Yamba is calm, nice, easy. Further North, the safety net is ended. The boundless hospitality of Freddy Vegas and Kris makes it tempting to just hang out here for a while. But then there is the mission. The ranch will be around for a good while yet. I must get to Queensland and start blagging. Then I can safely call Eye-Van my own, and let the French boys heave a sigh of relief. And besides, it’s pretty suburban around here. What’s the use of having an esky full of food, a big rug, a fishing rod, camping stove and who knows what else if I’m just going to hang out amongst concrete and Middle-Class malaise?
Bus in Brisbane. Who knows where the hell we are? I’d be lying if I pretended that I’m completely over a certain girl, the subject of countless letters and entries, for whom I’ve felt such adoration and such vitriol at various times.
I await the safety inspection results, leaving my van, full of all of my favourite objects, in the hands of John the Mechanic. I opted to leave it there and come back later today, rather then drive around and come back. Oh how good it would be if little Eye-van breezed through the inspection and I was away, free to get back on the road. In the meantime, I mean to have strong coffee, so I’ve made my way to West End, stopped at the first place where I saw old men speaking Italian. The fabled West End. I guess you’d need to know someone here, it’s not very exciting. Maybe if it wasn’t raining so much, there would be some kind of buzz. Buzz? From my limited experience of “up here”, I get the impression that when it rains, it really rains. The storm clouds settle in, pull up an armchair, perhaps they do some little warm-ups, nothing too strenuous, you get the idea. That is how it has been here for the last two days, in Melbourne this kind of rainfall would be front page news. I feel like I dropped in on Brisbane by surprise, accidentally catching it at an awkward moment. Being in cities makes me want to smoke. But I won’t, oh no, I will throw myself face down in the dirt and let that truck roll right over. Nothing much to write about, nothing much to say. I’m finding this all very draining. I’m not sure why, something is wrong. Maybe it’s to do with being so close to finishing, completing my mission, the supposed reason for being on the road. Maybe it’s to do with the quality of this coffee, or the quality of the relationship of my gracious hosts. At any rate, I don’t belong here, and I won’t smoke.
I write and write because it’s too wet to do anything else while I wait and wait for Eye-van’s safety inspection. Please please let me leave this place. I swung by the mechanic a bit early, to see what they would be putting little Eye-Van through. I even held a precious hope that it would all get finished early. But no, they were all too busy to notice me and they hadn’t even started on Eye-Van. Oh dear, I may be here a while yet. So there I was, in one of those suburbs where outside is not public space, it is the domain of Cars! The inhospitable landscape was made even more unpleasant by the ceaseless rain (according to the taxi driver, the best, greatest, most impressive rainfall in over 100 years) and the laptop in my shoulder-bag that I must keep dry. Somehow. So I did what people do in places like this: I went to the Shopping Centre. This, at least, is so hard to distinguish from all Shopping Centres in the world, but particularly Northland, that is just a little comforting. Some write travel journals to record their adventures and discoveries. I seem to write only to kill time. So here I am, in a shopping centre in an outer suburb of Brisbane, feeling something akin to ennui, waiting for the rain to stop, waiting for a phone call, waiting –
Here we are again… fucking waiting in Fucking Brisbane. Interrupted by a nosy stranger and now here I am in another café. Melbourne coffee snob loose in Brisbane. But I do like the way that dodgy food, hearty pies and deep-fried bay-marie fare is proudly displayed wherever I go, and I do like that the sun is shining now. I’m back at the mechanic’s shop, and I’m pleased to find a likable, real, slightly dodgy-seeming mechanic. This is much more like it. Although he’s very busy, and if I get held up by one more day then it will be the weekend, and then I’ll be stuck in Brisbane even longer, what a thought. I wait. In my car. A silent movie plays out before me, the soundtrack of truck engines, hydraulics and other industrial machinery sets the scene, the backdrop is all concrete, roller doors, corrugated metal. The mechanic brings his hands repeatedly up to his brow as one unlikely character after another drives in to the overcrowded mechanic’s. Not out of the woods yet, and oh look, the rain’s back. Let me round this one off, because I finally escaped from Brisbane, and though it did extract its fee, it certainly served its purpose. For the scam I had to pull, I needed the resources and networks that a city can provide. Anyway. Yes, they were, is the answer to the question “Are these mechanics dodgy enough?” They were SO dodgy. They kept throwing wary, tight-lipped glances and asking “Where did you hear about us?” As though they wished I hadn’t, as though they know that one day they’re gong to get in a lot of trouble. Well, they saved me a bunch of time I would otherwise have had to spend in Brisbane, away from mein Haus mit Reifen. And at least $1600. So good luck to them. I was too close to let anything get in my way as the man at Queensland transport threw obstacle after obstacle in my path. We became friends, and I suspect he knew that I was lying about living in QLD.
Dear [name omitted],
It seems that I write more interesting things when I write to you. Also, since you called I’ve been thinking about you. Not in a weird way. You told me that you missed me. A couple of weeks ago you drove me out of my own home with your unfriendliness, but now that I’m gone, you miss me? Predictable.
I hope you’re ok. You sounded pretty shaken up about your cousin, I can’t remember what his name was. I remember the strange relationship you have with death. It scares me.
[this next bunch of words takes place around a drawing of a man]
Funny kind of friend, he never told me his name. This is the man in the Queensland Transport office, whose face looked too young, whose eyes looked too old. We sort of became friends, which helped a lot, even though he made me go through a lot of trouble before he finally accepted that I was ok.
So when you told me that you missed me, I wish I could have said so many things, but all the many feelings cancelled each other out, and I was left with the stupid but true… but STUPID phrase, “I miss you too.”
Probably after all, that was the best thing to say.
So I had a lot of trouble finishing my mission. Approximately 12 times as much trouble as I bargained for. And I was in that office, with all of the forms that I was asked to bring. And the man really wanted to help, but he just didn’t quite trust me. That’s quite natural, since I was sort of lying to him. Lying pretty well, by my standards. I was essentially saying that I was living, residing in Queensland, which is not really a lie, it’s true enough. It’s when he tried to pin me down to details, that’s when I had to lie. But he more or less believed me, that is, he didn’t know what it was that he didn’t trust, and he like me well enough. There he was, inspecting my vehicle with the absurd outfit that he changed into just-to-inspect-my-van, just doing his job, which he took very seriously for a boy with old man eyes. I realized that he was just afraid that he’d get in trouble if I’d turned out to be some kind of smuggler or something. Before that I spent hours in the dodgiest mechanics shop I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t figure out what they needed such a big sledge-hammer for. I’ve never seen a sledge-hammer in a mechanic’s shop before.
Now I’m in Mooloolaba, watching the waves crash angrily into the beach, writing you a letter.
There are lots of funny tropical trees here, they remind me of Tonga and Tahiti, when I was sitting and writing you a letter. It is getting cold now, I will sleep.
Love Ivan.
I don’t know if I want to send you this letter, it’s very bad. What I mean by that is that each sentence I made, I could have gone into so much more detail, for instance, the tropical trees, they were quite amazing, especially those ones where the root system comes right up out of the ground in a bi tangle. Something about those trees, proudly displaying parts that other trees hide, like the way you wear the shortest shorts and skirts all the time, for reasons unclear, probably because you don’t give a fuck who sees your legs. And also, I could have written so much about Brisbane, where I waited for two and a half days(two and a half days too long), but I didn’t, because I wrote that letter more for me than for you. So that’s why I’m not sure if I should give it to you. Either way, I will fill up this blank page with words, and I do miss you, even though I’m having a bit of trouble forgiving you. A song has just come one, I know it very well. The opening line is “I was in the right place, but it must have been the wrong time.” It says this many times throughout.
Now I’m in Byron Bay, I may stay and play. Say what you like about Byron, the water is freakin’ incredible. I’ve been affected, spending so much time by myself has made it hard to interact with people. Many friendly strangers, all I can do is act bewildered, go away, write in my book. Not like me, maybe it’s just one of those phases where I’m a bit fragile. I don’t need to be afraid of anyone, remember. I was having so much trouble with the unicycle. Much more than I should have been, with the particular skill of getting up and going forward. It worked when my head was clear, but that s fairly rare. And I would clear my head, but in the moment before bringing foot to pedal, an avalanche of irrelevant processing would roll through my head, the next thing I knew, the trick had failed. But I persevered, and eventually it began to work. The trick started working too, but that seemed irrelevant next to this new feeling of having the nearest thing to a clear mind that I’ve experienced, albeit for all of 5 seconds. And today, every time I employed the technique of clearing my mind before jumping on the unicycle, it worked incredibly. After a while, I started getting good enough that it worked even when I was at my most distracted. Never mind, I’ll learn on the other side.
Uninspired.
Back in Melbourne. Unimpressed. Irritable. Everything is going much better than I could have imagines, but I remain unfazed, ingrateful. Doughy. It’s a Saturday night and I’m back in town, sharing a tram with revelers, drunks, irritating in the same way that moths are, in the same way they are a bit amusing.
Dear,
As yet, I haven’t written a name after the word ‘dear’. When I decide who I’m writing to, I’ll fill it in. Perhaps you are one of my very good friends.
Perhaps I barely know you.
Today my pen moves extra slowly, as if I was in fact submerged in a giant honey pot. Actually, it’s just that my hands are very cold. I’m sitting on a ferry, in Sydney, watching –
Disconnected. About 4 days have passed, and now I’m back in Melbourne. At some point during these last 4 days, I decided that I would just leave this letter somewhere, and since I don’t know who will read it, I will leave that space after the word ‘dear’ blank.
So then, chances are that I don’t know you. Hello. Sorry about my handwriting. For three weeks I was subjected to cabin-fever, as one small town caravan park blurred into the next.
The nicest caravan park cabins were always in the dullest towns. It would be a nice kind of life, if you got along with your co-performer well, if you were relaxed, mellow people. The audiences were 100-200 primary school kids, many of whom had never seen puppets before. I have, in the past, talked myself into believing that my job was useful, valuable, that the world needs performing artists, jugglers, puppeteers. This tour was amazing in that for the first time, I actually felt it.
Now I’m on a very crowded tram. For a moment, I felt anxious that someone might read over my shoulder, but then I remembered that I’m writing a letter to anybody. It was during this cabin-fever time, in the many unknown dying towns in central NSW, that I started writing letters. I was sick of the angst-ridden, self-indulgent practice of journal-writing, and I had a couple of friends who had written me many letters, had never received a reply.
I realized after writing a few that people don’t even mind if you have nothing particularly to say, they just like getting mail.
And now I’m in a cafe across the road from a primary school. Children abound. I lost this whole book for a week, in my improbably messy room, and I’d thought that one of those be-careful-what-you-wish-for moments had occurred, and someone had found not only this letter but all of the other things, personal things, that I write. I tried to remember if there were any personal, embarrassing, mortifying secrets in here. All I could think of was a letter I had written to a girl that I used to go out with. This girl did quite a number on me. Moreso by all the things she didn’t do, or didn’t say. Aren’t relationships funny things?
And now I feel it is time to wrap up this letter, 3 weeks on from when I first wrote the word ‘dear’. I’m only telling you this because I don’t want to leave any blank pages.
Do you ever think about the paradox of absolutes? I think about it a lot, for example, if absolutely nothing is ‘real’, then absolutely everything is ‘real’. This, in a way, makes the word ‘real’ obsolete. Absolutely obsolete.
I’m at the Pinnacle, watching a great jazz band called ‘The Snappers'. Endearingly Genuine, in the tradition of the old Melbourne jazz bands. And as I thought I couldn’t imagine a better combination of local jazz-wizards, Mr. Fermanis, the extraordinary guitarist, just turned up. Bye now,
Me.
FRISCHE FISCHE FISCHT FISCHER’S FRITZ
<---->
FISHER’S FRITZ FISCHT FRISCHE FISCHE
Winter Solstice. My mind refuses to sleep, to go to that place. Either it is too cold to sleep, or the sleeplessness makes me sensitive to the cold. My body tenses up, my somewhat uncomfortable bed arrangement becomes even moreso. So, I will not fight it any more. Against all reason, I’m perfectly awake anyway. It is near to 5a.m., and on this, the longest night of 2010, I will stay up and watch the sunrise. Tonight I came home by myself, spurning the many beds I could have ended up in for my glorified couch-cushion of a mattress, the supposed emergency bed for when the van is inhospitable. Of course, since I smelt the damp in the van, I have been frequenting the old foam emergency. Ludicrous, I am again wonderstruck by the state I’m in, as close as I’ve ever been to full-time, decent employment; that is to say, money is not an issue at the moment, and yet I’m living in the most budget accommodation situation that I’ve ever been in. And I can’t help but feel like it’s once more time to move on.
[Words around picture]
Tonight, she knew that I was going to say that I like very much to have friends in the world, that even though I was drawn toward those lips, I had no room for a lover.
I rode home, feeling strong for a while, and then I started to feel very cold. And as I rode past the house of the other girl, O admission of guilt, I sent her a message. As I was sending it, I received one from the girl I had left behind. She missed her last train. Well, what was I to do? The path less traveled I chose, I kept on riding. So many times I have unhesitatingly done something I’ve regretted due to public transport or a lack thereof. Oh, and my indulgent nature. And my libido.
I met that one because I felt bad about pushing into the queue in front of her. After a fun night of dancing, I then failed to reply to her text message for around 5 days. The longer it took, the harder it got, for what was I to say? I finally gave her a half-hearted reply, the truth, it was fun to dance and I’d like to have coffee some time. Not the truth that hurts. Her reply was soon to follow, yes yes when, we could not find a free daytime, I was hesitant to meet at night, for reasons clear to me, so I hesitated again for a few days, until she called. I had hoped she would understand how I felt by what I didn’t say, but some people understand silence better than others. And some people like me are decent enough, but sometimes find themselves acting like a jerk because they are not very brave.
In that hesitation-time, I went about my business, part of which seems to require that I go out drinking. I really can’t imagine how I would have met Ash, so perfect for the OMRL, or Mikey, a possible candidate for the spy band, otherwise. Well, earlier that day, when an incomplete stranger told me that she loved me, would marry me, I knew that it was going to be one of those times. I do not even try to fathom it anymore. Surely enough, that night I met a girl because of the horrible outlandish pants that I was wearing. She hated them as much as I did, so I suppose we had something in common. There I was, walking home to her bed, once more wonderstruck at the strange forces that attract people to each other. The next day, there she was at the pub that she had mentioned. I invited her, half-hoped that she would come, half-hoped that she would not. By the time I got there, I was tired and happy just to have a meal cooked for me as I watched a truly entertaining band, The Snappers. She got there as I was talking to the band. I introduced her as the wrong name, haha. I later invited her back to my house, even though I had nowhere for her to stay. She didn’t seem to mind. We got there and who should be sitting on the couch but a girl who was once my lover, the most recent in a line of girls who have enriched, enraged, enlightened and insulted me in equal portions.
Well, the only way to describe it is awkward. The fact that this girl still seems interested in me, even after all this and more, makes me like her. That I don’t have to try to be special makes me wonder if she sees something beyond my superficial charms. I wonder what that is. It is a quarter past 6 now, I wonder when the sun intends to rise? Perhap I will go a-walking through the night, if I can fortify myself enough against the cold. Perhap I will marry the German girl, live in Berlin for 3 years and get an EU passport. In Berlin, I would be a small Fisch in a big pond. That might be nice for a change. In the distances of my imagination, I can hear a bass-line a-walking, brief explosions of saxophone. Get out of here, Tom Waits, I’m trying to summon my own band, working title right now is Spy Fi. Micky Fingers on lights. Can we give the lighting guy a solo?
Ha, it seems like the only thing that might put that girl off is a proposal of marriage. It would do me well to stop thinking about it. Stop [pronounced ‘shtop’]. In two days time, I’ll be once more on tour, on the road; Mary Poppins festival, here we come. And yet, I cannot stop thinking about Berlin. And now I’m thinking about how I could teach English, apply for all the fun festivals with the Object Manipulation Research Lab (god bless all of those people who believed in me enough to make the lab happen), and it would not even matter that there are a million more interesting jugglers than me there, I’ll work with them, and I’ll write stories and oops! Pop over to the Czech republic to master Marionettery and oh! What a fine dream, and how fine it is to dream again! Dreams like this could deep me working, saving, eating well, training, being creative, I didn’t realize how much I needed a rope. Not the noose kind, but the magic one, that you must ply with music like a snake charmer, until it rises up to the clouds and there, sweet escape! I learned a new word recently: Imagineer. Hark, the birds are singing.
Time has stopped for a moment, the sound of dishes being washed in the nearby kitchen points out the fallacy I’ve just written. Never mind, I have no business with truth and fiction. I merely wage war on an empty page. Fill up those gaps, dot to dot.
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