Ten Days off the booze, fags and Dirty rugs...

A sideways glance to the woman sat to my left at the bus stop, a buxom, rosy sort, hair auburn, with a faint smile on her thin yet proud lips. Remembrance of a happy occasion recent or long gone: a kind word from a lover, or a memory from happier times, or perhaps she’s just half retarded. “That’s the usual assumption in such scenarios, I tell myself….” out loud, as I smile to myself in public…. again.


Bus bound now heading up the urban lower colon that is Elizabeth Street, Surry Hills. Oblivious to his surroundings, stern, heavyset man of South Indian descent blasts bhangra music from his headphones into his overloaded audio holes, down, down hard into his audio pipes, slaughtering his auditory nerve second by second with wave after wave of needle after needle of high pitched sub continental noise chatter jizz jazz. I dislike all over zealous, volume setting, public music listening hate wizards, not just the Indians, it’s just that today the high pitch of the sitar, when heard in periphery makes me prefer the idea of having my ears syringed with engine oil to being party to this second hand, background jibber jabber.


Middle aged woman sits down next to me. I come over all Patrick Suskind when I notice her rather attractive scent of watermelon and vanilla. As if psychic to my nasal meanderings, she pears over her shoulder and moves to an empty seat behind my intruding proboscis. In search of further sensory diversion I peer out of the pollution flecked bus window…


I look to the right, I shake my head, and aim a thumbs down to the anti-abortion campaigners outside the clinic, all thirty of them alarmingly young and virginal in appearance, aborted foetuses themselves, singlets and sports shoes aside. A shake of the head and flick of “the bird” is what’s coming back my way, from an angry religious youth no older than seamen left to fester on a Holiday Inn complementary hand towel… ahem, there or thereabouts. Perhaps a rather O.T.T reaction to my inoffensive thumb gesture I think; more to the point a little out of line from their passive message “to pray for an end to abortion”. Maybe an addendum to that suggestion you parade of God knobs; “Pray for an end to abortion…. and aim insulting hand gestures at those who display any dissatisfaction with our opinion.” All of them, no doubt continuing the indoctrinated beliefs of their parent and fore fathers beyond…. In the words of Voneggut Jr… “So it goes.” Want to feel god inside of you? Two words religion wallys; Take hallucinogens.


The Surry Hills latte set sit on chairs outside the latest organic wank fest on Crown Street, middle class yummy mums, corporate nobs, “designers”, “film editors”, “writers”, “band members” one and all; while the usual pan handlers, traffic shouters, transport hustlers (“Dollar for the train to Auburn fella?”) and other housing commission folk go about their apparently crazed “business” we sit behind the impenetrable, invisible shield that protects us from any sense of social responsibility and awareness. This comes with area gentrification; “Ignore ‘em till they push ‘em West we tell ourselves.” Well get this you upwardly mobile wave of socially blind fucks…. They were here first, long before the pink dollar and the accountants moved in.


The new Crown Street Library approaches. Full of people wanting to be watched reading as they sit in their transparent ultra modern trend perineum. If you’re going to read in public sit in a park, and absorb your surroundings. Your stark environ within that “fucking cool” cube will absorb you, just like your general sense of superiority has, and as your soul and level of creativity dwindles (if it even existed), one day the streets will be reclaimed by the real Hills dwellers: Crazies and bona fide artists move back in, trust fund fucks and suits get out!


I'm sensitive today. Take deep breaths. Into. This. Bag. Must be the sobriety kicking in. Ten days and counting... and counting... and counting.