Timber

The priest next door was out there hacking limbs off the tree with his chainsaw. He was going at it with great swagger, great enthusiasm. Like we have an overabundance of shade in this country, right? Anyway, he was getting carried away, dressed in some ridiculous high-viz safety get up. What he did was remove a perfectly serviceable swath of greenery which screened my apartment from the ceaseless flow of traffic on Moore Park Road and more importantly, blocked my view of the rectory.

I sat there watching as the tree came down in stages and the fool priest marched around, calling out instructions to his boys, his flock, I guess. Once, a year ago, this mob had a sort of mass baptism out there in the garden, in what looked a hired jacuzzi. They have had picnics. Socials, I guess church people call them. It is a nice garden, a rarity in this city which is full of narrow terrace houses and overgrown, damp green spaces.

Today I'm feeling especially relentless. God, I'm climbing the walls. Maybe it's the sound of that chainsaw? I haven't worked in...in at least five weeks. Actually more. I'm not one of these people who enjoys time off. I need to work. To live. I require it. To be healthy. Without work, without physical and mental activity, I'm just not myself. So you see the problem here? This is not me: this guy sitting around in this apartment looking out the window is simply not me. Nevertheless...

This priest, I can see directly into his life now. Into his kitchen and into another room which has a piano in it. And he can see into my place. So I feel like I'm completely on display. I can't do anything with my leg in this moon boot and the screws holding by femur together. I'm just waiting for these bones to knit.

I was on that show out in the desert, you know? We were in preproduction. We were just planning, rehearsing and I hyperextended my leg, tore the ALC and snapped the bone. A simple little fall and I landed badly, twisted my knee. A pad slipped out from under me. You know those vomit enduring videos on Youtube? When someones' leg goes all rubbery because the bone snapped? It was like that.

I have never spent much time in my apartment. It's a place to sleep. I don't even really keep it stocked with food. I get my laundry and cleaning taken care off. I don't have any furniture. Not really. A chair, a table. That's it. A bed and a set of sheets. And here I am watching the priest walk around with his chainsaw. I can't watch any more movies.

Listen, I was set to make my own film. Move from stunt work into directing/acting. I have the looks, or so I'm told. I have a few stories I want to tell. Buster Keating never had to spend a Sydney winter cooped up in a dump like this. You'd think this setback would have provided the perfect opportunity for me to write something but no. It never happened.