Offshore

Craig,

I need to talk to you. Or...I don't know, maybe I don't. Maybe I'm over reacting. The thing is...you know Graham's old desk? The big metal one he used to sit at all the time in the shed? The other day Tess decided enough was enough, the desk had to go. It was taking up too much room. She's got plans for a yoga space out there and you know what they say? Happy wife, happy life. And anyway: she's right. I mean, why do we even need a desk like that anymore?

I'll get to the point. As you can probably tell, I'm a bit freaked out. The council guys came by to pick it up. They had to take the draws out and turn the desk on its side to get it through the door. The thing still weighed a bloody tonne. When they do all this, a little photograph falls out. It's just a bit bigger than a passport photo. A little colour photo of Graham in the late 70's or maybe the early 80's. You can see by the fashion and the muttonchops it has to be at least thirty years ago. At least. Besides, in the photo, he is still big and robust, still built like a bull. All 6'3 of him. Remember how he used to tower over us in the back garden? Remember how we used to think his hands were big as shovels and he had fucking rock hard grapefruits for biceps? 

Anyway, in the photo the old bastard is wearing like a desert camouflage get up with combat boots. He looks like he's sweaty, covered in dust. And get this...he is holding a South African Vector R4 assault rifle. Do you how I know this? I had to look it up on Wikipedia. That's how much I know about guns. Anyway, he is standing there, smiling, squinting against the glare of the sun which must be setting or rising because of the length of the shadows. He has a cigarette in his mouth. Remember he used to smoke?  

There are four other men with him, all dressed the same and armed. All roughly his age. At first, I thought, oh, this is a costume party out in the bush. But then I noticed, in the background, a bombed-out mud hut with a collapsed thatched roof. And what looks like a black blast mark covering one wall. So unless they built some kind of set....I'm thinking this is authentic. 

I drove over to the home to visit him. The staff were a bit confused because it wasn't my regular day. He was sitting in the day room. I told him what I'd found. He just shrugged and looked out the window. There was an amazing view of the harbour. Then I showed him the photo. I couldn't be sure but it seemed to me like there was a glimmer of recognition. Some little mental connection being made. Something. I mean what the hell was he doing for all those years? Remember how mum used to say he was involved in the mining industry out there? We thought he was a businessman flying around in a three-piece suit & swilling scotch? Remember that?  

Now? Jesus, he is so...small. So shrunken up. Especially in the last couple of years, my god! Remember how we'd used to get postcards and little trinkets from him? How when he came back he always had something in his suitcase. Remember those gemstones and the necklace with the shark teeth?

So much is starting to make sense to me now. I mean, think about it. It's no wonder that....remember mum said he had problems adjusting to life back in Australia after so much time working offshore? How bad his temper was at times? 

I'm not sure what to do with this photograph. I think I'll just put it away somewhere. Or destroy it. There is no point in everyone else knowing, is there? What good would that do? Especially now. 

Max.

Visible friends

Dear visible friends, 

As some of you may or may not know I am doing this new art project thing. It involves writing fictional letters and leaving them around Sydney or, after drinking craft beer and acquiring dutch courage, giving them directly to people I meet along the way. I think of these characters as invisible friends. I thought it would be good if you could meet some of them. Most of them are not entirely likeable but that is the way the cookie crumbles. Anyway this is the latest letter. Please read it if you have the time. If not I understand. 

Kind regards,

Tobias.

Beautiful Friend

Dear Beautiful Friend,

How are you? It has been a year since I last saw you. The last place, I think, was in that cinema in London. Do you remember? It was one of those lovely old cinemas with crumbling art deco cornices and a heavy velvet curtain. You could smell a hundred years of history in the carpets, in the sagging upholstery of the seats. They used to call cinemas 'dream palaces'. Now, these new multiplexes are more like dull dream factories. These old places have a beautiful atmosphere which is very important. An atmosphere which, I fear, is now lost to this world. Back then, when the curtains went slowly up & the lights went down, you knew you were in for something truely special. What comes instantly to mind as I write this down is the first time I saw you. In 1979.

I find it hard to believe you are now 36 years old. To me, you still look amazing & strangely contemporary. You have captured a period of time which is very dear to me. You are a glimpse into another lost world. A world of heavy black rotary phones, typed letters, reel-to-reel tape recorders, unconcerned smoking. A mechanised world as opposed to computerised one. A world of Playboy Bunnies, a real counter-culture, Nixon paranoia & mad photojournalists. All of your images are still very precious to me. You capture the nostalgic, waning light of the 1970's in a membrane of celluloid like a prehistoric hummingbird caught in amber resin.

This year I would have very much liked to have seen you in a lovely 70mm print but sadly that was not be possible. The good news is I have bought you in the 35mm format from a man in Culver City, California. I flew over there from Sydney especially to make the purchase. This was my mission. I will tell you one thing, the light and space of Los Angeles really put the zap on my head. Kirk has an office, a very cluttered one, connected to a warehouse which is full of movie reels. Every film you can imagine is in there. Thousands of beautiful dreams kept in circular, metal cans on racks. He was very hospitable, this Kirk fellow. He showed me around Los Angeles. We drove past Twentieth Century Fox movie studios. We ate Tex-Mex food & drank margaritas in one of those horrible Southern California mini malls. Kirk had a very interesting life. His father and his grandfather before him had both worked in the movie business. Stuntmen, editors, property masters....all kinds of jobs, including being a movie projectionist. This how he came to possess so many movies.

Finally, I flew back home with you. Of course, they stopped making nitrate film stock in the 1950's so there was no reason why I could not travel with you. Being already exposed, nor would the x-rays machines damage you in anyway. You are comprised of five reels in total, each reel being 2000 feet in length. I must now purchase a 35mm projector & learn how to operate it. I will do this in Sydney or maybe I will rent out the last older style movie theatre in Sydney's Easter Suburbs. The Randwick Ritz. For one night. In any case, it is high time I saw you again. I think once a year provides a sufficient enough break. There is a conflict in every cinephile's heart. Between the rational and irrational viewing habits. Any more frequently and I run the risk of becoming over familiar with you. That is something I can never allow to happen.

I'm still amazed at your ability to show me something new with each viewing. Not that you are the one who is changing. Of course, being human, I am the one who is in a state of flux, changing all the time, getting older, wiser, stupider, more urbane, uglier, more distinguished....whatever...whereas you remain consistent. Your central metaphor, the journey up the river into the heart of darkness remains a constant in my life. Sometimes, to live, we must take these inner journeys to find out what our breaking point is, otherwise you will never know who you truely are. At one point or another, a man must allow himself to be pushed to the limits. You have taught me many lessons. You have revealed to me that sometimes, in the face of craziness, all you can do is surf the wave and hope not to get hit by incoming mortar shells.

Other cinephiles will go with Kubrick's space opera on acid or one of those long David Lean movie or perhaps some other stale old classic. For me, you are the only one. After all these years I am still enthralled by your images, your sound design. Your tripped-out synth soundtrack which still sends the shivers down my spine. (I still have my original audio cassette). Enthralled by your characters: Willard, Chef, Chief, Clean, Kurtz, Lance....they are all like an extension of my own family. I even admire what some idiots describe as your less than successful third act, the way it loops back into the beginning of the film. So that Willard is always waking up in Saigon. 

When I came back Australian customs raked me over the proverbial coals. It is a little unusual to be travelling with very little luggage and five large reels of film. Not as unusual as say someone's ashes or a suitcase full of vacuum sealed bison meat but still....unusual. After standing off on the sidelines for forty minutes, my life turned upside down and x-rayed by questions of a highly personal nature, they finally let me go. Unfortunately, the world has changed my friend. Bureaucrats and junior policemen control the borders and entertainment has become about cartoon movies with no soul. Adults now watch superhero movies.

Yes, it is all very sad. Anyway, now you are up to date with everything. Soon you will be carefully loaded into a projector for your inaugural run (at least with me). Then we will see what we can see.

Much love,

Roman W. Payne.

Do you like art?

1.

Two waitresses, one American, blonde & the other a brunette with a sleeve of black inked, entwined tattoos running down to her wrist. Both good at their jobs and friendly. 
This was just after I had thrown my back out so I had to drink beer standing up outside on the street, supporting myself against the side of the building while my wife read her New Yorker and drank her Bloody Mary. The brunette's comment was, Maybe you are over explaining what's happening with these letters of yours. Just now, the more you said, the more I thought whoa! What's happening with this guy? Why is he being so shady? Thanks, I replied, This is what I need to hear. I am always trying to refine my approach. And of course I am always trying to be less shady. 

2.
A couple sitting in the Woolpack pub. The man wearing an LA Dodgers baseball cap and the woman with a nose ring. They were sitting by the fire, drinking rum and cokes & this time I simply said to them, do you guys like art? Sure, the man replied. This established, I gave them a letter & kept the explanation very brief. The waitresses were right. It seemed like a much better approach. 

3.
The bartender at Arcadia liquors. She was thin, blonde with intense blue eyes, 32 & receptive to the idea once she had absorbed what I was saying and realised there was nothing suspicious about it. She was getting ready for the afternoon shift, prepping the bar, juicing limes for pre-made cocktails. She was also trying to be a writer although she was more interested in creative non-fiction. In other words, memoirs. She told me that she came from a religious background, that her work would explore this kind of upbringing. I said, Oh yeah? What? Like the Mormon church? Or the Church of Scientology? expecting one of those restrictive and claustrophobic religions. No, regular old Catholicism, she said. We talked quite a bit about the act of giving a stranger one of my letters. We both agreed that our conversation probably would never have happened if it hadn't been for the letters I was about to hand out to the people in the bar. So, they serve a dual function as a piece of fiction and as a topic of conversation. Sometimes people just need a shared experience to kick the conversation. After I had finished patting myself on the back, we talked about how a great number of people get stuck in creative shells. How half the battle is finding a way to extend yourself beyond the safe zone of your friends & family & creative peers whose encouragement is valuable but biassed. 

4.
The group of four smokers, male and female, well dressed, sitting in the smoking area at Arcadia liquors.

5.
A Lesbian couple sitting at the front window looking out onto Botany road. Sure, said the one nearest to me. We'll take a letter.

6.
A young guy standing on the train platform in Redfern, maybe 30 years old? His hair in a ponytail, listening to music on his phone. Absolutely, he laughed, I'll take one.

7.
A young woman in a plaid shirt and blue jeans, standing near the door as the train exited the tunnel into bright sunshine and we crossed the overhead section of track, over Woolloomaloo, heading towards King's Cross. She listened to what I had to say and then said, no thanks. I'm fine. She smiled and looked uncomfortable. Absolutely no problem at all, I said. I backed off and stood there, a metre away from her as we resumed our anonymous roles and continued on our journy. I put in my earbuds back in and listen to music, holding on to the yellow rail as the train was sucked into the side of the hill and began to approach the Kings Cross Station. I didn't feel embarrassed. Well, maybe just a little bit. Although I had confidence in all my letters, I knew a segment of the public just wouldn't be interested. Some people wouldn't appreciate having their privacy punctured. Besides, I didn't know anything about this woman's life. I had zero context. Maybe she had been through some shit recently and didn't want to deal with people walking up to her, completely out of the blue & trying to thrust a letter into her hands. This is probably why I don't generally approach lone women because what I do could easily be interpreted as a bit sinister. One or two of the passengers in the compartment looked at me with some mild concern. The vibe was awkward. Of course, it was. Anyway, the train slid into the station, the walls and signs rendered as solid objects as we came to a standstill, the doors opening and this woman moved away, threading into the crowd as she headed for the exit. 

8.  
Nick the barber and his friend Rob. I was sitting in a closed barbershop, which had been in operation for 30 odd years. Nick was also involved in various art projects. The barbershop is full of his paintings which are made from tiny pieces of tape, plain multicoloured electrical tape, forming a kind of Mosaic image. This is highly competent and interesting work. I had come to the barbershop intending to slide a letter under the door, as I had done several weeks before but standing there, letter in hand, the door had opened and there was Nick. This was the first time I'd met him. I introduced myself and explain what I was doing and he said, Oh that was you, was it? referring to the previous letter. He went on to say, some of the boys read it. We had no idea what was going on? I didn't know if it was addressed to me or what.Although he looked younger, Nick was in his early fifties, broad-shouldered, dressed in denim. He invited me in. We sat around and talked about art being ethereal in nature nowadays, disposable, transient, how people have moved away from seeing an object, a song, a collection of words as something worth investing their time it. We have become dependent on our phones, on processing large amounts of information at a faster rate, including images and texts. The idea of art seems sort of superfluous when advertising so skillfully appropriates everything and regurgitates it back into the culture.  We talked about the experience of giving over something tactile that has no obligation or price or conditions. Something that you receive, read and leave for someone else. Or like the woman on the train, choose not to engage with. (I told them about her). I also told them I had been scanning the train station in Redfern earlier & I had seen about a hundred people waiting on the different platforms for their trains. About 80% of these people were looking down into a device of some kind or listening to music on a device. (No snobbery here: I was also listening to music. An Ian Brown album). This, of course, makes you wonder about the way that society has changed since the introduction of the smartphone and how people in public do not interact in a personal way that much anymore. We are too busy with our devices in public spaces. In the past being in public might have involved activities such as observing people, talking to people, employing strategies to avoid other people. These days most people, including myself, are focused on the personal, inner world of their phones. It is funny that the internet connects yet shrinks our lives at the same time. Mick and Rob told me about their families, they both had kids,  and about the history of the barbershop. I told them about my marriage and we drank beer. Rod was Trinidadian. Like the lady from Trinidad I talk on the day of the Sydney Writers Festival, he did ask me, what about the end game? What do you get out of all this? There has to be something in it for you. Of course, I said. I want to be acknowledged as a writer. As having an original idea (to say otherwise is ridiculous). I told him about getting my shit out of the purgatory of my hard drive & off the damn cloud & out into the world in one form or other. I also told Rob that the only other person who'd really asked me about this had been a 60-year-old Trinidadian woman on a bus with her husband. Rob laughed at this. I wasn't sure it this said something about people from Trinidad? Perhaps that, as a people, they were generally astute and realistic? I couldn't figure it out. I asked Nick about cutting hair and he showed me a 1960s poster with illustrations of about eight different styles of men's haircuts, all classics, short back and sides. We listened to an older kind of reggae, with female backing singers, although I really don't have any idea what of what it was because I don't understand that genre music at all. We talked about punk rock, the DIY aesthetic, Bob Dylan. Repetition and appropriation in art. I liked everything in the barbershop & that included the old stereo system with a brushed metal casing, knobs and buttons, the barber chairs, all of which looked like they been installed in the 60s, the stacks of paintings against the walls. The papier-mâché dicks (another project that Nick had been working on and which I had seen in his window when I walked past) & all the other collected clutter filling up every nook and cranny.  The boys drank cans of Guinness and I drank my Brooklyn Lager IPA, which I sort of regretted getting after the third bottle because there was an overload of flavour & I was starting to crave something light, like a Corona. Anyway, wrapping up our little discussion on my art project, we agreed that this conversation wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for my letters and therefore it was a least an interesting idea in that it worked on a number of different levels. I did mention that I would probably be writing about this experience the following day. Unless I was reading their reaction incorrectly, they both seemed to take a mental step back at this point. This was another way the project threaded in and out of the real world. We soon started chatting again. No harm, no foul. What was my likely readership anyway? A few people here and there. Like I told them, a significant part of my idea/project dealt with breaking the fourth wall in public places and interacting with people. This being the case, of course, I was gonna use these interactions as fodder for my writing. By then I was starting to get tired of talking about my letters because it seemed fairly egotistical to rattle on and on about what a fucking star I was for coming up with my little idea. Instead, I started asking them questions about their wives and kids. The thing began to taper off. When Rod got up to leave, I did the same thing. Thanks, I said to Nick, and have a good night.

9.
A couple standing in the doorway of a pub on Oxford Street, either smoking a cigarette and waiting for somebody or waiting for a bus. Do you like art? I asked. Sure, said the guy. I was pretty tired by then so I didn't go into the whole sales pitch. I just handed them a letter , said thanks & walked off.

10. 
I remember this old guy I was talking to outside a pub once. Actually-and scarily enough-this was two years ago now. He was a large man, fat like Orson Wells, dressed in a black trench coat, with grey coils of hair going in all directions off his large head and salt and pepper stubble on his chin. He was smoking a cigarette in the sun and we were talking, just bullshitting, and he goes, so you're telling me you want to be a writer? And that you're 45 years old? He took a drag of his smoke, the dangling ash breaking, falling on his lapels, cascading down the fabric, as he laughed and shook his head & said, well you better make your move pretty fucking soon kid. 

The guest room

Michelle,

Hello, how are you love? Are you well? I'm doing okay, maybe a little bit tired. My knee hurts. I will have the operation in June. As for you...I seriously hope you still going back to the school as we talked about. Education is very important in today's world.

It has been a very busy week for me. Ms Carrie has finished renovating the front living room. New furniture, new paint on the walls and brand new rugs. All very expensive. For three weeks we have had the workmen here wearing plastic booties and working quietly like little mice. Ms Carrie does not like the noise or dust of the renovations. She says it gives her headaches. I always say to her, "Why don't you go away? Somewhere nice, while the work is being done". But she says "No. No, I can not! I much keep an eye on the house." There is no winning with Ms Carrie when she is like this. She makes her own stress and suffering when she does not need to. Sometimes where people do not have pain they will make their own.

Anyway, the work is finished now which is good. Peace has returned.The room is very beautiful..not that she will ever go in there. In this house, she only sits in the kitchen with me or in her bedroom, maybe sometimes in the small study room. As you know, most of this house is empty & no one goes in the grannie flat anymore.

Mr Geoff, the interior designer, calls her 'Scary Carrie' or sometimes even 'Hari Kari' when she is in her moods. But only behind her back. He is homosekswal. He was also coming over for the past three weeks with his young boyfriend Jerome. (Jerome is too young if you ask me). Together they are very mean and naughty but also funny. Like bored ladies in a hair salon. Mr Geoff is always arguing with Ms Carrie. Arguing, storming off but then eventually making-up. Then again, the next day: arguing, storming off followed making-up. Drama, drama and more drama.

Next month the interior designers will come back and do the upstairs guest room. Personally, I think this is another waste of money. The guest room is already very nice. It does not need to be changed. Anyway, this is not my business. I have lost count how many times the house has been renovated. How many different times the rooms have looked like Paris. Or an opium den. Or a seaside beach house. Or a ski chalet. Or 'cold modernism', when Ms Carrie was going through her 'minimalist' phase.

Mr Steven has also come around many times. He is always coming around when Ms Carrie is starting a new renovations project. You would think all those expensive private schools would have made a polite gentleman out of him. This is not what happened. He has become a terrible man. He is very rude and greedy. Ms Carrie's only son and I do not think she likes him very much. Of course, he comes around to argue with Ms Carrie about money. Money, money, money. He thinks his trust fund is not enough. I know for sure he has made many stupid mistakes with investments. Despite this, he thinks of himself as a high flyer.

He calls me the 'domestic witch' to my face because I am giving Ms Carrie advice for all her problems. I am the one she talks to when the world is becoming too much. He said to me yesterday, "Don't think there is going to be a huge pay out at the end of this. You are still an employee here". Mr Stephen and his sister Carmella, they know Ms Carrie has made concessions for me in the will. After 30 years of service, this is the right thing to do. I was the one who raised Mr Stephen and Ms Carmella. I looked after them when Ms Carrie disappeared for two years. Then when she was in the hospital.

It was very sad. Mr Stephens was standing in the driveway pointing his finger at me with a nasty smile, saying "Don't think the will can't be changed". I can smell the pub on his breath. I see the dent in his fancy car. He is not who he thinks he is. Who he pretends to be. I still see him as a little boy, running from his bath with a shiny bare bottom. He does not scare me. It is the same as with a house. If you build a man on the foundation of a weak, scared little boy, you will end up with a weak, scared man. I am saying to him, "I am the one who takes care of Ms Carrie during her bad days. Where are you? I am the one who is administering the drug to calm. I close the open window and hide the car keys when she wants to leave. I lock her in the guest room when she is unhappy. To sleep. To shout at the patterns in the wallpaper. I am the one who protects her from the bad doctors and shareholders and bad investments. Bad investments like you! (I do not say this aloud because there is no point adding gasoline to the flames). I am the one who is sitting with her out in the garden all day and sometimes all night." I am saying to him, "Where are you, Mr Stephen? In Bali? Or Byron Bay? Or in Europe being Mr Playboy? You are always busy in the bad times and a regular visitor in the good times."

He is saying back to me, "You have outstayed you're welcome. You need to go back to whatever shitty little island you came from". I just laugh inside, thinking in my mind, he is still a spoiled little boy. A weak, scared little boy grown up into a weak and scared man. I laugh when I think about how long he would last walking around in San Andres. Maybe less than 20 minutes?

I will come home one day with the money Ms Carrie has said is mine. Then I will start a new negros yo. As you know, this is my dream. A nice business so I can be close to my family. I must go now. Ms Carrie is calling me. We will go to meet Mr Geoff to talk about the guest room. We will talk about the throw cushions, the new rugs, the furniture. Of course there will be no glass, cords and heavy objects for throwing. Everything must be bolted down. Ms Carrie is talking about South Western style like a cowboy ranch. When Mr Geoff and Jerome talked about this last week, they both laughed and said they like to go to "dude ranches". They are very naughty. Anyway, I must go. There is so much to do. Mr Carrie will need her medication for the afternoon. I will speak to you later.

Lahat ng aking pag-ibig,

Mentor

Marty: 

How are you? I have been thinking quite a bit about what you said during our last conversation. I know you didn't ask for any advice but I'm going to give you some. What you described doesn't sound like a particularly healthy collaboration. Professionally or otherwise. I know you been unemployed for awhile and that can be depressing but this Marlin guy sounds like...what I'm saying is, I'm worried for you mate. I went online and looked up some of the things he sells and I'm telling you, Marty, they all look a little bit shoddy to me. In other words, they aren't any good. 

I'm all for making a buck. Definitely. And I don't want to discourage you in any way. I'm just telling you in an objective way, that tradeshow you described, with all those new-age freaks and sellers of snake oil, It doesn't sound like a very based-in-reality-type-of-venture.Tracy has gone to a few of those things but just for fun with her friends. Anyway, you said yourself that you made exactly zero money during those two days of work. That doesn't seem fair to me Marty. Two days of work and nothing to show for it? 

I'm telling you this because, in my experience I have known a lot of guys like this Marlon guy. They are usually sharks or they dream big, beyond their actual abilities. This means they have really great ideas but can't make good on them. I'm not sure which one is more destructive. A lot of these guys spend their lives chasing the big payday but never quite get there. And that would be fine if they didn't sucker other people into their schemes. The thing about these guys is, if you look at little bit closer, beneath the surface, you will see there is usually an ongoing theme running through the lives. Failure and in some cases deliberate deceit. You just have to look beyond the song and dance.

In our conversation last night, basically you set a lot of things that sent up red flags for me. I'm quoting you here Marty. That means I'm repeating back what you said to me. I'm using your words. Okay, you said Marlon had a terrible car accident which resulted in his wife sustaining brain damage which led to her partial incapacitation. You said that Marlon likes drinking early in the daytime, that he usually smells of beer. You said that you have been his assistant for a month now and as of yet, you haven't seen any money but that Marlon always has a good reason why. He always has an excuse. You said Marlon is a very convincing character and usually 'knows what is best'. You said that Marlon's house is completely full of boxes containing these products which you both trying to sell. You also indicated that Marlon tends to play hide and seek with a number of debt collectors who seem permanently perched on the edge of his life. That he had to hide his car when they tried to repossess it a few weeks ago. And finally, I remembered you said something about driving around with Marlon one afternoon and he pulled one of his own cavity-riddled molars out of his mouth! And then he put it in the ashtray. And when you said to him, oh no! Now you must go to the dentist, he replied to you, there is no time for dentists son! Besides, they're all overpaid charlatans. And then you said that he had dried blood on his chin for the rest of the day. 

Marty, I encourage you to read what I've just written. Please. Please. Now, I know you live right next door to Marlon and maybe you have a better sense of the bigger picture. I understand that. And I also accept the fact that Marlon a likeable enough guy. They usually are. I know you think of him as your friend. Try to see this from mine and Tracy's perspective for a moment. From what you've said (and from what I've written down), does this sound like someone who has their life together? Like someone you'd want to, what is the expression? Hitch your chariot too? I don't think so mate. To me, this seems like you're backing a losing horse. My advice is that you put some distance between yourself and Marlon. I mean, do you know how crazy this all sounds? Saying you're being mentored by someone who is a complete shambles? Someone who is using you? 

Look a part of me believes we are nothing like mum and dad. That the environment has made us our own unique people and all that business. I get it. Sure. But another part of me thinks that, as we get older, there are a surprising number similarities in terms of character. And I just want to remind you how badly it went with dad when he was alive. In terms of his career. I think we can agree that his efforts at starting up new businesses always resulted in abject failure. And that, as a family, we all suffered for it. Maybe it had less of an impact on you because....well because of who you are. Dad basically kept us in a constant state of anxiety about money. His blind optimism had a huge impact on us over the years. The one constant element in this pattern of failure was that he always got a business partner who took advantage of him. That's all we seemed to talk about. How dad got ripped off. Taken in. Suckered. It was always the same story: Dad's initial excitement about his new business idea, his expectations going off the charts, unrealistic assumptions and a growing dependency on whoever he had entered into business with at the time. And then the eventual crash leaving dad in a miserable state. Me, you and Mum...we were the ones who had to pick up the pieces. Get him back on his feet. Do you know he spent four months in pyjamas once? That's a long time. Maybe you don't remember allot of the fallout from those ventures. He bought a plot of land out in the middle of the desert which was completely wrong for the development he planned. Another time it was three, supposedly luxury boats with the goal being high end harbour tours. Boats which turned out to be completely unseaworthy. Then buying into that franchise in the after school tutoring company that went bust. The list goes on and on. It was always the same result. Dad would get depressed and he would say, why is this happening to me? Why? And even though we were little kids, we knew what was up, right? We knew that Dad had an innate talent for picking sharks and bullshit artists. That eventually these relationships lead to disaster. 

What I'm saying here Marty is, we need to learn from history. Have you heard that expression before? It means you need to think about what happened in the past so you don't make the same mistakes over and over again. The main thing is, Tracy and I don't want to see you get hurt mate. The overall vibe I'm getting from this situation- from this guy- is not a good one. And I know you always say that I'm too cautious and that I worry too much but you are family. And let's be true and honest here Marty: you are special. There is no shame in this fact. With the greatest respect, I think sometimes you need to be reminded because maybe you get distracted by other things. It's fantastic that you can live independently and of course I'm not trying to undermine you as a grown up individual. I would never do that. Sometimes you have to think about people's motives. This means that they may say one thing but really they mean something else. I know this is a difficult thing for you to understand. This is like all dad's business partners. They would say something, you know, make promises, but they didn't mean it. I'm going call you later on tonight so we can talk more about this.  

Love, Danny. 

Young monsters

Deb,

How are you? It has been awhile since we last talked. A year? Maybe a little more. I'm writing to you at the end of what has turned out to be an eventful couple of weeks. I guess what happened was I went for my annual checkup and my doctor basically handed me a death sentence. In one sickening thunderclap of realisation, you are forced to shed the protective lie we all tell ourselves since the day we are born. Or at least since the word 'death' comes to exist in our vocabularies. The lie that we will go on and on and on forever. The fact that the clock has been ticking down since the very beginning.

I went through all the usual emotions. I say 'usual' but there is nothing usual about that experience. I started thinking about my life, what I had done with my time, what I had failed to do. Of course, when your standing on the edge of the proverbial precipice, it seemed like your time has gone by very quickly. Anyway, I got some counselling which seemed pointless and didn't seem to help at all. Every shred of advice that came out of my empathetic councillor's mouth I could only think, that's 'nice but when I die, you are going keep on living. You will still exist in the comfortable lie that makes life sane. You will still be sitting in this office. And I'll be gone.'

And that will be it.

I made a mental list of the different ways to take myself out of the picture. You know? By my own hand. The impact from a high fall? An overdose of medication? Kicking over a chair to dance on the end of the belt? Asphyxiation from car exhaust? Swan dive into an oncoming train at Central Station? I didn't want to do any of these things. One day I quit my job and I drove out to the Heads. I suppose I was tired of the waiting. I just wanted to step over the edge. I parked and got out. I left my keys on the drivers seat. There was no point in making it hard for the police. I guess I must've been lingering there on the edge for quite awhile because this old guy who lives there ambled across the road and ask me what I was doing. He knew why people lingered there. After so many years of living on the edge of a cliff, a prominent suicide spot, of course, he would have a pretty good idea about the difference between a tourist and a jumper. Anyway, I talk to him for a little while then I just got back in my car and left. Apparently I'm just not the type to off myself.

And then, the very next day, 9 am, I got an urgent phone call, followed by an SMS, followed by an email. There had been a mistake at the pathology lab. A fucking mistake. A typo on a lab sticker. In actual fact, I wasn't going to die. In actual fact and statistically speaking, the way I have been living over the last couple of years what with all the exercise and eating well and reduced toxins...and considering my family history, there was a good chance I am going to live to a ripe old age.

Do you know what I learnt about myself during those seven days with that death sentence hanging over my head? I learnt that I'd made a big mistake. A colossal mistake. And that mistake was you. Specifically not saying anything when you got married to Philip. I had a chance. I had an opportunity and I could have said something. I should have at least introduced the idea into your thinking that you and I need to be together.

Deb, we have a history together. More than most people. I don't think we really gave each other a chance to see what our relationship would be like when we weren't using or under the influence. Philip was your doorway into the grown-up, responsible world, I remember you said that to me. Well, I want to tell you something now. I've been sober for five years. I keep it to myself because I don't wanna get preachy about it. Being sober is about denying the addict part of my ego which led me into such self-destructive way of living. Now, if someone wants to sit next to me and have a glass of wine that's their business. I honestly don't care. For me, the only option is hard sobriety. No dabbling on the weekends. No chemical rewards. Those days are completely over. It took me a long time to realise this but I understand what I need to do now. And I remember you expressed doubts over the validity of our relationship, saying we spent the majority of our time together high or drunk. I would ask you to think back before all that bullshit happened. We were kids once. We loved each other. Remember? Remember the pure joy of being each other's company? Remember what it was like to spend the entire day doing nothing but screwing and talking? How good that used to be? From your crown down to the soles of your feet, I still remember every inch of your body. I can still reach out and touch it. In my mind I can draw a line with my fingertip down your rib cage, falling down the contour of your hip, down the slight dome of your belly, down, down your inner thigh and find the softness of your pussy. I still have this tactile and visual memory in my mind. I had it when I was standing on the edge of the cliff the day before the good news came. In my mind, your body is a sacred topography. A vessel made all the more lovelier because it contains you. Your voice, your thinking mind, your love.   

Despite some of my behaviour, and the fact that I couldn't accept the changes you made in your life back then, you and I have maintained contact over the years and I can't help but wonder if this is not an ongoing indication of your feeling towards me? I don't want to say who, but several people have told me your marriage is in turmoil and that you're not happy. I have heard things about Philip. From my own experience, I can only read between the lines in your emails because you've never said anything directly to me. These concerned people who have told me about your marriage being on the rocks...I trust their opinions. They have shed light on some of the things you've been going through recently.

I guess what I'm saying is, I have finally caught up with you. Maybe 'grown-up' is the correct phrase? Anyway, what I'm asking you to do is leave Philip who I know does not try to make you happy anymore. Come and live with me for a while. A month. A year. Let's see if the old feelings are still there. Please Deb. I know they are. I'm telling you this because, in those seven days, I sorted my life into categories: the happiest times, the mediocre times, and the worst times. The regrets and victories. And our relationship, even during the worst of times, was the best thing that ever happened to me. By a long shot. I knew that I had made a ridiculous mistake not fighting for your love. I know this is an unexpected thing to come your way at this point in our lives but make no mistake....I am being sincere. In the same way I was completely foolish to let you go, I think you would be equally foolish to remain in a relationship with Philip. It must be obvious to you that I don't have a high opinion of him as a man. I am convinced that whatever we have been through on our recent separate paths in this life, in one form or another, the bond linking us has remained intact. Tell me I'm wrong and I'll drop the matter. I know now that life is finite and it can be taken away from you in an instant. I ask you to consider all I have said in this letter. Let's try again Deb. We can take up where we left off. If you need further confirmation of my sobriety my sponsor's name is Anthony Willcock. He has helped turn my life around. I will include his contact information.

With the deepest respect and love,

Malcome.

Shipping containers

The weekend was sunny, cold and dull.

There wasn't much to do.

The church kids next door came outside but didn't play. 

They looked at the bikes and toys scattered across the lawn and when back inside.

The apartment was too cold and I couldn't find any motivation to do anything.

Three days like this. 

That weekend I'd written 2 new letters which I was reasonably proud of.

After coffee, I went out and distributed a few of the older letters first in the snooty bookstore near the cinema and then in the secondhand bookstore across the street.

Really it was like shooting fish in a barrel but I wasn't in the mood for tromping around the city.

I talked to an American law student about the Confederacy of Dunces and Cannery Row.

He had these books on the table in front of him along with a yellow legal pad. 

"At the moment I'm into novels that deal primarily with a setting", he explained. 

I told him I hadn't read Confederacy of Dunces but that Canary Row was a favourite from my adolescence.

I told him I'd never really considered how Steinbeck focused on setting but, now that this American kid had mentioned it, this approach made sense.

Especially when you consider that extended and odd description of an empty landscape in the Grapes of Wrath. 

Then we talked about David Foster Wallace. 

How long and tedious he was. 

How just because you could do something, doesn't necessarily mean you should. 

I told him I once tried reading The Pale King and failed.

I got exactly four pages in.  

"I read it cover to cover! Can you believe he wrote an entire book about the IRS?" The law student announced.  

"That'll happen when you're young. You can read great slabs of literature! I read Faulkner when I was your age. The Sound and the Fury. It was going along okay for a while but then it turned into a stream of consciousness mush. Didn't understand a word of it!"

"Cool!"

"Okay," I said. "Could you please read this letter?"

"Okay....sorry....now what is this?'

'It's a letter. A fictional letter. You read it. You either like it or you hate it. Or you are indifferent."

"Okay....and then what?"

"Nothing. No sting. Then you go ahead and leave it somewhere else when you're finished." I said. 

"Right on", he said. 

"Rodger that", I replied. 

"I like this idea".

"Beats watching TV", I said. 

I came downstairs and looked at the new fiction releases. 

These books were all lined up in neat rows. Some of them seemed plump with stylistic possibilities while others less so. 

Then I went across the street to the second-hand bookstore. 

There were people jammed in alcoves drinking earl grey tea and flipping through books. 

There were other individuals who were positioned on miss-matching antique furniture, peering into their laptops and tablets.

They were working on their blogs, manifestos, thesis, crappy novels, autobiographical memoirs, comedy routines, steampunk erotica, rants.....

For the most part, they looked urbane, knowledgeable and well fed. 

I didn't have the energy to do anything other than just loitering around. 

Then I saw someone's nude charcoal drawings pinned to a wall. 

They were okay.

Just nude people laid out like slabs of meat. 

To me, this meant that perhaps the bookstore manager would allow me to leave a few letters around. It seemed like a reasonable enough request. 

A few minutes later I met the owner of the bookstore. 

I asked if I could leave my stuff around.

He seemed okay with the idea. Not overjoyed but okay. Perhaps even a little bemused. 

The woman next to me, perched on the edge of her laptop asked if she could have one.

"Sure," I said. 

"This is something different", she said. 

"Yep! That's the idea", I said. 

I turned back to the bemused bookstore owner. 

"Nothing political, violent or obscene", I said. I don't have an axe to grind with anyone. This is purely a work of fiction. I am just trying to get my work off my hard drive and into reality."

"I understand", smiled the bookstore guy. 

"Thank you very much", I said walking back up the creaking wooden stairs. 

"You're being a little bit condescending to that guy", said my wife.

I was responding to someone who had written a comment about one of my letters on my blog.

He had been complimentary yet he had a few scathing things to say about the quality of my characterisation.

I was getting together some ideas in the form of a defence.

I was keen to explain to this guy, whose name was Paul, that this was a letter and not a conventional short story. Therefore character development was going to be stunted. 

Or maybe 'limited' was the word I was looking for. 

"I don't think I am", I said. 

"You don't have to tell him not to 'get bent out of shape about gender inversion'. I think you're missing the point of what he is actually saying" said my wife condescending. 

I looked at my wife.

Then I looked at the laptop on the coffee table.

An episode of Grand Designs was streaming off the net.

Kevin McCloud was standing in a rain-drenched field in the UK talking in his pithy, somewhat condescending tone about how things have gone wrong on the building site behind him. It wasn't a very interesting episode.

I liked the episodes in which people built gigantic modernist monstrosities.

I liked the wrap-up, where Kevin came back and these people tried to rationalise living in an empty luxury aircraft hanger in the middle of nowhere.

In the episode we were watching, the house in question was being built on the ruins of the cowshed.

It wasn't good.

It occurred to me that on several occasions I had told people how I wanted to build a house out of shipping containers in a rural environment. 

When exactly this supposed to happen, I wasn't sure.

"This is just the way I express myself.....in my own words", I said, referring to my response on the blog.

"I just think it's condescending", said my wife. 

"I think you're playing devil's advocate", I said.

She shrugged and resumed dividing her attention between the laptop on which the Grand Designs episode was playing and her own tablet on which she was typing emails to somebody. 

Or it could've been an eBay purchase.

My wife liked to buy shit off eBay. 

I finished off the response to the guy who had commented both positively and negatively on my letter.

It occurred to me that this guy had an impressive vocabulary.

It also occurred to me that I was enjoying reading A Farewell to Arms.  

The whole iceberg strategy of writing was appealing. 

I wondered if it was true that Hemingway had blown his brains out while dressed in drag?

Was that true?

Anyway, it was good to have someone who had written in.

When I was finished with my response, I hit the 'publish' button. 

Then I spent another hour looking up well known and obscure people on Wikipedia.

Where they had come from.

When they had reached their peak.

When they had died.

Of what.

Who they had left behind.

Their cultural legacy. 

It was all a bit morbid.

Is this what other people do with their phones on a dull Monday night? 

Research the dead?

After this, I went to sleep listening to a podcast. 

And that was the end of the long, dull weekend.

The ultimatum

Hi David,

How have you been? I thought I should contact you this way because I can never seem to get you on the phone when I need to. I have been working on the paintings for over a month now. I really don't feel comfortable sending you digital photographs and I don't really want to be disturbed at the moment so I'd appreciate if you didn't just drop by like you have in the past. At least call me beforehand. 
           
Rest assured, all is going well. As we discussed I am sticking with my 'ugly suburban Australia' theme. I have about 14 canvases nearing completion as we speak. Cul-de-sac thugs, shopping centre morons, revheads,  housing estate mongs, the nurse from up the block in her bathing suit, a fag hanging out of her mouth. I am looking for the texture of bad life choices. For human disasters. They make much better subjects. For reference, I have to take very discreet photos of these people with my phone. Its a little creepy but I find it helps. I have gotten quite good at this. I have to admit I kind of get a kick out of being clandestine about taking these photos. Like a private detective. Anyway, in terms of style think of Diane Arbus meets David Hockney. I have real confidence in this new round of work. I have pushed these images much further into abstraction that before and I think this makes them interesting. 
               
I have a daily routine. I paint from 8-5 like an office job. My serial killer neighbour (not really! He just looks like one) scowls when he sees me coming up the driveway. It's like he is personally insulted by my presence. The paint on my hands, my lack of a conventional job, my music. Anyway, that is what's going on with me. The update.                    
          
I hate to bring this up again David but I need some money. I know last time we spoke there were 'cash flow' problems and the time before that there was the issue with renewing the lease on the gallery. Basically, if we're being completely honest here David, there is always some kind of problem or reason why payment can't be made. And I get it: you're a busy guy with lots of irons in the fire. And I really don't want to bring any negativity into our relationship-professional or otherwise but you know the old saying? That it takes money to make money? Well, that applies to art as well. And I don't want you to think of me as ungrateful. I appreciate that you bought me all those new materials and that you took me out to dinner once or twice but this doesn't negate the fact that I still need some money from the sales of my previous paintings. 
             
I know you said there were unforeseen expenses, behind the scenes costs, catering and promotion, but some of that money needs to come my way. Without getting accusatory, I know exactly how much those paintings made because, as you well know, I was there at the opening. Of course, I was. I'm the bloody artist for god sakes! I know they all sold - apart from the small one of Hamish. I saw the stickers going up. We were all toasting the success of the show. Remember? Glasses clinking, high-fives, people buying art left, right and centre?
            
I guess what I'm really saying here David is I'm not happy. Not by a long shot. And I hate being like this man, you know, banging on about money because it's boring and tedious but this is the position you have put me in. I have my own bills to pay. And to be perfectly honest with you I'm getting anxious about these bills. I would much rather focus my emotional energy on my painting.  

As I write this I'm working my way through this bottle of 

fuck

As I type this out, as I think about the last couple of months, I find myself going through a lot of ups and downs. Emotionally speaking. No doubt you can tell this from the shift in tone. Look, I don't like confrontation. You know that about me. But the thing is, I'm starting to feel a little betrayed here man because your version of 'managing me' seems to involve keeping every cent we...I make with MY artwork. I'm not even sure what it is exactly that you do David? Apart from drive around in your father's fucking Austin Martin, banging decrepit heiresses and generally plaguing my life with weird subterfuge and mind games

seems to involve some good exposure opportunities but I was hoping to use the money I should have earned by now to improve my life in a few different ways. I want to find a new apartment, somewhere out of this neighbourhood. It's great for inspiration but I would like to live somewhere less...industrial someday. I would also like to get some dental work done because I have these two root canals that need seeing to, and they're not gonna get better by themselves. I also have credit card debt. Debt I have racked up while functioning as an unemployed artist. Debt which- correct me if I'm wrong- you promised you would be reimbursed me for. 
              
I will have a total of 18 new paintings and I honestly think they will all be exceptional pieces of work but I must begin to protect myself. Financially speaking. That is why I won't be just handing them over to you as planned on the 18th. Now we both know you are a very persuasive guy. That is no secret. You have a gift for bullshit

kidding me? You never stop talking. Okay? Okay? I get it. You need to talk until there is no oxygen left in the room. I still have the sound of your voice in my head man from last time David. I 

a gift for....a gift....for what? 

I don't know how you do it, but each time we come to this junction, this fork in the road, you find a way to bloody well talk me out what I need to do. What I want to do. What is best for me. So basically, what's happening is, you David, are stealing from me and I'm too stupid to prevent it happening. That's what is happening here. That is the truth Well not anymore fucktard. Forget it. I know the way you live. Fucking art world James Bond lifestyle bullshit out every goddamn night of the week while I'm stupidly working my arse off making money for you  

I think

I feel that

The truth is you can talk most people into doing what you want them to do. It's
an admirable skill. I wish I had it. And I am aware that without you my paintings might have never been exhibited. I might have stayed in abject obscurity forever. An art school graduate with a service industry job. Actively keeping my annual earnings merger enough so that the government doesn't bother deducting extra money to cover my student debt. What an ambition! I acknowledge the fact that it was your gallery space in Surry Hills where I had my first show. Absolutely. And you introduced me to

your weird, wealthy, fucking overmedicated zombie trust fund friends who wouldn't know good art from bad even if it kicked them in the arse. How do you get off playing with people's lives like this? And I know what you did to Felix. How when he didn't play ball, you just got some other sucker from the academy to imitate his work. How you hired an actor to play him at the openings. What is that? That's fraud man. Fraud.  

??????????????????????????? 

oh stop...jesus

I think it is time to reestablish the perimeters of our professional relationship David. We need to get on the same page when it comes to what my end of each sale should be. This is my alternator

my automata?

my ultimatum! This is my final decision man. Either I see some money from the last show or I go with someone else. I hope you understand. 

and fuck off

Kind regards, 

Donald.

Goodbye my friend, Elia

Cartas de amor

Jackson,

How are you? Did you end up selling that '67 Mustang? Man, I used to love that thing. It's a damn shame you had to let it go but I understand, what with the economy beginning to slow down. When I think of that vehicle, I clearly remember the way everything was designed just so. They just don't make cars like that anymore. Now all they make is plastic bubbles. Roll cages surrounded by moulded plastic panels. A disposable consumer item. It saddens me when I think that car will probably be bought by some rich guy out in the suburbs. The type of guy who will only take it out when he goes to a car show. Like some museum piece. That vehicle is indelibly burnt into my memory. I should have bought if from you when I had the chance. I'm kicking myself for that.
       Anyway, right now I am about to board a flight in Mexico City airport. I don't want to downplay what follows but....I'm still coming to terms with it I suppose. I came here for a conference and I decided to stay on for four days as a tourist. It seemed like a good idea. I was planning on visiting the museums and historical sites and all the rest of it. I bought a little guide book. I could have used my phone but I prefer to have a book. A tangible thing. I find with a book in hand I tend to collect tickets and brochures. I'll tell you man, leaving the hotel that first morning, it felt good to cut loose and be free of all responsibilities for four solid days. I mean I love my wife and all but being married to anyone can be a pain in the ass. Anyway that first day, I was just planning on drifting around, getting a feel for the place. Even if it was just the neighbourhood surround the hotel. I like to get myself orientated. I love the feeling of being cut loose: with my career being what it is and the responsibilities I have to Nate, there is nothing quite like it. It's like being a backpacker again, you know, standing on the threshold of a new, unknown life. At least for a short period of time. Romantic bullshit, I know. And of course, I would never really step over that threshold and in that new life. God no! I am optimistic about reinvention but I could never abandon my wife and kid. And at my age, the reality is it would entail a fair amount of loneliness and despondency.
     Anyway on that first morning, having left the hotel and walked maybe four blocks down Paseo De La Reforma vaguely heading for the main Zocola, I decided a beer would be in order. (I still love drinking beer in the daytime only now at a slightly more moderate rate). I go into this bar. There were a few people sitting about. Locals by the looks of it. I sat down next to a fat little man in a cream coloured suit. We started talking and I thought this is exactly what I am after: local colour, local knowledge. The conversation was very general at first but then he told me that he used to write letters for illiterate, or semi-illiterate people. Love letters mainly. He used to set his typewriter up in the main Zocalo on a collapsible card table and everyday people would stop by and commission him to write these letters. This fat little guy told me he personally had thousands of love stories categorised and stored inside his head. Of course, nowadays people use these silly little telephones, he said, showing me his smartphone. The art of the love letter has gone. I used to write beautiful sentences which entwined and snared the human heart, he continued, lifting his glass and looking balefully at the glittering display of bottles on the back wall of the bar. Beautiful sentences which extended from one human being to another. Sentences that bridged the darkness. Clack, clack, clack all day, he said, moving his fingers over an invisible typewriter. Now? Now I am like everyone else. I use the common language. It is very functionary, he continued, dismissing this form of expression with a tired wave of his hand.
     I won't test your patience describing him in detail. He was a character in all ways. Physically, this letter writing thing, the way he spoke, the whole package. I was just enjoying the hell out myself, sitting back, drinking beer in that dark little cantina. Anyway, he told me he understood how the city 'loved'. How it fell in and out of love, and had done for three decades. Love is like the weather or the economy he said, It can be charted over time. (I know this might sound fairly trite-can't anything thing be charted or plotted over time? I guess you had to be there. He was quite the showman). He had put into words every kind of love and lust configuration there was available to human beings. The whole gauntlet-from the sweet through to the most degenerate. New love, tormented love, cheating-on spouses-love, blind love, bitter love, broken-hearted love. Suicidal love. Much like a switchboard operator, these emotional currents had at one point or another, flowed directly through his small portable typewriter. I am personally responsible for the creation many hundreds of new lives, he laughed. Without my letters, many of these poor fools would not have come together. They would have never had their babies. I had return customers who came back to me three or four times in the course of their life, chasing different or new love. This in itself is a testament to my abilities. And what did I charge for my services? Nothing. A few pesos. A few pesos for the heart’s desire.

The beers were going down pretty well but I realised that the day was beginning to get away from me. While we'd been talking, or more accurately he'd been talking, the bar began filling up with more people. After a while, I began to realise the letter writer was starting to annoy me. He was a pontificator. That is, he liked the sound of his own voice too much. I reached a point where I decided I would finish my drink, say goodbye and leave. I'd had enough local colour for the time being and I needed to get on with my sightseeing. Besides, I was getting drunk and I thought some food would be a good idea. The last thing I remember was lifting my glass to my mouth. I remember the glass looked very far away. Then the corners of my vision began to tunnel in, going black around the edges. 
      The next thing I knew I was in a small room which could have been a hotel although it looked more like a rooming house. It was not unlike waking up after my colonoscopy. After opening my eyes, I needed to spend about three-quarters of an hour just lying there, mentally getting my shit together before I was able to get to my feet. Of course, I had been robbed. Later on, I found my bank account had been hit five times. Each time up the daily limit. Five times! This accounts for how incredibly hungry and weak I was. I do have vague memories of people coming and going in and out of that room. I had this sound in my head: the clatter of a typewriter. It was all twisted together into an ugly hallucination. I can't tell you for sure what happened over those five days. Anyway when I was finally able to get up and on my feet, I left the room and wandered downstairs. All I had was the bed sheet wrapped around me. I went through a doorway and emerged into a bar. Not the same bar I'd been in five days ago. A different place. People turned to look as I wandered in. I was still completely out of it because of drugs in my system.
       Later, after the police had arrived and had taken my statement, I went to the hospital and was checked out. There was nothing wrong with me apart from the fact that I was dehydrated. What I'm saying is I still had all my organs and I hadn't been raped. And of course, my bank account was quite a bit lighter. The woman who owns the bar with the rooms-for-rent upstairs, told the police she had no idea was going on. People come and go all the time. There are so many faces I see every day, she insisted indicating the customers who lined the bar. Yes, she had noticed me being taken in. Helped in. They said I was drunk. She hadn't suspected anything was going on or that I was being kept in the room against my will. The Love letter writer had paid for the room a week in advance. There was another man with him. She could only provide a vague description of this man. The woman assumed we were middle age gay boys having some sexual escapades upstairs. It was none of her business.
     I didn't really know what to make of this situation because I didn't feel any different. Just tired. Yes, of course, I felt angry that I'd been ripped off. I had one bruise on my leg but that was it. Really  I have not been abused or hurt in any way except that I had been drugged.  I'd lost what? Four and a half days and some money. The more time that went past, the more little recollections and fragments begin to slot into place. After all, I had not been completely unconscious while I'd been in that room. Sometimes being under the influence of whatever drug they used felt like I was in the grip of a bad fever. I remember that I had the same thoughts over and over and over again. You know what I thought about? I thought about that goddamn '69 Mustang sitting in your driveway. I mean in exhaustive detail. I think I might have taken that entire car apart in my mind. Every nut, bolt and washer. And then re-assemble it. It was a strange thing. The detail was incredible. It was like looking at a moving, three-dimensional schematic. Like the car was endlessly exploding in slow motion over and over again.
     After I had dealt with the police, calmed Marlene down over the phone, given my statement and talked to my insurance company there was nothing really left to do except book another flight out of Mexico. And so here I sit, waiting at the gate. Anyway, that is all from me. If you remember who you sold that car to let me know. After what I went through, you would think I would never want to see the damn thing again but that is not the case. I would be seriously interested in making an offer.

All the best.

       

Twin

Hello,

When Sophia died I was completely devastated. The whole family was. It was so senseless. We flew her body back to Sydney from the US. We intended to have the funeral here. She was to be cremated and we decided to scatter the ashes into the sea. Although we'd never talked about it, I felt that's what she would have wanted. The grief was...indescribable. It was a feeling that I knew would always be there, for the rest of my life. It might diminish (I'm sure it will) but it will always be there, this fucked up feeling, waiting to greet me at the start of each day. People kept trying to commiserate, saying they understood my loss. How could they? They hadn't lost an identical twin. “I understand what you are going through”, they kept on saying. It didn't help. In fact, it was a ridiculous thing to say. Mainly it was some of mum's friends. You know how they get. They're lives are so empty they are always in search of a new drama they can use in their own gossip. They wanted all the gory details. It was grotesque. Anyway, mum, was a mess and dad had kind of blanked out as usual. He didn't say a word. Encapsulated by this grief and these emotional vampires, I was starting to feel quite claustrophobic. I didn't know what to do.
           
One of her friends from the States comes over for the funeral. A man named Niles Ross. I didn't think anything of it. She had many friends in the US. She'd been living there illegally for 8 years and out of the two of us, Sophia was the more assertive, the most extrovert. I could never have led her kind of life. That is a funny thing for a twin to say, especially seeing as how, when we were kids, we used to swap places to freak other people out. Anyway, this Niles guy was nice enough. A gentlemen. Nicely dressed. A bit of character. He wanted to help out in any way he could. That's what he said. He bought flowers for the funeral. He helped mum down the stairs. He hung around long after everyone was gone and helped clean up. Mum was charmed by him. After the funeral, Niles said he was going to hang around for a while. He took me out to dinner. A few days later out to lunch. I was sort of enjoying being taken care of during all this emotional turmoil. Niles was insightful and intelligent. It was good talking to someone who wasn’t part of my daily life. And it was good not having to listen to other peoples’ interpretation of my grief. But then I started feeling kind of obligated to him. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Maybe it was because of his connection to Sophia. Or because he'd come half way around the world to ‘help out’. He talked a lot about Sophia. About what she had been doing over the past couple of years: the bartending and her acting classes. Her dog. He was always polite. He always commented on the resemblance between us. 

Anyway, for a while, it was good having someone around who obviously cared about Sophia. But then, there came a point where I needed to start getting on with my life. When I asked Niles what his plans were, went he going back to the US, he said, 'Oh, I might hang around here. I like Sydney.' I thought, okay. That's weird but whatever. And then, as time began to pass, he kept on calling me and dropping by unannounced. Just showing up on my doorstep. It starts to become a bit oppressive. Then he started me emailing me. I need to talk to you, he would say. Let’s get together. All he wanted to do was get together and talk about is Sophia. Eventually, I begin to think about this situation a bit more objectively. Here was is a…45? 46? year old man who had such a keen interest in and inside knowledge of my sister's life. I know Sophia was open minded, that she had all kinds of friends but the more I get to know Niles, the more I think she would never be friends with someone like him. Beneath all the grand gestures and exaggerated manors, there is just something....desperate and clawing about this guy. It's like the more you push away from him, the more he clings on to you. The more he wants. I know my sister and I can honestly say I can’t see what she would have had in common with this guy. 

Eventually, I emailed one of Sophia's friends back in the US. What's the deal with this Niles guy? I ask. The friend replies, who? They have never heard of a Niles. Okay, so maybe they didn't know Niles. I email another friend. And then another. I email all of her friends. And it was always the same story. No one ever heard of this Niles guy. None of Sophia's friends: close or casual. Understandably it starts to freak me out. The police say no crime has been committed, what do you want us to do? I can see their point. So what am I supposed to do?
         
In writing this down for you Niles, spelling it out, you must be able to see how your behaviour has given me cause for concern? How nothing you have told me so far makes any sense. I mean nothing checks out. There is the real world which is populated by people whose stories coincide to varying degrees and then there is your world. Which seems to be an elaborate fantasy centred around my sister. I don't owe you anything Niles. If I see you at my parents’ house again I'll take steps to protect my family. In fact, when the concierge hands this letter to you, when you read it, I want you to understand that I have taken steps to protect myself. From you. 


Annika

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