Tuesday, June 29, 2010

A missing link...

Photo: Mark Roy Coddington
Art Director & Author, Perth.

I was hanging half out the door with my rucksack in the left hand, and a rosewood ukulele in the other when the car begun to roll away, mother in her usual fashion screamed her goodbyes from the window and it was over. I was leaving home. Again. It was not that long ago I remember they used to stand at the isle, mum would hold my hand and tears would well as she kissing and hugged the last moment away. I imagined I was dragging my new rucksack to the far ends of the earth. As it turned out I just shifted interstate. From one town to the next, riding on a cheap roller coaster that does multiple laps to make up for it’s short lived thrills. If I'm to be non-sentimental about this, and in light of my age, I’ll have to presume hot chicks probably don’t dig slobbering mum’s doting at airports.

I begin to ponder this while I check the baggage. Late. It had been a tough stint this time around, begging up some sort of entertainment from an otherwise entertaining City. Home life had been hectic, not the place for a young man to have been living with a girlfriend. As it were, I only had to refer to my empty purse to see what had become a big bummer in all of this. I was leaving as broke as I had arrived. Something about the City had become distinctly expensive, and if am to try nail that bitch down I would have to say it was everything. We drank from recycled jam jars that cost $15 and were filled with a squirt of spirits and a freshly squeezed lemon. Like the small wooden benches we were sitting on, the City seemed to be lacking substance. It was not until the Art Director was gone did I realize what, or more correctly, who was missing. Original people. Some suit had built a plastic underground at street level and put Robocop at the door. When I asked around, I only found a fool who was so crazy for women he believed his own trip, and the other guy, well he just had a bad hip.

So, once again I find myself sitting in a queue waiting for an airplane out. It was only a few weeks ago I was strapped to some pokey desk, when a call came through. It was the desert and they were looking for me. I sat in the chair staring at the filing cabinet blankly when the voice on the other line asked how much blah blah. They were going to pay me too! And now here I am sitting in this queue staring at some rank chick. She sat opposite me, okay enough, root-able I guess if you were desperate like those poor pioneers. No wonder half them got locked up for a cock in a rooster. They’re too loud. Off topic. She was not God’s hand picked fruit by any stretch. Thankfully for those around, she hid it under her beloved collection of the stick mags.

She peered out from beneath the naked women, to catch my bewildered eyes staring at her.

“You’ll be right kid”, her salted tongue rasped.

She must have smelt my fear, it was obvious I was staring. I started to think maybe I looked like one of those kids on the first day of school? If that was the case, she was definitely the one a few grades older named Bianca, who was licking sack behind the sports shed.

“Where you off to anyway?” she whispered across her sour lips.

I jittered a little and mumbled, “Karratha”.

She was not going there. Instead she was heading to a huge hole in the desert. She described it to me. “Newman”.

“You’ll be off soon. I still have a few hours”. She informed me.

She cleans after miners, and the miners as well, she doesn’t tell me this last bit.

She had been to Darwin. Enjoyed knifing some wild pigs out off Humpty Doo.

She was a miner’s daughter, and was sick of moving around.

“You got a girlfriend?” She finally asked.

Karratha spilled out over the PA system. It was time, I smiled at her and said goodbye. Clutching my rosewood ukulele I started for the door.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Numbers and stuff... update cheat

32... number of days I've been walking for.
564... number of kilometres walked.
401... number of kilometres to go before I see the end!
4... number of tigersnakes that have scared the shit out of me, as I've almost stepped on them.

So pretty much, thats my weak excuse for not being in contact with the blogging world. :)

Monday, October 19, 2009

No Title...

‘I’m sorry.’ She whispers softly beneath her breath. She is standing just meters in front of me, her hands hug her thin and unique body, her face, without expression is soft and delicate.
‘I was confused, I’m sorry, I was scared.’

‘Don’t be scared, I’m here now. You are so beautiful.’ I say as I watch her eyes tense with tears. ‘Come here, hold me, be near me; please,’ I continue as I reach out to grasp her in my arms.


Fuck where did she go, WHERE DID SHE GO! My heart races and my throat chokes. I lay awake, it’s dark. My sweat grows cold and I reach to the end of the small and lonely bed for a blanket.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.

Quiet rooster, quiet! Not now you piece of shit, not now. She was right their, right their in front of me and you woke me. Fuck.

I fold the blanket around me, tighter, feeling its comfort as it holds me in the night. Where did you go, come back please.. Please come back. I need to go back to sleep, I’m coming, PLEASE WAIT FOR ME.

A gentle gust picked up from the east and through the small timber window beside my bed, I can just make out the shodow of some leaves, beneath the fading moon they dance and rustle to the calling of the wind. It’s almost morning, maybe that’s why the rooster calls, or is it that he is scared. Are you scared rooster, quiet now, quiet now, it’s time to sleep, don’t be scared. Just a few more hours rooster, please, just a few more hours.


Fuck, shut the fuck up now! I warn you, I’ll cut your throat before dawn and boil you in the deepest pot. Quiet. Sleep.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster sounds again.

What’s the point, she was never really their, was she. The tears run down my face and drop to the pillow, more follow, and I squeeze tighter.

‘Why did you go, why, please tell me why.’

She shrugs her thin shoulders and I watch as the skin pulls tight over the hollow of her collarbone. Her lips are straight and her eyes, sad with unexplained emotion stare around the room.


I lay awake in the small cluttered room, my head searching for answers. The rooster keeps calling to the wonder of the morning, but the sun takes an eternity to rise and I sit sleepless in my own sweat. I want to sleep, I’m scared to sleep. I know she will be their, just a figment of my own imagination with no more answers than if I was awake. Please leave. Just leave me alone, I’m tired.

I watch through the shutters as the silky grey of night gives way to the brilliant colours of spring, ripe reds, pinks and greens. Beautiful flowers give glory to those who seek there beauty, as small lifeless limbs sprout supple new shoots. Birds, collecting slaters and slugs, dash from branch to branch and wag there tails with glee as I watch with a fresh feeling in my heart.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.

That’s it; I’m killing that fucking thing!

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 6

A few weeks have passed since that ordeal and the river. Of course, the indestructible aluminium hull has since been at the welders’ joint having a hole patched. Suppose it wasn’t all that indestructible after all. The leak however, appeared after a raging stomp out at the oyster farm. The Boss, well intoxicated, went on another demonstration with a few folks from town.

It is said, when in Carnarvon, one must be stupid drunk, period. ‘Once you have learnt this secret’, I imagine the boss preaching one morning as he tosses me a toasted cheese sandwich, ‘any shithole will seem like paradise’.

There was this time when, ‘Hold on’ I shout over The Vandals and that, what song was it again, that’s right, Long Hair Queer. So Shane braces himself across the backseat like a well armed star fish, the .22 magnum slung firmly across his chest. Zac however can see the corner, holding the shot gun through the window, he leans into the passenger door ready for what is about to happen.

The speedo’ needle finds the 100kmh mark, my knuckles go white and I tear at the handbrake like a tiger tears a throat. The car swings wildly across the gravel track, one instance; I shift down, release the brake and throttle the hell out of the pissy carburettor. The car keeps sliding as Zac lets off a round; the power pole on the far corner splinters as hundreds of pellets blister beneath the timbers skin. The front wheels spin through the dust, it takes hold and we’re through the corner. In the rear view I can see a magnificent dust cloud covering the intersection, we’re safe, and I didn’t even spill the beer.

(Authors note: Destroyed that car some months later in a late night sideways flight from the authorities. We didn’t spill any beer that time either, we had already drunk it).

Through the long lazy heat we drink beer, beer and more beer. When we party we drink vodka mixed with beer and roast oysters over an open fire. When we get drunk, we ‘wrangle’ cods with thick ropes, we shoot guns at bricks and drive fast and eat oysters. The desert sun shines in our eyes, our lips crack and we dance around the yard for the joy of the earth, until it’s late, then we fall in the grass and sleep.

And this other time, Zac was nestled against the bow; in his hand he clutches a 1.0m spear gun and in the other rests a Corona straight from the ice box. He said he was hungry, we should shoot a turtle and you know the next thing, that small outboard is labouring away, flat out, hell screamin’. The hull dancing across the chine, throwing to and fro with the rippling tide we pass through the labyrinth of lurking mangroves. The water’s always clear after the change of tide, we’re lucky we consulted the chart; it’s perfect turtle hunting conditions. So pissing down this river we get talking about the logistics, ‘how do you catch a turtle’, you know, ’you jump on it’, ‘Fuck that, I’m just going to shoot it’.

The fish was sweet the way fresh fish tastes and we ate it while a fat mud crab boils in the brine. Turned out Zac was full of shit, you can’t shoot a turtle from a boat unless you hit the head. After the first ten shots our skin grew tight, we threw in the towel so to speak and went out into the bay where the rusted wreck lay. Zac shot some fish and I climbed across the rusting remains, jumping into the cool salty sea when I was too hot and a fresh beer was in order.

So Mum that’s all for now, as you can see, I’m doing okay and keeping away from those ‘filthy whores’ you warned me about. You know, I really have been thinking about those lovely Christian girls you keep harping on about, if you don’t mind, could you please send one up with the next package, my balls are killing me.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Punk Rock Breakfast - Wired To A Beat

Most girls I know are so lame
Red hot bods
They're all the same
Nothing in between the ears
Just lots of space
Six cans of beer to fuck

See you later
Thanks again
Maybe we can just be friends
All that space inside your head
Makes me want to go to bed and fuck

She lifts the cheap wine glass to her lips and gulps greedily; the outdoor setting is decorated with three empty bottles of Evan & Tate Pink Moscato, some Rosemount Chardonnay and various other Margaret River whites. A desperado at the end of the table explains that he should have got a carton of ‘em; just flown in from site; two weeks pay – time for a piss.

‘I told the guys,’ the platinum blonde, pint sized, beaver screeches, ‘I fucking warned them that if you were coming around, we should fucking hide all this piss. Bad shit always happens when we get on the piss. You remember that time you chased me down the beach, naked, I was only 15.’

‘But I didn’t fuck you that night,’ she continues. ‘I remember my mum telling me that I should hit that shit up, she was like, what the fuck, you should just fuck him.’

She tilts her head back in hysterics, trashy and dogged.

The love I have for her is real
$2.99 the six pack deal
See her with another guy
It makes me laugh
She thinks I cried

Girls in bars they make me sick
But I don't care if they suck my dick
Spend six bucks on dollar night
A prostitute for just one night to fuck

Lyrics by Guttermouth – Just a fuck

Friday, October 9, 2009

The Girl With A Tattoo Of A Gypsy

‘I can’t read palms’, she frowns as I draw my hand away, ‘anyway that’s your past, this is your future’.

She points to my opposing hand; suddenly I feel a burning pass over me. I hide my hand like a murderer hiding a weapon – did she see the darkness in those veins, did she sense that foul aura – if only I could get rid of my hand – no, not here I couldn’t, I best keep it behind me.

‘I read the cards’, she continues.

‘What, like at the blackjack table’.

She smiles and skips over to a small black bull-terrier leashed to a pillar, with whimpering dark round eyes, she knees down and rubs him gently behind his ear – she’s got no visible underwear, not even a G banger – so fit, round and tight, she must not be wearing anything –what would I find if I peeled back those thin black tights. Would it be bald and juicy, what would it taste like?

‘You coming?’ she calls from the staircase, then darts out of view.

The other two have already left and I rush to catch up. I should never have asked about that book she was reading, what was it again? Damn, I wish I had of read it, or at least remembered the author. She had me look like a fool talking about this natural hallucinogenic stuff.

‘I don’t smoke weed much, but when I was over in Cambodia; yeah we smoked heaps; tore the shit out of my throat; wasn’t very good stuff.’

‘Me neither,’ tom replies, ‘I can’t remember the last time I smoked.’

‘Same, I think I was eighteen when I smoked weed with my sister behind the tin shed back home, that was before I had Sam,’ Rach continues.

‘Which way are we going?’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy questions.

‘Oh, over here,’ I point to a raised garden bed and gate, ‘we’ll have to jump it, I don’t know the code.’

We hop the brick wall and drop into an empty car park. Taking Tom’s skate board I push off towards a curb on the far side. I shuffle my feet into position but the board slows and eventually stops. I can hear Tom laughing in the back ground and I turn to see them watching – maybe I’ve drunk too much for this.

‘How far is this spot,’ Tom moans as we pass through the hotel car park and onto the road.

‘Just across the park, a small track leads down to the water.’

It’s longer than I remember and we walk in an awkward drift. Tom talks about his inexperience’s some more, saying things like, ’I always get so stoned when I smoke – everything spins’, I want to agree with him but I say nothing and focus on the thick tuffs of grass beneath my feet.

‘I thought you said this was close by,’ Rach questions.

‘So did I, you can see it just over there,’ and I point to a pathway leading off into the bushes.

The concrete path navigates down a steep seaward cliff. On either side, tall banyan roots tower above us like walls of a cocoon. The air is dense and Tom sighs with relief as he welcomes the coolness on his face.

‘Nobody is ever down here,’ I start, ‘I used too come down after a shit day at work and just daze beneath the trees.’

‘Yeah, that would be pretty cool,’ Tom replies.

The tide is high and the shore is littered with coppery cream sand stones that are smoothed by the sea. Tall trees with coarse, dark brown bark and large sweeping branches flow out across the shore and above the gently lapping sea. Another couple has taken refuge under one of the giants’ branches, he sits busily concentrating on an easel, she knees beside him watching, her hands resting on the inside of his leg.

Trying not to disturb them we find a spot on the far side of the opening. The Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy sits beside a big bushy branch which shades the bright afternoon sun from her face. I rush to sit beside her – don’t want to look like I’m too keen though, remember not to be a cling on.

‘Here you go Rach, you can sit on this rock,’ I point to the rock beside the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eyes me as though I’m acting strange. I am acting strange I think; I’m drunk, drunk for all sorts of reasons and I’m feeling the red of a fool.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘there are crabs under these rocks.’

I take a rock from its place amongst the litter of leaves, coarse golden sand rushes in to the hole that is left behind. I scratch at the leaves around it, nothing – she’s got her tin out, it’s well worn and the print has faded.

‘I can’t roll,’ I say.

‘Neither dude,’ Tom follows.

‘It’s okay, guys,’ she relaxes the tin onto her lap, ‘I can roll.’

I watch for a bit as she thumbs through her print faded tin and produces some papers, careless and with ease she sets them together and folds in a crooked crease – Crabs, need to find some crabs.

I start searching through the rocks and the large brown leaves that cover the shore. Still I can’t spot any.

‘There are crabs here,’ I mumble again.

It’s not until I stop moving that I see them, in the clearing that I have made, the ground has come to life. Small shells, about the size of a penny, drag themselves through the golden sand leaving light trails as they go.

‘Here, here, look,’ and I pick up two and hold them in my palms for the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy.

The small crabs are scared at first and bundle themselves into the safety of the shell. I watch for a moment untill they pull themselves together, in a burst they come out of the shells and dash across my hands, I fumble trying not to drop them.

‘Look,’ I urge again.

She looks away from the half filled paper in her delicate fingers and smiles.

‘Can I see,’ Tom asks and as I lean in to show him, she goes back to fingering the grass within the paper.

‘Wow, they are pretty cool.’

‘Yeah, they are Crazy crabs,’ I reply to Tom.

I shift back and hold the small crabs out to the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘Would you like to hold it,’ I plea.

She looks up from the half spun, cone shaped joint – the crooked crease, now it makes sense.

‘Yeah, in a moment,’ she smiles.

‘Crazy crabs?’ Tom mutters.

‘Can I hold them,’ Rach asks.

Oh, yeah, sure,’ and I hand the smaller of the two too her.

‘Lets smoke this joint hey,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy interrupts.

I drop the crab into the leaf litter below and squeeze in between Rach and the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eventually moves across to the next rock and I nestle in beside the Girl. We smoke the joint quietly, well, apart from Tom who coughs like granddad used too, ever toke. I feel the weed take my body in a rush, from my head down until my whole body feels heavy, warm and comfortable. I rub my hands against my jeans, then my fingers against each other; I lick my gums and then my lips. It feels weird and the saliva in my mouth tastes good, rich like a spicy dish, earthy and enjoyable.

‘Crazy crabs,’ Tom repeats

‘Well they used to call them Crazy… Hermit crabs, they are Hermit crabs… they used too call them Crazy crabs.’ I mumble and watch the languid sea through the shade of the large green foliage. A bright lustre reflects from the ripple on the water, it burns my eyes but I can’t look away.

‘Can I hold one,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy asks – shit, I’ve dropped it. I start looking around my feet for the penny sized crab, but it’s gone – there, just under the rock and I reach down and pick it up.

When I turn to hand her the crab she’s already holding one. It’s the one I gave to Rach earlier. She holds it in the delicate tips of her two forefingers, slightly above her head, she speaks in a smooth and gentle voice, ‘come, come out little guy, I won’t hurt you’.

Her lips are moving slowly and I watch with such intensity I see nothing but her tongue swirling through her mouth – what it would be to taste her, too kiss her soft and gentle, just the way she talks. I wonder, I wonder what is beneath that bandana wrapped around her perfect head, does she have cropped hair, cropped hair just like that girl, Rhian, yes, Rhian, she was such a beautiful girl – should I make a move, maybe later, yes maybe later.

‘Do you guys ever wonder,’ she, the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy starts.

I’m staring. I look into her hands, there is no crab anymore, they are folded neatly between her legs, I scan the ground and see the small penny sized crab beside her feet, it lifts itself from the heavy shell on it’s back, tired, it starts towards the closest rock.

What did she just ask? I’ve completely missed it – do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder – I have to stop this.

‘Crazy crabs; the shops; to sell them,’ I blurt.

‘Ha-ha, too sell them,’ Rach laughs.

And then silence – what should I say, what should I say…

‘It’s so beautiful; trees; it’s so beautiful; sun… on the water; so beautiful.’

‘Yeah it is really nice isn’t it,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy confirms in that calm and gentle voice.

Yes, this is beautiful.

We sat there for a long time, talking when we could, but more just sitting silently. I thought about a lot of things, foremost I thought about the things I had forgotten to think about all that day, all those things that are wholesome and real, that are important, that make me happy – I know what I need to do, I’m going, I’m going, going and I stood up relieved from the weight that carried me into this drunken stupor, only to drop as a huge rush bends me over like a new born calf.

‘Well we should get going,’ says the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘I have some things I need to do before tonight.’

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Meet Derrick

A fierce gust picked up and Derrick, from inside, felt the car jerk sidewards.
‘The wind’s coming off the ocean, supposed to be a pretty heavy storm tonight,’ he reassures Sasha’s nervous glance.
Leaning across the wheel of the car he feels the chill from outside pass through the windscreen, wiping the fog off the glass with his sleaves, he watches the road in front, outside its wet, the clouds have covered the moon and all that he can see is the glimmer of water across the road. He relaxes back into his chair and squeezes the throttle a little harder. Earlier that evening he’d had been out surfing, it was a wild ride that still had him pumped. He had only ever seen it break on the outer reef like it had been today, a wild rough swell, closing down at different areas before making it all the way to shore. His old man used to tell him stories of surfing it six foot clean, back in the day that is; he was always a bit sceptical but he still lived the old boys stories daily like it was a gospel reading from some old scriptures. During the hot sticky summer days he dreamed as the teacher drew strange diagrams across the blackboard and talked about x this and y that. Outside through the large beige framed windows, Derrick would watch the tall tree on the far side of the grassy field. He watched the leaves of the highest branches as they danced and sung songs to the wind. He watched the direction of the breeze until he could see the ocean forming in front of him. He would be delighted when the wind blew west; it was like a magnet for his mind that drew him away from his work. First he dreamt of the glassy green sea, smothered by the tender off shore breeze and set alight by the glorious sun. He would look out across the ocean like he were sitting in the white of the beach and see the ocean surging behind the dark figure which was the outer reef. He’d watch as peak after peak of perfect swell grew from the deep blue sea and rose up and broke with a thundering growl. He dreamt until he could see himself paddling in, a quick paddle he would think, then a heavy drop as the thick green lip would curl over. He’d play out the drop in his head over and over again until he thought he had it perfected, he’d crouch and grab the inside rail – no, he’d stay standing and hold his hands above his head and feel the roof of the cave which surrounded him. He fantasised for hours on end, up until the very end where the wave would close out across the sandy shore. He thought about just holding in until it engulfed him like his dreams or bursting out the back like a pro in all the videos. He practised this on the weekends, asking the guys if they had seen how high he launched, and when they said no he’d just try again.

The way the old boy would talk about it, he made it sound like the reef had fired every second day, but like all old boys, Derrick figured, they had forget the hundreds of sessions surfed where they waited in between. He had never seen if go off the way he had imagined it, the way his old man described it. You forget over time, all those other days until all you remember is that wave, that moment, that very off chance and that very time you had the best surf of your life. Like it had played in Derricks head, it played in his old mans mind on those same long summer days until he believed that every wave he had ever surfed was very much that same day.

Even if it had been rough as guts, he couldn’t wait to tell Samuel he had surfed Shark Ally. Beat that bitter break, charged the choppy lines and floated around those heavy close outs the both had feared.
‘Derrick,’ Sasha shrieked, ‘slow down, you almost hit that curb.
He eased off the throttle and smiled at Sasha.
‘You scared?’
‘No, I just don’t want to die tonight.’
‘Like we would crash anyway,’ Derrick replied.
‘Well I don’t want it to be tonight if we do.’
‘Don’t worry we won’t crash, anyway, Sam’s is just around the corner, we’re almost there.’

So it's been ages again, sorry about that anyone who reads this. After I got home I ended up leaving again for a trip to Darwin then a trip to Cairns in the sunny state of Queensland on the east coast. Finally I came home again for some work. Been working on a few peices but not finishing any of them. This was a quick throw down to see where I had been going with my writing. Sorry if it sounds like a tacky chapter from a teenages novel, it was the characterisation I was more interested in.