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we stand on sacred ground
breathing sacred air
thinking sacred thoughts
feeling sacred pain

all is holy


Uninspiration #7

If you have faith you don’t need a faith.



It doesn’t like us.

It’s trying to kill us.

It always wins.

Monika and the harbour (the house part 4)

Sydney Harbour at night from Milsons Point

The first time was with Monika. I’ve been told I’ve taken mescaline on four or five occasions. None of the sources are reliable. Maybe I’ve never had it. The maniacal German girl was the first to tell me otherwise, just after I swallowed a large pinch of orange-pink granules escaped from a burst bubble sheet of doses secreted in her luggage.

I dunno, it’s all acid to me. Whatever the power in her powders the magic was Monika. We swept through the harbour city with beginners’ eyes. In dark suburban parks. In bobbing ferries beneath enormous illumined ships. On headlands staring out across the ocean then back into the sprawl. Smog sunsets over industrial wasteland. Tiny possums peering from their mothers’ fur. Light on water everywhere.

It’s good to have a visitor show you the beauty of your home.


They wear the city like bling.

It’s not about soldiers and firepower in Sydney. It’s about how many cops, judges, bankers, journos and politicians they own. How they make things work.

Sometimes they make a display. Something flash so no-one thinks they’ve lost their touch. It was nothing personal Juanita.

Mostly they stay understated in a system so smooth and seamless its operations are almost undetectable. It is the playing field. As long as the rules are respected any ripples soon disappear. The rules aren’t the laws. They matter.

They wear the city like bling.


Immune system

I couldn’t be charged. Not for minor stuff. Especially not drugs. I had a number and name. Detective Sergeant S- at Marrickville. I was his informant.

Not that I informed. To him or any other cop. I never even met Detective Sergeant S-. He was presumably one of many on my employer’s payroll.

Even if you don’t inform there’s a downside to being an informant. If my body showed up I knew what the media would call it. So did my employer. So did the police. Everyone shrugs and gets back to work.

Most cops didn’t want to arrest me anyway. They wanted to beat me up and steal whatever I was holding. Not much I could do about them. Just try to build them into the business model.


It’s just a gathering of middle aged people at a bowling club near where I grew up. Woy Woy High Year 10 class of 1977. Such as is left of us.

It’s not like we have much in common after forty years. Just a few shared memories. Like that one. And … er … that one. Maybe I should check with survivors and make sure everyone’s keeping quiet. We may not have much to talk about but we’ve got plenty to not talk about.

Turns out a surprising number of us are still alive. I knew we should have started a teenage death cult. They were  fashionable then. I wonder what we’ll discuss while avoiding less savoury topics. Maybe I should walk in stoned, get drunk as fast as I can then get into a fight. Wouldn’t be a Woy Woy High reunion otherwise. Or I could try doing something I risk remembering.

What if someone asks me what I’ve been doing for the last forty years?

Should I ask them which day they mean?

Or should I admit I have no wife, no children, no house and no car. No career, no title, no footie team, no political party, no religion, no cause, no dreams. No projects, no clubs, no diet, health or fitness miracle, no portfolio, no milestones, no favorite cafe, no shed, no status. No Facebook friends.

It’s probably fair to say that since leaving school I’ve achieved nothing at all. I didn’t do the homework.

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