Footsoldier

I realise now that you were surprised by everyone's reaction, and it was obvious you didn't understand, so you therefore failed to deal with it.

Let me put it this way, so maybe you can finally understand.

You faced up to our General. Your aggression (to put it mildly) was noticed by us. Our General didn't give us any orders, but she didn't need to. We responded. We provided our General with assistance, with the weapons of honesty and peace. We also made it clear that we would neither tolerate nor accept aggression, from you, the aggressor. She is our General, and we are her loving and loyal footsoldiers. So loyal, and so loving, that no reaction we can give is too strong, and it is an impossibility that we give too much.

Any shit you give her, we feel directly. Any kindness you give her, we feel directly.

There's something else though, something you don't know, because you chose not to see.

She is my loving and loyal footsoldier, and I am her General. In being my footsoldier, there is no greater gift she can give. For me, there is no greater beauty in being her footsoldier.

We are many Generals. Each with many footsoldiers. To touch on is truly to touch all. You could have been this General, and this footsoldier, but you chose something different. You can change your mind.

I hope this helps to explain the troubles you have had, and if you change nothing, the troubles you will continue to have in the future. If you understand nothing else, just know, you can always change your mind.

A change – Pt 2

Like everything I suppose, it happened gradually, and then suddenly. The exact moment I realised was when everyone was asked to get off the bus after we arrived in Dover from Calais, get their bags and stand in line for a dog to sniff everything. Something had prepared me for this moment, about two hours prior in Calais, though at the time it seemed like nothing.

We arrived at the border control point for France/England at the ferry terminal in Calais, and went into what looked like a demountable school room. Some French guys were standing there in smart uniforms, and it seemed maintaining a stern facial expression was the hardest part of their job. One of the French men looked at my small red book, said “Thank you”, and waved as a beckoning for me to walk past him to the door at the back of the little demountable building.

They had a kind of sheep run which led into another little demountable building. After standing in line for a few minutes I was waved forward by an English woman in a different smart uniform who also wanted to look at the small red book. I said “Hi”, she replied “Hi”, then after a moment she said “Thank you” and did the same kind of wave the Frenchman had a few minutes earlier.

I had a cigarette outside the little building while waiting for Soph to get someone to put a stamp in her small book. She needed a stamp in her book because it’s a different colour. I was thinking about the English woman who waved me forward, and how she seemed to be doing her best to have a stern facial expression, and I couldn’t work out why this is so important. I still can’t to be perfectly honest. I could think of reasons, but no good reasons. There was also a sign which read “IMPORTANT PETS MUST BE DECLARED” and I wondered what happened with the unimportant pets. I settled on an idea for a rewrite of the sign – “IMPORTANT: PETS MUST BE DECLARED TO QUARANTINE”.

So, standing in a line in an arrivals hall in Dover with my bag over my shoulder and holding my pack in my arms in front of me, two things truly dawned on me. Number one, all my “valuable” possessions were within 500mm of my body. Of those, the possessions in my arms were easily replaceable, though doing so may be annoying. At that moment I had a new response to this. Not long after Soph and I arrived in this hemisphere, I was very aware that all I owned was with me in bags, and I was also very concerned I would lose some things from the pack, or the pack itself might be lost or stolen. When I was standing there in line, holding the bag and waiting to be sniffed, I had a sudden sense of freedom.

I’ve been thinking about this freedom, much the same as I was thinking about the “Leaving Melbourne/Coming to Europe”. I felt an overwhelming sense of “Freedom To” as opposed to “Freedom From”. I’d made choices about how to spend my time in Melbourne, and which things I would have and would keep. I am (and was then) comfortable with those decisions fitting the time the decisions were made. I never felt a need to have “Freedom From” as there weren’t really any situations I wanted to be free from. I was feeling a need to have “Freedom To”.

While waiting in line to be sniffed I felt an acute sense that I have the freedom to engage culturally with any people I choose, in any place and at any time. I was free to engage with people in a way I chose, which was a “Freedom To” I didn’t feel I had in Melbourne, and ultimately, it is the reason I’m here. While I may have had the ability, I didn’t feel I had the freedom to, and I was (and am) largely innocent of cultural alternatives. Standing in that line I thought I have an amazing chance to see cultural alternatives – to see some of the many ways people meaningfully interact – and learn from these. To see value in a form I wouldn’t otherwise be able to recognise, used in a way I didn’t know to find it – and I had no possessions to distract me from this.

Since then, I know my freedom – to move from place to place, see what I like, immerse myself, watch and learn – is something in itself that I can’t value highly enough. And I can’t waste. The second thing to occur to me while standing there was “what a total and utter load of shit this border control is”. We had already been checked by English people on the way onto the ferry, and the English people on the other side – showing probably the correct amount of respect the work of passport control is due – decided not to trust the first English passport control, and check people again. Not that either group of people actually did anything other than maintain stern facial expressions.

I have a small red book, and because of this, I must be permitted entry. Soph has been out of Australia more times than I, but regardless, because Soph’s small book is a different colour she must write more things on some more pieces of paper – to be given entry. Which she did, so they give her entry. Paperwork is the key – not “passport control”. The people with stern expressions are (in my view) a vaguely comical yet totally unnecessary pretend Police force. They are there to check the correctness of paperwork. It’s a clerk’s job, and they’re clerks. So why is the clerk looking so stern? And secondly, shouldn’t any government clerk, when provided with correct paperwork, simply yield? I have the feeling we have many clerks (with stern expressions) under the false impression there is power at their disposal which they are free to exercise at will.

A Change – Pt 1

I’m not sure exactly when there was a change in perspective, but I remember noticing it when I was going for a walk to find a cafe in Berlin. I hadn’t been able to realise it until that walk, as I think it had always been present since landing at Schipol Airport. I had spent the first few weeks truly alert and on guard.

I remember being very focused on my personal safety, giving a lot of attention to my immediate environment, the place we were to sleep, and on more than one occasion checking over my shoulder to see an empty street. I had many of my personal possessions (even those easily replaceable) very close by and regularly prepared to physically ensure a person provided me with what I deemed sufficient personal space. This in itself is very unusual for me, and the only thing I remember being able to identify at the time.

Looking back, I have had this type of alertness and guarded frame of mind a handful of times during my time at work, during periods when it was highly likely someone would be seriously assaulted. After around five weeks in Europe, it may be that I was too tired to maintain this, or I simply had experiences which proved it unnecessary. I imagine it was also hindering my experiences here. I remember very clearly walking down Danziger Straβe, and noticing that this feeling had given way to something very subtly different. The difference was I was (and still am) aware of my environment, though without the constant vigilance associated with impending danger. More importantly (to me) I had the ability to identify the feeling I’d been having.

I then knew why I had more energy, why I was able to easily notice the streetscape, the voices, people’s clothes and the sunshine. I know why I still notice the sunshine, the chatter, the street – and the very occasional dodgy situation. I love how a subtle difference can have a profound effect.

A Side Thought

I was having a chat with Dad a few years ago, no doubt sitting in some cafe some place, and we were talking about muscle memory when playing music. The basic premise is that after some practice and playing of songs, there’s no more need to consciously think of the notes that are needed, the order they’re needed in or where you put your fingers. It’s like the mind becomes quiet and the muscles remember what’s needed and when, and in a way they sort of play for you. It’s an experience - very calming (I don’t know about other people, but for me it can also come with a kind of elation when the band’s tight and the song’s powerful) and I often say it’s like meditation.

We were talking about muscle memory, and then it moved onto what we called cell memory. We were thinking that if cells are constantly replacing themselves, and the new cell received it’s instructions and information from the old cell – which was instructed and informed by the old cell’s predecessor – how far back would this go? And since the human body was one cell at conception and passed the messages along, having received it’s instructions and information from the egg and sperm, is this information and instruction inter-generational? Also, could memory be a basis for the instruction and information?

When Soph and I were walking to Hope Cove through rolling green hills and what I had imagined to be “typical English countryside”, I felt strangely at home. The landscape, the colours, the smells – they seemed to fit, and they seemed familiar. There was something a little, well, not quite right, but it still felt like home – like it fit. I haven’t seen countryside like this before, so the feeling has no basis, rationally speaking. The only thing I could think was somehow this is imprinted in me, courtesy of my ancestors, and I almost instantly remembered the chat with Dad. I feel very much at home in very different places – Melbourne city, Halls Gap, that grassy bit near the fish & chip shop in Freemantle with Mum, Nan & Pop’s kitchen and Mitchell St. I never expected to feel at home in my ancestor’s home – but I very much do.

This is “the life”

We landed a month ago today. It seems time has flown by, and time has dragged on. It feels like I was last at work three years ago, and we landed last week. It feels like we were in Amsterdam three years ago, and I was down Lygon last week.

I remember this feeling when we landed in Singapore. We flew into the city at night, and I remember all the lights from the street, the cars and the buildings. I remember the buildings. Almost to the far edges of the city, they looked tall and long and wide. In the middle of this we touched down, and I had my first experience of the night air in the tropics. The feeling from when we were landing was continuing, and I was trying to “not give into astonishment”. This was not Melbourne, this was not Melbournian air. And this was not Australia. I knew no one and nothing on the outside of this building, and I knew when we got on the next plane, it would take us to more of this. Except less humid. And snowing. And almost as far from Australia as I could physically be.

I remember landing in Amsterdam and wanting to see the streets, and wanting to spend all day walking through them. I wanted to sit and listen to idle chat in a language I couldn’t understand. And then the blisters on both heels made me remember I wanted sleep, and to be over the jetlag. I wanted the woman checking us into the hostel to be sober, and not as high as she was. I wanted the room to be ready and the cleaner to clean rather than smoke joints. I just wanted sleep, and to be over the jetlag.

I can’t remember much of those first few days, though I remember it was amazing to see my brother, with his long hair and beanie. I was so happy knowing we could talk shit, listen to his stories and listen to his plans. We went to Damon’s house and slept there for a couple nights, and I’m grateful for all the food in between sleeps. The jetlag was horrible, and I wish I had have been more alert when I was with John, but it was still amazing to see him, and I can’t wait until we’re in the UK all travelling together.

While in a hostel in Prague, it all seemed a bit too much. My beloved morning routine was gone. Not changed, not amended - and no compromise. Just gone. It was in Prague I realised this, and I realised it was forever. I just wanted to wake up in my flat.

The following transpired in about two and a half seconds:

Fuck this shit, I’ve had enough. There’s no peace, no quiet - and no end to it. I’m going back to Melbourne, back to Mitchell St. Andy can get the fuck out of my room and I’ll wake up there, like I always do, and listen to News Radio in the lounge room with a coffee... Bed’s gone. Coffee machine’s gone. Radio’s gone... Fuck... I can’t go back there. And if I go back to Melbourne, I can’t be here, and I can’t meet Jonnoe in the UK and Soph and I can’t do as we’ve planned. I don’t want to go back now... This is my lot for now - this hostel and my pack.

It was strange, I think. In realising the coffee machine, the bed and the radio were gone, I realised I’d left it all. I then though more about something I was tossing up in my head before we’d left. I remember leaving Perth – and it was just that – leaving Perth. But this felt different. I was coming to Europe. I wasn’t leaving Melbourne at all. I really like Melbourne, and I really enjoyed living there. Soph and I had made a great life, and it wasn’t particularly difficult to have a great life with Soph there. We had amazing people around us, and time to spend with them. I was finally hitting my stride, learning a lot and having the most fun I’ve had in years. There was nothing to leave - but there is plenty to go to.

There seem to be two recurring ideas. Firstly, my time here is not a “once in a lifetime” experience. I was asked today “Have you been to Bordeaux?” and again my reply to these questions was “Not yet, maybe someday I’ll check it out”. I’m here as an Irishman, and I’m here with all the privileges this brings. We have been spending time with two people from Queensland recently, and after watching their struggles to be able to stay in Europe for the next six months, I have felt even more lucky than before. It’s deceptive to ask if I’m enjoying this time, because it seems most often framed in the context of “enjoy this once in a lifetime experience”. I feel happy I can enjoy my time here, and I don’t have to concern myself with things like “enjoy it while I can” or “see it while I’m here”. I can come back to Berlin any time I please, and I can go to Bordeaux any time I please. I could do both those things. Or I may not do either, I haven’t decided yet. Which brings me to the second thought:

The unknown is much less of a bitch. After spending the last month with no real plans, I have grown far more comfortable with not knowing where we will be in four days time. Not long after landing I remember feeling a little overwhelmed with the choice on offer, and it seems we made decisions to travel onto other cities for no real reason – other than “we felt like it”. The amount of choice seemed in itself an immobiliser, as the choices we could have made we endless, and about endless things. I could in one day decide to have pasta for lunch and travel to another country the next day. Now don’t get me wrong, I think “I felt like it” is as good a reason as any to travel on or stay put, but it seems to me I wasn’t really thinking about where we were and if we would like to stay, as the rest of Europe seemed to be screaming out... these are the best problems I’ve ever had...

I woke up today and followed my morning non-routine. I was standing in the sun on a spring morning in Berlin, I had my coffee and I had my cigarette. I haven’t worked in six weeks, and I have no pressing need go back to work soon. I didn’t know what I’d do with my day. Not only this, but it didn’t matter, and I didn’t care. I knew I’d see, well, whatever I wanted. I knew I’d sit in the sun with a coffee and I knew I would do it until I decided to do something else. There will probably be more of this when we meet up with Jonnoe, but who knows, cause we haven’t decided yet.

Quote Of The Day

I’ve decided to write down the most memorable “quote of the day”, as said by the clients I work with, for every day I have left at work in Melbourne. This post will be edited every day, rather than eight new posts ;) Oh, and C: means "Client:"

Quote of the day – Monday 25^th January 2010

On discussing there will be a new worker after I move to the UK...

C: “Will the new worker be good looking – like Chris – or will he look like you?”

Me: I mime pulling an arrow from my heart “Ohh!”

C: With a very dismissive tone of voice “Yeah, yeah, breaking your heart, breaking your heart”

You gotta love her :)

No quote for Tuesday, 'twas Invasion Day...

Quote of the day – Wednesday 27^th January 2010

On bumping into a client on the street...

Me: "You were in prison again, what happened?"

C: "I can't remember, I was probably being a dickhead, they locked me up for another month..."

After a few seconds, a look of realisation, followed by an ear-to-ear grin

C: "Oh yeah, I remember... I stole fuckn' tip jars... from cafes... Fuck I was a dickhead..."

And yes, he kept on smiling the whole time...

Quote of the day – Thursday 28^th January 2010

On finishing coffee and cake at "fully sick" cafe on Chapel St...

C: "I've paid for all of it."

Me: "It says on the receipt you've paid for the cake, we'll pay for the coffee and then go."

C: "But if I give them that money then I won't have enough for a DVD!"

Me: "You'll have plenty of money left, after we've both paid we'll go and look for DVDs"

C: "But Joe..." and then on comes the 'whinge' tone of voice "...I won't have enough for a DVD!!"

Me: "You'll have enough, we'll pay and then go."

C: "Don't fukn' start with me Joe, fuck me dead! I won't have enough for a DeeeeeeeVeeeeeeDeeeeeeeeeeeee!" ...he's yelling now... "Don't tell me what to do with my money! I'll tell mum!"

Me: "You can tell her, that's OK, but I can't leave this seat until we've paid."

C: "Fuck this, I've had it, I'm leaving!"

He walked off, three times actually, and we continued the above conversation each time he returned... until after ten minutes of this 'hi-bye' business...

C: "OK, I'll pay for the coffees."

Me: "Just pay for yours, I'll pay for mine."

C: "I was just shit-stirring you Joe..." and chuckles "...sorry 'bout that."

We found the DVD he was looking for. And yes, he had money for that... and two more coffees...

Quote of the day – Monday 1^st February 2010

During a discussion on the phone about how I’ll give him a hand to do something on Wednesday, he comes out with this little chestnut…

C: “I’m fuckn’ shattered you’re leaving, you cunt.”

Aww, shucks… thanks man! :)

Quote of the day – Tuesday 2^nd February 2010

While he was making a sandwich… quite out of no-where…

C: “So you’re gonna be a worker in England soon?”

Me: “Yeah, very soon."

C: “Tell ‘em how fit I am, tell ‘em I did thirty laps f the oval, they won’t believe you. I’d be fitter than all of ‘em anyway… well… they’re English, after all.”

In Australia, ‘fit’ means physical fitness. He seems to think people in the UK need to lay off the crisps... Though I’m sure this man thinks he’s the ‘fittest’ man in Melbourne, no matter how you define ‘fit’ :)

Quote of the day – Wednesday 3^rd February 2010

On speaking of his frustrations with finding housing, and problem solving some more appropriate ways of gaining assistance from workers which doesn’t involve threats of violence…

C: “I have to keep on his case, so he can keep on her case. But if she doesn’t do nothing then I just bounce between ‘em, and I have to keep living in a fuckn’ men’s shelter. And there’s problems at [the men's shelter] – some people from prison, years ago. The workers tried to sort it out, but it’s not really sorted.”

So, you need three guesses about how prison problems are “sorted”? I never said the quotes would all be funny…

Quote of the day – Thursday 4^th February 2010

I was asking about the members of his family, until finally…

Me: “And how’s [his sister]?”

C: “She’s your type!”

Me: “Yeah yeah, so, how is she?”

He laughs, and holds his packet of cigarettes towards my face, and laughs while saying…

C: “Eat it!”

This man LOVES to take the piss.. my type of guy ;)

The unknown can be a bitch.

An accurate description of my last week would be to describe myself as a “rabbit in headlights”. I’d had a dawning realisation – it’s the end of January. In the same way I forget my own birthday, I neglected to notice that I will finish work in two weeks, say goodbye to family in Perth in three weeks, and have left the country in four weeks. Around six minutes after this realisation, an overwhelming anxiety about money generally, and work in the UK. While I have money, I don’t have enough to cope with major fuck-ups.

Strangely enough, the same kind of duality is present, as with my “Don’t want to say goodbye – Can’t stay” routine of late. I am very optimistic about being able to choose the work I do and having a choice in the place I live. Though at the same time I am conscious I have no room for either laziness – or major errors, with this translating to anxiety about my ability to feed myself.

The unknown can be a bitch.

So soon I’ll say goodbye. I’ll do my best, and work my arse off when I get there. What else can I do?

Eulogy to home.

I arrived in Melbourne at around 7pm on the 24th of August, 2002. I didn’t know anyone, I hadn’t a clue where I was or how to get anywhere. It took me three days to work out there were train stations underground in the city. I had no job, no money, one suitcase and eyes wide open. I will be leaving Melbourne at around 5pm on the 24th of February, 2010. This makes my time in Melbourne about two hours shy of exactly seven and a half years, to the day.

In that time, I have lived in seven houses (Prahran (twice), Oakleigh, Melbourne City, St Kilda, Caulfield and finally Brunswick), had had nine jobs (I had to count them on my fingers just now) and two motorcycles. I now walk down the street and remember things. Strange, funny, relaxed, uncomfortable, precious things – I have memories. Lots of memories.

On Tuesday night we went to see a show by Daniel Kitson called “66a Church Road - A Lament Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases”. For those of you who don’t know of this man, he is probably one of the most captivating personalities I’ve ever encountered. And I would love to play “computer football” with him someday :)

I’m no reviewer, and I don’t pretend to be. Google knows about this show anyway. Suffice to say Daniel describes a terrible breakup he had after a six year relationship – with his flat. He spoke about the memories created in and around the place, in a style which is hard to describe. He spoke about reminiscence and nostalgia – the actual meanings of these, and how these skew his view, ever so slightly, to change it from what the flat actually is, to what it means to him.

Daniel Kitson is an arsehole. And I love him for it. Late on Tuesday night I was thinking about the places around me, what they mean to me, and that I will be saying “good-bye”.

I’ve made this place home. This city – it’s streets – the weather, with it’s multiple personality disorder – the crappy railway crossing on Moreland Rd – The cafes down Degraves and Lygon’s food – the view over the side of the West Gate Bridge while riding in morning peak – there’s too many little things… This home we’ve made in Brunswick. We’ve been here a touch over three years, and good-byes will be said to this flat in about five and a half weeks.

By Wednesday I’d had the realisation I will need to say goodbye to a lot of people, some of whom I like – a few of whom I love. I don’t want to think about this any more right now, so I won’t be writing more. I may do in the future, just not now.

I’d not thought about these things until Tuesday night – saying goodbye to my home. Now don’t get me wrong, these goodbyes are not a bad thing, though there may be a necessary sadness. I must go, I have to go, I must say “good-bye” and leave this place. While I have plenty of choice about where I live and what I do, there is no other choice I can seriously consider. Nor do I want to.

I was speaking with one of the best people on the planet last night, discussing this. I’m going to leave here, and move to a place I know nothing about. I will make new memories, and I will make it my home – if I choose to. I’m looking forward to this, and I’m very much excited about the possibilities and experiences waiting for me to simply accept. I’m not exactly sure what my new home will look like, or feel like, but I know it will feel like home.

I’m sure I’ll be back in Melbourne one day, though I have no plans to do this. It may be for a holiday or it may be permanent, but I’ll be back.

Someday.

It’s always stayed with me.

“In 1994 I’ll be 13 years old, in 1995 I’ll be 14 years old, in 1996 I’ll be 15 years old, and after that I’ll be old.”

I have a very distinct memory of doing this maths on my fingers when I was 10 or so. It stayed with me. From my 16th birthday on, I had no real view of what the following year might look like, and I didn’t really care. That has also stayed with me. When opportunities present themselves, and seem positive and beneficial, I’ll generally take them. After all, I have no 5 year plan. I have no one year plan. And that has always stayed with me.

Thankfully, I’ve never felt the need to be solemn in order to be deliberate.

Inspiration

http://johnoez.blogspot.com/ is the inspiration for me starting this journal for our travels. My brother landed in Amsterdam on NYE 2009/10 and gave some insights into his experiences, when he could find a computer that is. While I’ve become somewhat accustomed to being away from family though my life so far, I’ve rarely been very far from my brother at any time. And I’ve liked it like that. His writings have been very welcomed, and helped me to feel less uncomfortable about his being so far away.

My hope is this can be an open letter with my family, and my brother when we’re not in the same city. Not just as a “Yeah, still alive!” thing, but also a “I saw this thing…” and “What do you recon of…?” Facebook and other social network sites are good for a few things, but lacking when it comes to this kind of detail I think.

Also, while on work placement, I was asked to write a journal entry every day, I was told this was in part to document for myself any changes in attitude and outlook which may happen. I get the feeling this type of journal could be quite interesting for me now. I will be as frank as my brother in what I write.