I’ve reached a calmer more peaceful but, in reality, no less firm a position than before. What I’ve learned from my time thinking and reading is that I know even less than I did before - and that’s ok with me. I know that in ten years time I will know even less than I do now, and so by the time I know nothing, the idea may finally present itself.
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The Police and Twisted Sister in Red River Valley
I grew up not far from the East Indian border in a town called Brahmanbaria. My brother and sister and I lived a happy existence playing among the waterholes, palm trees, rice paddies and brickyards. Our friends were Bengali children from the mission as well as those from a small number of Western families who had embarked on the same grand adventure as us.
The compound was the world. The church, the school, the hospital, the reading room, my father’s office and the houses of friends. The lolly shop stood at the gate protecting us from the outside world, and was piled high with colourful sweets of all shapes and sizes.
As we grew, though, so did our boundaries, and soon we were wandering through crowded markets, bustling train stations, or jumping from sleeper to sleeper over railway bridges, staring down at rushing rivers and flooded rice paddies below. The world it seemed was larger than us and maybe even than our parents.
Church on Sunday was a time for singing. A harmonium, zils and a single drum were all the accompaniment the voices needed to usher God into the house. With women to one side, the men to the other and everyone’s shoes outside on the steps, the mighty chorus moved my young heart every Sunday.
The Muslim prayer echoed across the town from a crackling loudspeaker in the Mosque over the road. Hindi songs blasted out of passing baby taxis and friends sang traditional songs while we flew kites. But nothing matched the excitement of being amidst a sea of voices guided by the pounding drum, the gasp of the harmonium and the sting of the zils.
Tomar Pro Shong Sha
Tomar Pro Shong Sha
Tomar Pro Shong Shakoree
I was a long way from knowing what I wanted to do with my life. I was many years off knowing that I even had to choose, but when I think back to my favourite times it is those days spent singing that are the most vivid. Whether it was in church, singing at New Years around the flames of the bonfire, or the carol singers coming to the door at dawn for local delights and sweet chai, I loved it.
At six I was given my first guitar by a doctor who worked in the mission hospital. She was a single lady from New Zealand whose name escapes me. Why she had brought with her a guitar that she didn’t play, I don’t know, but it was the beginning of a journey for me that she is unknowingly responsible. There was no thunderbolt. I had no great illumination. In fact, I don’t recall much from that time. Whether I was an eager student or one prone to procrastination seems irrelevant because I havn’t been without a guitar since.
Time went by and at the age of seven I left the safety of home to live in Dhaka, the smoky capital of Bangladesh. I lived with my brother and three other boys from the mission in a hostel. We lived under the care of a New Zealand family based in Dhaka and attended an English day-school. Here I found myself on a musical hiatus. I don’t recall much, but I know I squeezed some singing and drama in between the time spent longing for the affection of a ten year-old beauty named Ann-Marie. She was my world: she was my everything. But I dared not speak to her for my paralysing fear of rejection. Even now as a thirty-three year-old man I feel a twinge of regret never having acted on my feelings.
I spent my days with my real brother and my three adopted brothers climbing trees, walls, roofs and garages acting out the feats of Zorro and other audacious roles. I had my first erotic experience scaling the pencil thin trunk of a betel-nut tree. On hot days we ate green mangoes with chili powder and lounged in the waist-deep pool out the back, making whirlpools and Mohawk hair. Music had nothing on Zorro, the heart-melting beauty of Ann Marie, or dare I say it even green mango with chilli.
That is before I heard The Police.
Like my family, the missionary couple who cared for us had two boys and one girl, but unlike my sister, their girl, Donna, was born with cerebal palsy. She lived at home with us boys at the hostel while her two older brothers went to boarding school in India. The boarding school in India promised freedom and adulthood: the two things that nine year-old-boys already out of home want more than anything.
Christmas arrived and the older boys with it. They brought with them stories of pretty girls, mountain lakes and soccer matches, but more importantly, they brought rock and roll. It was here that I truly fell in love with music. Listening to Zenyatta Mondatta and Reggatta De Blanc, I thought The Police were more than men: they were magicians and gods. I don’t remember how much I pestered Scott for those tapes or whether he shared them willingly, but listening to those songs turned me inside out.
Soon I found myself at boarding school in South India. Three days’ journey from my home in Bangladesh, three days’ journey from my friends, and three days’ journey from all else that was familiar. I had cried rivers before I was to leave, no doubt tearing the last remaining pieces of my mother’s heart right out of her chest. I can see now how difficult it must have been for her to send me away and I certainly made no attempt at the time to cushion the blow for her.
At boarding school I had the opportunity for music lessons, under the tutelage of the talented but absent-minded Mr Enos. He was kindly, too, and as legend had it, he was gifted to play more than twenty musical instruments. I can now see how such a hoax could easily have been perpetrated in the confines of the expat bubble that was Hebron School. And when I think back to those lessons I have no memory of Mr Enos ever even playing the guitar. In fact I have no memory of him ever actually playing anything. That’s not to say he couldn’t bash out a couple of chords, but I do suspect there was a certain amount of exaggeration involved. Still, because I was never there as an adult, I probably best not make a judgment either way.
Mr Enos was never harsh on us. He encouraged me as I stumbled through Red River Valley and Buffalo Girls. He did have a quirk though, which to this day I remember more clearly than anything else. Whenever he was speaking or listening, every thirty seconds he made a sound in his nose that was somewhere between a nasal click and a snort. The closest point of reference I can find is the snort of a goat combined with the early attack of a horse’s whinny. I don’t blame him for it; he was a man like any other with his own burdens and difficulties, but the sound he made drove me close to madness. I shudder to think how now, as an adult, with the temper and impatience that comes with age, I would deal with this clicky nose snort. I fear that if I were confronted with this now I would reach for the closest sharp-ended musical instrument and bury it deep in his chest. It’s unfortunate that this habit is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Mr Enos. He never chastised me for my shortcomings or even made me feel bad about how little practice I had done.
He did, however, have little to chastise me for. In the three years that he was my teacher he never taught me any more than the same three songs I learnt those first few months. I managed to master Buffalo Girls, Red River Valley and Oh When The Saints. Needless to say, I did so in the first six months of my lessons. They are not difficult songs, even for a boy of ten. But thanks to Mr Enos’s absentmindedness coupled with my unwillingness to speak up, I played the same songs week in week out for the next two and half years.
Grade 5 became 6 and grade 6 became 7. I spoke nervously to girls and carved their initials in my desk. I heard music wafting out of the prefect’s rooms which sounded strange and new. I fell in love with Madonna and Cyndi Lauper. I wanted to be Michael Jackson and Sting. I Just Called to Say I Love You cut through my eleven year-old heart, because all I had ever wanted to do was tell Ann-Marie how much I cared, but I never had the strength to do so. Through it all though, the songs coming out of my guitar remained the same: Buffalo Girls, Red River Valley and Oh When The Saints. It’s odd that I continued to turn up for my lessons and practice the songs.
I often wonder why I never asked Mr Enos to teach me some popular songs, and to this day I have no answer. Even when my debilitating shyness allowed me to hold hands with a girl for the first time, the tune in my head was a strange mix of Twisted Sister’s We Gotta Get Out Of This Place, Dire Straits’ Money for Nothing and the ever-popular Red River Valley.
The lessons came to an abrupt end when Mr Enos died while helping an old woman onto a bus. It was unexpected, and very tragic, but it was also in keeping with the man’s generous heart. It made me feel guilty for having been so annoyed by his snorting. I still feel a little guilty.
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First published 2008 in Torpedo 3 (Falcon vs Monkey Quarterly)
‘That little bastard was like giving birth to a ball of barbed wire,’ Mrs Collins pointed to Tony. ‘So I don’t want to hear nothing from you about suffering.’
Harold choked back a laugh while Tony sat there grinning.
‘But you love me all the same, don’t you Ma?’ he said.
‘Don’t have much choice, do I?’ She smiled and slapped him on the back of the head. ‘I tell you this sonny.’ She took his bowl after he scooped out the last mouthful of porridge. ‘If you weren’t mine I’d leave you for dead in the street.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘Thanks for breakfast, Mrs Collins.’ Harold stood up to leave.
‘You could learn some manners from this one you could, Tony my boy.’
‘How can I? I haven’t the schooling for it,’ said Tony.
‘You got an answer for everything. Now get out of here, both of you.’ She banged the porridge bowl with a spoon.
Tony jumped up and ran into the other room to get his boots.
‘See you tonight,’ said Harold. He threw his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the door.
Mrs Collins reached for his arm and said quietly.
‘Don’t come back here tonight, Harry. We’ll be next door. The eviction date is today so the landlord’s men will be round at six.’
‘Do you need me to leave?’ he asked.
‘Of course not.’ She patted him on the head. ‘You’re part of the family now. It’ll be fine. We’ll come back when the men have gone.’
Harold didn’t like that kind of fine. He wanted to believe her but he had had a similar conversation with his father the day before the men had come.
Light rain was falling from the heavy clouds above and Harold watched as umbrellas began to sprout like black daisies among the crowd of commuters. A young boy of about ten years weaved in and out of the men in suits asking for pennies. He had no shoes and one sleeve of his stained shirt was missing. Down the street a line of unemployed men stood in the rain, unwilling to give up their place in line at the soup kitchen. Harold shivered and clutched his briefcase to his chest. Winter was on them and none of them were prepared. The coat his mother had bought for him five years ago was now a faint echo of what it had used to be. In its day it had been quite something, a coat that had made him feel strong, and secure. Not any more it wasn’t. The sleeves were tattered and dirty. The fabric had thinned and, the once rich silk lining was now torn and only served to catch on shirt buttons, cufflinks or his cold, numb fingers.
The grey walls of the Governance building rose up through the fog in front of him. Men in dark coats marched in and out while others milled around at the main doors in pre-work conversation. Trams, filled with men in suits and hats, rattled by on Swanston Street, while the headlines on the newsstand heralded another triumphant century from Don Bradman. 100 runs stolen from the Brits in two hours.
Harold didn’t care much for cricket. He didn’t care much for any sport for that matter. There were those in the office that found his lack of enthusiasm for the Don’s achievements strange, or even suspicious, but this didn’t bother Harold. He found the whole idea of a cricketer being a hero quite preposterous. Harold lifted his coat collar high up to his chin. The frayed edges tickled his cheek and he pulled it away quickly. He carefully folded down the frayed edges his collar, and then wrapped his scarf tight around his neck.
The street was littered with potholes. They were full of brown sludge, horse droppings and water. He could feel the big toe on his right foot getting wet as he hurried across. New shoes had been on his shopping list for a long time now, and Harold knew it would be some time before they could be crossed off.
The office was dark when he opened the door. He slipped his coat off his shoulders and hung it on the closest hook. It was then he saw it. On the last rung hung a brand new winter coat. It was a stern grey. An honourable grey. Harold turned around and scanned the office for early arrivals. All was quiet. He moved closer to have a look. He reached out slowly and ran the fabric between his fingers. It was unbearably soft. Two rows of fine stitching down the front, as even as tram tracks. The collar was unconventional in shape, almost military-styled, and was strong and commanding somehow. The kind of coat a man of distinction would own. But Harold was no man of distinction. He was simply Harold. Born at the wrong time and now sold to the lowest bidder. He let the coat slip out of his hand. It swung back to the wall as he walked to his desk.
Except for the muffled sound of trams rattling past on the street below the office was silent. The wooden chair creaked under him as he flicked through a pile of papers. He hadn’t been told about the appointment of anyone new, let alone a new manager. There was no way someone on his salary could afford a coat like that. Five years ago it would have been possible. Five years ago a lot of things were possible. When his father was still alive, before the market crashed, before his world had changed. The company his father had built, the company that would have been Harold’s, now belonged to a poker-faced Englishman by the name of Felix. In exchange, Harold was a lowly office clerk working for the man who ratted his father out to the tax office.
To get through the days Harold concentrated on keeping his pencils sharp and his desk clean, his hair well groomed and his shoes polished. A man must present himself in a way that instils confidence and trust in order to succeed, his father had always said. Most men judge you immediately, so you must carry yourself and dress for impact. They seemed like foolish words now: foolish words from a man of privilege. Harold took out a pair of scissors from the desk drawer. He cut off a few loose threads hanging from his sleeve then adjusted his cufflinks.
A tall, thin man walked into the office. He hung his coat on the rack. Harold noticed him glance at the new coat hanging on the last peg.
‘Good morning,’ he said as he sat down on the desk next to Harold’s.
‘Morning, Stephens.’
Stephens, first name Charles, was Harold’s office neighbour. He was a slender man with long, willowy fingers that danced over the typewriter like a concert pianist. Unfortunately for Charles Stephens, he didn’t have the accuracy that the grace of his fingers promised. He spent the better part of most days tearing out pieces of paper from his typewriter and muttering under his breath.
Harold didn’t like many people in the office. Most of them were very boring people. Harold knew they were boring because they were less interesting than himself and he considered himself a very dull person. Charles Stephens, however, was as close to a friend as Harold had and they would often have lunch together out on the fire escape.
‘Have you seen the new coat on the rack this morning,’ said Harold. He grimaced a little as he lifted his stale lettuce sandwich to his lips.
‘What coat?’
‘The new grey coat hanging on the rack.’
‘Oh yes. It looks expensive,’ said Charles.
‘So you noticed the fine weave and texture of the fabric?’
‘What?’
‘The stitching is worthy of a surgeon.’ Harold raised his hands up in proclamation. ‘And the cut would make us both look like kings.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Or at the very least lawyers.’
Charles laughed and tapped Harold on the head with a bread stick.
‘You are an unusual fellow, Harold. A coat is a coat. As long as it keeps you warm and dry through the winter it deserves your thanks. People like us cannot demand our coats be comfortable and fashionable as well as practical.’
‘You’re correct Charles – correct as always. But there seems to be no owner to this coat, so surely my desire is somewhat more justified. I simply don’t want it to go to waste.’
‘Of course Harold,’ he smiled. ‘It is your civic duty to see that the coat is put to good use.’
‘I’m glad you understand.’
‘I think I do.’ Charles paused and looked Harold in the eye. ‘Have you been thinking of your father lately?’
‘No.’ Harold shuffled where he sat. ‘Maybe a little.’
‘You mustn’t keep wishing for that life my friend. It is done.’
‘I know it is Charles.’ He was frustrated that Charles didn’t understand. ‘But it was here this morning and it has not been moved since.’
‘What was here?’
‘What do you think?’ said Harold.
‘Are we talking about your father or the coat?’ Charles looked confused.
‘The coat of course.’
They climbed in from the fire escape and went back to their desks.
In the afternoon Harold found himself staring at a pigeon making a nest on the fire escape of the next building.
‘Harold!’ The voice of Mr Broomfield cut through his daydreams. ‘In my office.’ He beckoned Harold with a pudgy index finger.
‘Every time I look out my door I see you staring off into space, Harold. I do wonder how it is you manage to get any work done at all.’
Harold noticed a few beads of sweat gathering at the top of Mr Broomfield’s forehead. He wondered how long it would take before the first would run down his face.
‘Are you listening to me, Harold?’
‘Oh, yes Sir.’ Harold hoped that he wouldn’t be asked to repeat it as he realised he had not been listening at all.
‘One would think the paperwork that has been entrusted to you was posted on the walls or the ceiling, or even out the window.’
‘Excuse me, Sir?’
‘You spend more time looking around than at your typewriter.’
‘Am I behind in my work, Sir?’ asked Harold.
Mr Broomfield rubbed his hands together uncomfortably.
‘It’s not that you are that far behind. To be honest I don’t know how you manage it.’
‘Is there a problem with my work, Sir?’
‘No. No there isn’t.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s your attitude Harold. Your method, if I can call it that. It’s a distraction to the other staff and a bad example.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I understand you are in a unique position here. This all could have been yours. He waved his hand around the office. ‘I know it must play on your mind. What could have been? But can you imagine?’ His mouth burst into a sickly grin. ‘Can you imagine the state of the place if you were running it… God help us all.’ He started laughing and a bit of saliva flew out of his mouth and landed on Harold’s coat. ‘Just stop your day dreaming and get back to work.’
Harold stood up and moved toward the door.
‘One more thing, Harold.’ asked Mr Broomfield. ‘Are you married?’
‘No Sir.’
‘I thought as much. You should think about it, Harold. A good woman can make a weak man like you strong.’
Harold slunk back to his desk and began making his way through the paperwork that was piled up on his desk. Shipping receipts and development permits needed processing and log entries needed filling in. It was an endless parade of numbers and figures, of addresses and names, of client companies and parent companies and receivers and exporters.
The afternoon soon feel away and the street below began getting dark. Harold sharpened his pencils and arranged his desk before making his way to the door. The coat hung there as it had all day. He stared at it as he threw his own coat over his shoulders. It called to him. It mocked him. It demanded to be stolen but Harold resisted.
‘Ow.’ His winced as his little finger caught in the lining of his coat and was pulled the wrong way. He stole another glance, this time an angry one, at the grey coat hanging on the other end of the rack. He slammed the door and marched out.
The streets were still glistening from the rain and a slow fog was edging its way between the dark buildings of Swanston Street. The rain was a gentle drizzle now and it was cold on Harold’s face. He didn’t mind. After a day inside the office, he was glad to have the change of scenery and the icy mist was welcome on his cheeks. The smell of horse manure rose up from the dirty street and big-wheeled carriages, auTonyobiles and trams competed for right of passage. They blew horns, rang bells and let out angry whistles each driver outraged by the one in front. Tram conductors hung out of swinging doors stamping tickets, counting money and shouting at auTonyobiles and carriage drivers to get out of the way. Harold took his usual shortcut, past St Peter’s church and the Chinese laundries nestled in the back streets. He stepped gingerly over the drains running through blue stone laneways and was careful to keep his shoes out of the puddles. Eventually he arrived at the train station holding his briefcase over his head to keep his hair dry.
The lights were on in the neighbours’ house when Harold climbed the steps to the front door.
‘Is that you Harold?’ Mrs Collins voice sounded nervous.
‘Yes.’
The door flung open and she ushered him inside. Her eyes scanned the street quickly then she slammed the door.
‘They’ve not been around yet. We have to be careful, Harold. They must have a lot of families to evict this week. Dirty dogs. They should be ashamed of themselves, the lot of them.’
They were all there in the lounge room near the fire, Mr and Mrs Singleton and their two small children, Mrs Collins and Tony. They were quiet children, unlike Tony. The Singletons had been good neighbours to the Collins for three years and in that time the families had become very close.
Mrs Singleton was a round woman with rosy cheeks and a cheeky smile. ‘Come and sit down Harold. You must be tired after a hard day at work.’
‘He’s lucky to be working at all,’ said Mr Singleton gruffly.
‘Easy now, Arthur,’ she scolded. ‘We should be grateful for the few of us that do have work.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Mr Singleton forced a weak smile across his face.
Mrs Collins turned to Harold.
‘How was work dear?’
‘It passed without too much fuss,’ said Harold. He was in no mood to discuss his boss’s comments, the winter coat or any of it for that matter. He was more concerned about the house. ‘So the landlord’s men haven’t been yet?’
Mr Singleton lifted himself out of his chair. ‘They’ll be along. Don’t you worry about that. They never give up, those bloody scabs.’
‘Language dear,’ said Mrs Singleton. She lifted some pots off the stove and put them on the table.
They all took a seat and Mr Singleton said grace.
‘Our father, who art in heaven, thank you for what we are about to receive.’
‘And for friends in hard times,’ added Mrs Collins.
Mrs Singleton nodded in agreement.
It was silent while everyone ate. The food was warming and Harold thought about his strange day while he ate. Tony’s dinnertime wit had been muted by the politeness of the Singleton children and there was a feeling of foreboding in the room. It reminded Harold of a night he’d spent with a boxer-friend who was taking a fall in a fixed fight. There was inevitability about the proceedings. No one wanted to speak, they were all thinking the same thought. They couldn’t continue to simply hide in each other’s houses when the landlord’s men arrived. Maybe it would work once or twice, but no more than that. Harold watched Tony eat greedily. He had a piece of small piece of potato stuck to the side of his mouth.
‘Don’t be greedy,’ said his mother sternly when she saw Tony load another large spoonful in his bowl.
‘It’s alright Ruth,’ said Mrs Singleton. ‘He’s a growing lad.’
Harold woke with a sore back the next morning. He had been cold most of the night. The thin rug he had used as a mattress had done little to save him from the hard floorboards. The landlord’s men had arrived not long after dinner. Harold and Mrs Collins had watched through the curtains while the men had come with cricket bats and batons only to find the house empty. They eventually came knocking on the neighbours’ door where Mrs Singleton had given a stellar performance, much to the amusement of the others, who were hiding in the back room. She had been completely believable as a concerned but ignorant neighbour. The men left, but not before leaving a letter detailing the amount owed, and the new eviction date. They posted it on the front door. It said they would return in a week. Harold hoped it would not be sooner.
The office was empty on Friday evening. Charles Stephens had left a few moments earlier and Harold found himself, as he often did, alone in the dimly lit office with just his pens, pencils and files for company. The thing that made this Friday different to any other was the winter coat. It hung on the wall, as it had done all week. No one had mentioned it: no one had touched it. In fact, no one had seemed to notice it at all. Harold wanted someone to own it, someone to take it away. He wanted it out of the office and out of his life. Looking at it every day hurt. Knowing it stayed inside, never to be worn, never to be valued, or even commented on. It seemed like an unholy injustice. People were starving, some homeless and he was scraping to get by after the markets had taken away so much with them. It was a crime to let something as valuable and as practical as a winter coat go to waste. It could be his if he were strong enough to take it.
Harold tried making a list of his tasks for Monday. He always wrote a list for Monday so as to avoid unnecessary worrying over the weekend. But today he couldn’t concentrate. He stood up, stretched his arms out and wandered round the office. He was desperate to avoid his eyes falling on the coat. He looked out the window. He noticed how the glass was streaked from the smoke inside and rain outside. The clouds hung heavy and threatening above the rooftops. In the low light he could see his greasy fingerprints from where he had last opened the window.
He went from desk to desk noticing things he hadn’t seen before. He picked up colourful paperweights and photographs, novelty pencil sharpeners and paper clips. He stopped in front of a framed Stephens family portrait. It was a strange image. None of them were smiling, but somehow they all looked happy. They were dressed for a funeral but seemed oddly cheerful under their stark expressions. Harold remembered being taken by his mother and father as a ten year-old to have his picture taken. He’d refused to smile, despite their best efforts, and the photo had been abandoned amid much scolding and bickering. He laughed out loud at himself then stopped short when his echo flew back at him from the dark corners of the office.
Not today he decided. For the first time in many years Harold decided not to make his Monday list. He had to leave and he had to leave now. He put a dust cover over his typewriter, threw some papers into his briefcase and walked toward the door. Both winter coats hung on the rack, the new coat taunting his own like a bully in a playground.
Harold’s heart was pounding and his palms sweating. He felt alive and dangerous. He had begun to take back what he deserved. He worked hard every day. He didn’t begrudge the fact he was now a two-bit clerk for the firm that he had been in line to inherit. He didn’t complain about his boss’s relentless workload and he never talked back. He had earned this coat, maybe not in a conventional sense, but he had in his own way.
The lights in the house were on as he approached.
‘Good evening, Harold,’ said Mrs Collins with a smile. ‘How was work?’ She looked at his red face then down at the coat. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Oh, this.’ He took out the coat. ‘It was a gift from my boss.’
‘Well isn’t that generous of him.’ She called out to Tony. ‘Come look at this fancy coat Harold’s boss gave him.’
Mrs Collins took the coat in her hands and turned it over.
‘My the stitching’s exquisite isn’t it?’ She looked up at Harold and winked. ‘He must be very pleased with you, Harold.’
‘I’ve been very busy lately.’ said Harold, trying to get the words past the lump in his throat.
‘You always were a hard worker, weren’t you?’
The guilt clung to Harold like a soggy shirt and he wished he’d never even seen the coat now. But Tony had already wrapped it around himself. He was strutting around the room like a gentleman, tipping his hat to his mother and to Harold.
‘It’s suits you well, Tony,’ said Mrs Collins with a smile. ‘Perhaps a little too big, but give it time. Let’s see it on you now, Harold.’
Harold slid his arms through the silk-lined sleeves with ease and he pulled it up over his shoulders. The coat was a perfect fit. He couldn’t believe it. He felt like the sort of man his father had been. A man of distinction: a man of taste. Sometimes, he thought to himself, you have to take what you deserve, even if no one offers.
‘My, my, it was made for you,’ said Mrs Collins. She brushed a few pieces of dust off the shoulders. ‘You could be a landlord with a coat like that.’ She chuckled and said, ‘Of course you’d have to keep the adorable smile elsewhere. I’ve never met a landlord who smiled.’
Harold walked around the room, then spun on his heel. He marched around with his chin held high while checking an imaginary pocket watch.
‘Bravo.’ Mrs Collins clapped. ‘You are a fine gentleman, Harold.’
Harold then took the iron poker from next to the fire and tapped it on the floor like a walking stick.
‘I shall buy one of each,’ he said in a mock serious voice.
The knock at the door was loud and commanding. They all stopped still. Tony’s eyes were wide with fear and Harold pulled his coat tight around him. The curtains were drawn. It was impossible to tell who was there. Mrs Collins put one finger to her lips and with the other she pointed at the shadow under the door.
***************************************************************************************************
The Old Woman in the Woods
"If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties."
Francis Bacon
A long time ago lived a poor young man, called Rajit. One day while hiking in the woods on the mountain near his village, he came across a little shop nestled amongst the trees. He had walked the same path many times but had never seen it before. He saw the door was open so walked inside.
There at the counter, sat an old woman knitting a blue scarf. She looked up and smiled. Rajit looked around the shop and saw that all of the shelves were bare. All except for one and on it sat a single jar with a blank white label.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ the old woman asked.
‘I have never seen this shop before and have walked this path many times. Have you just opened?’
‘In a way,’ she said
Rajit looked around the shop again. ‘How can you be open when you have nothing to sell?’
She laughed. ‘We are not looking to sell anything. Is there anything you wish to sell?’
Rajit looked down at his feet. He had a hole in the toe of his left shoe. ‘I am a poor man with nothing to my name,’ he said.
‘Why is that?’ the old woman asked.
‘Life has been unkind to me. I have achieved nothing of what I set out to do. Every waking moment I am plagued by doubt and self pity, and this is because everything I have tried in life has turned against me.’
The old woman stopped knitting.
‘Would you sell that doubt to me?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he replied.
‘I will buy that doubt from you. I will give you one hundred rupees to have it for myself.’
Rajit laughed. ‘Old woman you are a fool, but a generous fool and I will gladly take your money for I am without lodgings or rupees.’
The old woman smiled and handed him one hundred silver coins.
‘How do you suggest I give you my doubt?’ asked Rajit
The old woman reached up and took the only jar off the shelf. On the label she wrote, Rajit - Doubt.’
‘I already have it,’ she said and put the jar back on the shelf.
‘Thank you old woman,’ said Rajit. ‘You have done me a great service.’
Rajit went home with the one hundred rupees jangling in his pocket. Over the course of the next five years his luck began to change. With each new venture, he entered into it with confidence and each time it got better. The one hundred rupees quickly became four hundred, then one thousand and soon he found himself to be quite a wealthy man. He owned shops and horses and houses.
Through it all though, something troubled him. He began to feel less pleasure with each new success. The thrill of simple things, like a walk along a river or listening to a song, no longer interested him. He began to spend less time with his friends and with his family. He felt distant and cold because he wasn’t able to empathise with their problems and failures. It was during one of those times, while he sat alone in his big house, that his mind turned back to the old woman in the woods.
Over the next few months the old woman came into his mind often, through his dreams and through his daydreams. Whatever he tried to do, he would keep seeing her face. He began to make mistakes in his business dealings and after three months, he decided he would make the journey.
He walked up the mountain and found the path he used to walk regularly five years before. As he made his way along the path he realised it looked very different from back then. The trees were taller and the path narrower. He grew worried that the shop may no longer be there and it seemed to be further than he remembered. After two hours of walking he came to a patch of land, which was now empty. It looked familiar but there was no sign of the shop. Although his legs were tired and his mouth was parched, he pressed on. As he walked he became more and more certain about the need to regain his doubt from the old woman.
Finally, after walking for five hours, when he was about to give up, he turned a corner and there it was. The shop he remembered.
He went inside and there sat the old woman, just as he had remembered. She was knitting a scarf, but this time, an orange one.
‘Can I help you with anything young man?’ she asked.
Rajit was very thirsty after the long hike. ‘Do you have any water?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. She poured him a tall glass of water from a jug.
Rajit drank greedily. The water was cool on his dry lips. ‘You probably do not remember me,’ he said. ‘But five years and three months ago I sold you my doubt for one hundred rupees.’
‘I remember you,’ she said with a smile. ‘Would you like to buy it back?’
‘Yes, I would very much like to buy it back,’ Rajit answered quickly.
The old woman stopped knitting and looked him in the eye.
‘My dear boy, it is not for sale.’
‘But I must have it,’ said Rajit desperately, 'I want for nothing, but my heart is cold. I am now a rich man with no-one to share it with.’
‘Why have you come back?’ she asked. ‘What can you gain from me?’
‘My doubt of course.’
‘I never owned your doubt my dear.’ She put down her knitting needles and took his hands in hers. ‘The rupees were a gift. Your doubt cannot be bought by me, nor sold by you. Only by sharing our doubts can we make them lighter.’ The old woman went on,
‘When you left my shop, those years ago, you chose to believe what I had told you. That is all. You came back because you doubted. That doubt got you to where my shop used to be, but I am five miles further up the mountain now. Courage and self belief carried you the extra five miles.’
Rajit laughed. He felt a weight fall from his shoulders and he said to the old woman. ‘You are wise, old woman… I thank you.’ He paused and looked around the shop, which was still bare. ‘But I don’t understand. You are still young enough to laugh and talk and share stories. Why is it that you live here all alone on this mountain with so few people to talk to?’
The old woman smiled and began knitting again. ‘There are not so few,’ she said. ‘I have much more company than you might think.’
*******************************************************************************
How Many Times This Week Have You Been Called A Faggot?
I was standing watching a band the other night when a friend turned to me and asked a somewhat surprising question.
‘How many times this week have you been called a faggot?’ she said.
A curious question to be sure, so I laughed at first, not quite knowing how to respond. I then realised I haven’t been called a faggot even once this week. Come to think of it, I haven’t been called a faggot in years. I asked her why she would ask such a question. She pointed to a mutual friend standing next to her, a friend who has only recently moved to Preston.
It turns out that since his arrival, this friend of mine has rediscovered the insult – or I should say, it has rediscovered him. It turns out that what he thought he had left behind in the streets and schoolyards of Brisbane is actually very much alive and well in Preston. His current route home from work passes by the local school and each day he is hailed a faggot. It’s hard to know why, but perhaps due to the fact he’s wearing jeans and a button up shirt. He always was a fancy-boy, what with his jeans and his shirts.Thankfully, with the passing of time those words no longer carry much weight and we all had a laugh about it. But it did get me thinking about the word itself and the role it has played in my life.
I spent a decade in Perth, when being called a faggot was a daily event: on the train, on the bus, outside clubs and inside clubs, on the road, and even down at the beach. You didn’t have to go far to discover the rich vein of bigotry that ran through the northern suburbs of Perth. You could always count on a toothy sneer from a muscle-bound jock, or cop vomit-laced expletives from a skinny-jeaned bogan. Hell, even a dread-locked surfer half submerged in his own bong water would often feel the need to cast judgement.
To make matters worse, people often thought I was a girl. Strangely, this never stopped me being called a faggot. Their mistake was understandable. I admit I was somewhat effeminate in my late teens: I didn’t begin shaving regularly until I was over twenty; I was never much of a sportsman, and I am also the not-so-proud owner of quite a high voice. I wasn’t pretty either, more like a stick-thin plain Jane with long greasy hair.
My girlfriend at the time and I would often be mistaken for girls. It was always, ‘hi girls,’ or ‘thanks ladies’ as we marched out of the bottle shop with a night’s worth of Real McCoy Whiskey under our arms. Hard as I tried to look tough, it failed to work. It didn’t matter that I was buying whiskey and smoking Marlboro Reds, I was never going to cut it as a man’s man.
I did my best to make light of it, but there were complications. If I was a woman, that made my girlfriend gay, and she therefore fell victim to the accompanying judgement and taunts. At these times, it was clear she was a faggot because she was going out with me. If I were foolish enough, however, to point out that I was a guy and this here was my girlfriend, I would be called a faggot for pretending to be a woman. It’s confusing, I know.
One time a man came up to me at a bar and asked if he could buy me a drink. I declined, telling him that I wasn’t into guys. His response was,
‘So you’re a fucking lesbian?’
‘No,’ I said making my voice as deep as possible, ‘I’m a guy’.
His arms, which had been draped all over me a moment earlier, were quickly pulled back, and with a face twisted by anger and alcohol, he called me a faggot. Yes, that’s right. The innocent victim of his attempted romance, was a faggot for firstly - not being a woman, and secondly, for not liking men.
So, just in case you missed it. If you’re a man and you like women, you’re a faggot. If you’re a man and you don’t like men, you’re a faggot. If you’re a woman and you like women, you’re a faggot, and if you’re a man and you like men, you’re a faggot. All clear? Good. Aren’t you glad we had this conversation?
Now, let me ask you this. How many times this week have you been called a faggot?
*******************************************************************************
How Many Times This Week Have You Been Called A Faggot?
I was standing watching a band the other night when a friend turned to me and asked a somewhat surprising question.
‘How many times this week have you been called a faggot?’ she said.
A curious question to be sure, so I laughed at first, not quite knowing how to respond. I then realised I haven’t been called a faggot even once this week. Come to think of it, I haven’t been called a faggot in years. I asked her why she would ask such a question. She pointed to a mutual friend standing next to her, a friend who has only recently moved to Preston.
It turns out that since his arrival, this friend of mine has rediscovered the insult – or I should say, it has rediscovered him. It turns out that what he thought he had left behind in the streets and schoolyards of Brisbane is actually very much alive and well in Preston. His current route home from work passes by the local school and each day he is hailed a faggot. It’s hard to know why, but perhaps due to the fact he’s wearing jeans and a button up shirt. He always was a fancy-boy, what with his jeans and his shirts.Thankfully, with the passing of time those words no longer carry much weight and we all had a laugh about it. But it did get me thinking about the word itself and the role it has played in my life.
I spent a decade in Perth, when being called a faggot was a daily event: on the train, on the bus, outside clubs and inside clubs, on the road, and even down at the beach. You didn’t have to go far to discover the rich vein of bigotry that ran through the northern suburbs of Perth. You could always count on a toothy sneer from a muscle-bound jock, or cop vomit-laced expletives from a skinny-jeaned bogan. Hell, even a dread-locked surfer half submerged in his own bong water would often feel the need to cast judgement.
To make matters worse, people often thought I was a girl. Strangely, this never stopped me being called a faggot. Their mistake was understandable. I admit I was somewhat effeminate in my late teens: I didn’t begin shaving regularly until I was over twenty; I was never much of a sportsman, and I am also the not-so-proud owner of quite a high voice. I wasn’t pretty either, more like a stick-thin plain Jane with long greasy hair.
My girlfriend at the time and I would often be mistaken for girls. It was always, ‘hi girls,’ or ‘thanks ladies’ as we marched out of the bottle shop with a night’s worth of Real McCoy Whiskey under our arms. Hard as I tried to look tough, it failed to work. It didn’t matter that I was buying whiskey and smoking Marlboro Reds, I was never going to cut it as a man’s man.
I did my best to make light of it, but there were complications. If I was a woman, that made my girlfriend gay, and she therefore fell victim to the accompanying judgement and taunts. At these times, it was clear she was a faggot because she was going out with me. If I were foolish enough, however, to point out that I was a guy and this here was my girlfriend, I would be called a faggot for pretending to be a woman. It’s confusing, I know.
One time a man came up to me at a bar and asked if he could buy me a drink. I declined, telling him that I wasn’t into guys. His response was,
‘So you’re a fucking lesbian?’
‘No,’ I said making my voice as deep as possible, ‘I’m a guy’.
His arms, which had been draped all over me a moment earlier, were quickly pulled back, and with a face twisted by anger and alcohol, he called me a faggot. Yes, that’s right. The innocent victim of his attempted romance, was a faggot for firstly - not being a woman, and secondly, for not liking men.
So, just in case you missed it. If you’re a man and you like women, you’re a faggot. If you’re a man and you don’t like men, you’re a faggot. If you’re a woman and you like women, you’re a faggot, and if you’re a man and you like men, you’re a faggot. All clear? Good. Aren’t you glad we had this conversation?
Now, let me ask you this. How many times this week have you been called a faggot?
