Friday, part 2

25 May

I admit to feeling a great deal of stress these days. This is not unusual for me, though most characterise me as someone seemingly free from it. Last year I felt a particularly type of dark stress. I felt as if my rock after another was being placed upon me. I thought I would survive, but it was not pleasant, nor easy. Though it was very hard – the hardest 12 months of my life – it could have been worse I think. If there is a virtue in hitting rock bottom it is that you have nothing more to lose. You find yourself possessed of a fatalistic resignation. Even when bad things continue to happen you find yourself wryly smiling even as you feel the body blows.

It’s very different now. I’ve come out of that and feel strong, but I’m aware also that now I have much to lose. It’s a scary responsibility, particularly when you choose to take to the high wire, as I have. Don’t look down is the tip, but it’s hard not peering into the dark depths every so often.

Since taking over the massage shop – a venture of great promise, as well as great risk – my thoughts and feelings have taken on a daily cycle, from hope and optimism to fear and frustration. Each night I sleep with thoughts racing through my head and the worse case scenarios not far from my conscious mind; and each day I wake to a new day thinking just do it, can’t worry about what has happened. As the day progresses I find myself gradually ground down by the frustrations of doing business.

This is pretty reasonable I suspect. My frustration is easy to imagine. If we look at the last week I’ve forgone about a $1,000 worth of massages because I didn’t have the people to serve them. Most of that is profit. The glass half full perspective is that the business is there if I can get reliable people in place. The glass half empty view is that it can’t go on like this, and what’s to say that my staffing issues will ever be properly resolved?

As the day goes on then I feel a rising tide of frustration. I’m like dog tethered to a stake. I strain at the leash wanting to free myself, to charge ahead and just do. Or else I’m that same dog circling one way around the stake, and then the other, wondering what to do.

This is where I found myself last night, once again.

I had my dinner, I watched TV, all the while feeling this in the pit of my stomach. It’s an ever-present tension. While I watch the TV my mind goes off trying to figure things out. I don’t truly rest, not ever, but I think that’s the lot of the business owner. I think of ways and means. I make calls, put ads online. Dark thoughts shadow me. The buoyancy of earlier in the day is gone completely, replaced by what seems a pragmatic and reasonable fear grounded in reality. I know it can be – in the morning I know it will be – but for now I don’t know how. Then the mind shifts again.

It’s tiring to be like this. And pointless after a while. It’s dark outside, the weekend is here, life is more.

I flick between stations on TV. I stumble across Eyes Wide Shut. I watch for 15 minutes, the story well known to me. Now my mind goes in another direction. Dream Story – the story which the film is based on – is one of my very favourite. And sitting there after 10 on a Friday night I suddenly wish there was someone I could talk to about this. There is no-one. For one of the rare times I feel a kind of loneliness, more intellectual than emotional. Still, I wish I could share. I wish I could open my mouth and just speak. I wish there was someone there to listen fondly, to understand, to interact in the conversation. I wish there were someone for whom this was important as well.

By now the massage shop is a thousand miles from my mind. The Nietzschean man of destiny is far away. In the dark there is no will to power. Instead I imagine myself going out into the world, in sitting across the table from the girls I date and dispensing with the usual round of chit chat and flirtation and asking instead, do you know who Arthur Schnitzler is? It’s to my despair that I meet so few people, female or male, who do, or might even care. As I prepare for bed it feels like a bitter joke, but I’m not prepared to leave it there. I realise how much the Schnitzler’s mean to me, and the life I have built around them, a life of contemplation, consideration, occasional inspiration and, every so often, a moment of transcendence. I miss that, I think. It seems something that in all the to-ing and fro-ing of the last couple of years as if it has gone by the wayside. Not tonight then.

I pour myself a glass of Rutherglen Muscat, and then hunt through my bookshelves for my copy of Schnitzler – in fact I have two. It’s virtually the first book I see, and I pluck it from the shelves and take it and the glass of Muscat to my bedroom. In bed I reach out to my iPhone, to the Sonos controller app, and scroll to the classical music genre. And I begin to read once more – for perhaps the eighth time – Dream Story, while Bach and Beethoven play in the background.

Today is another day. I woke with a hard-on, always a happy and well-received portent. Yes, there are problems to be overcome, but so be it. Now, as I write this, Rachmaninov plays, soon I will walk down the shops for my weekly groceries, and afterwards will head into the shop.

Next week, perhaps, I quest for the mythical girl who knows Dream Story front to back, like I do.

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Friday, part 1

25 May

I want to write about the events of yesterday in a different way to what I would normally. Normally I would look to meld the events – perhaps happenings is a better term – into the one narrative. That’s the conventional way, but last night it struck me that while that’s how we live, it’s not how we feel, nor how we remember. We live on different levels. The levels are widely disparate, but through the course of a day we move between them freely, from the prosaic and practical, the intellectual, the emotional, all the way to the intimate and spiritual, and everything between. There is some cross-over, but so too are there distinct divisions between them. That’s my experience at any rate.

It’s my intention then to write two separate posts on the happenings of yesterday. Yesterday was not a particularly lively day, though things happened. One post will be descriptive of the simple events, and likewise the simple thoughts and feelings attached to those events. The second will describe a higher plane. You know how it is how you can be focused on one thing, all the while aware that something else is occurring elsewhere in your psyche. I want to separate them today, like strands of a rope, and describe each purely in their own terms.

After attending to the varied though predictable activities yesterday morning I got in the car and headed over towards the shop. There have been frustrations aplenty this week. Late Tuesday night one of my masseuse, the irritating one, sent me a text message to inform me that she wouldn’t be coming back. I’d had a good night without her, but with her gone I was abruptly one down, with another to leave this weekend to continue her travels. I was angry, and tried to speak to her, but the deal was done. Consequently in the days after what should have been good days in the shop became mediocre days as one client after another was turned away. You can imagine my frustration and fury.

So I drove across town with this playing out in the back of my mind. I entered the shop to find someone was receiving a neck and shoulder massage in one of the massage chairs, and so adjourned with N to the back room to have the conversation she had requested. She informed me that she wanted to leave. Her husband is a Thai chef and together they want to open their own shop. I’ve put on a couple of receptionists in the last week, and so she had deemed it an okay time to go. I was sorry to see her leave, but of course agreed to it an wished her luck. All the same it felt as if the shop was being torn down and built up again every week.

After sorting out something with the council I was on my way again.

It was a pretty winter’s day. It had dawned very cold, but now towards lunchtime the sun was shining in a pale, washed out sky. I drove from Malvern to Richmond to have lunch with an acquaintance I had met networking 18 months ago, and with whom I caught up with every 6-7 months to share our war stories about being a business owner.

We met at a very groovy hamburger joint called The Tree of Us. We had a couple of beers, a couple of great hamburgers, and told our stories. He was fascinated in the tale of the massage shop, and as I explained it to him I felt myself step back from all the petty (though significant) issues I was dealing with, and began to see it through his eyes. I knew very well the challenge that it represented, and told him of that. I also saw the potential, and for a few moments imagined a time when I could properly step away from it when it ran itself – a day that surely must come?

We spoke about the footy, and technology and all manner of things, but our conversation kept returning to the things we do – he owns a green and ethical superannuation company. Once more I felt that thrill of owning something that could remain little, or become something much more. As many times before I sat there sipping on my beer feeling invigorated by the challenge. This was in my hands, and I was capable of doing this. What great power that seemed! It was something we shared, something we each nodded at even as we acknowledged the ups and downs, the stress and worry, the sheer uncertainty – this, at least, was ours. The buck stopped right here, and what we made of it was entirely up to us. What more can you ask for? It seems a pity that more can’t experience that.

As the conversation went on I found myself expanding my vision. I spoke of how I had the itch to do something more, even as I’m mired in the doings of the massage shop. It was true, though I was surprised to be articulating it. Till then it had been a low rumble in the background. It had become more pronounced just the day before, a curiosity regarding what more I could do. Where to from here, what next, that sort of thing. Where did it come from? The thrill of doing I think. I spoke fluently, I felt wise and powerful, the words came easily as Bobby looked at me nodding his head from time to time, right on man. I felt a man of destiny.

I drove home afterwards with the sunroof open and the radio loudly blaring music from the Foo Fighters and Queen that I sung along to and rapped the steering wheel to.

Naturally things came crashing down just a little when I got home. About an hour after I learned that a masseuse I had just started that day had also chosen to end that day. I was not surprised, but it was a blow. I’d had the girls check her out again the day before, the masseuse who didn’t do backs. Now she knew how to do backs, and they both gave her the thumbs up. My instinct told me otherwise, but desperation overrides that. In my meeting with her I had sensed a woman willing but of fragile disposition. I thought that if things went well for her then she would likely be fine; but if she met with obstacles I was afraid that she would fold. This is what happened.

She served a customer,and the customer complained. This is pretty much the worst thing imaginable for me running the shop. My instinct is to give a free voucher to mend the damage, but that opportunity had passed. Now I had this girl on the phone to me admitting what had happened. I admired her for her courage in telling me, and felt for her. I spoke to N afterwards asking what we should do. In my heart I thought it was over, that her confidence was shot and that she would not come again. That was confirmed an hour later, but in the meantime I suggested that perhaps some more training would suffice.

In the evening I made myself a modest dinner, I watched TV, the football, went to bed – but this is where the second part takes over.

How the Case for Austerity Has Crumbled by Paul Krugman | The New York Review of Books

24 May

How the Case for Austerity Has Crumbled by Paul Krugman | The New York Review of Books.

This may not be of interest to many people, though perhaps it should be. Krugman – a Nobel laureate – is always an intelligent and cogent columnist. He has strong views on economics, but so he should – he knows his stuff. I always enjoy reading his articles, and this one is neatly timed after my post last week about budget deficits, and the ridiculous commentary that seems to accompany them.

If you want to learn something, if you want to be informed, then read. Otherwise just stick with the tabloids. Or the comics.

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What I’m reading

20 May

After watching the movie a couple of months ago I picked up the book of Cloud Atlas a couple of weeks ago. I’m near finishing it now. It’s an interesting read and a bold story. It contains some virtuoso writing, and though some might consider it high-brow, it’s pretty easy reading. I have nothing to say against it except than I put it down I’m not sure that it’ll leave much trace in me. I could be wrong – the last 80 odd pages might clinch it for me.

As always, I read several books in parallel. I read Everyman last week. I picked it up thinking it was another book, but once in my hand thought bugger it, I’ll read this instead. Some years ago I listened to the audio version of it, and it had a profound effect upon me. In the years since I’ve much of the book haunt me at different times. Reading it the old-fashioned way was not quite the same. This ground had already been broken, so there was not the surprise of that first reading. And though I prefer to read than be read to, the experience this time reading in the comfort of my own home was distinctly different to that listening to it whilst out and about, riding on the tram and walking the dark and wintry streets of back then. Back then I was a body and a pair of eyes observing the world about me even as I listened to the book. As I listened I would find myself reflecting on the story whilst observing the things around me. In a way those observations contributed to the experience of the story, and the words themselves, profound, carefully weighted, true, became a pseudo commentary of my life, and observations of it.

Back then it resonated very powerfully with me. Many of the themes have stayed with me since and, as I get older, recur in my mind at regular intervals. While the book as a whole did not have the same impact me now as it did then, those same passages jumped out at me. I tried talking to someone about it the other day, but I’m not sure that she properly understood. A book like this will resonate differently with different types. I think it speaks more to the female experience than the male, and then more so to the man vital and active and with a strong ego. In full flood – in the prime of life – those attributes feel rich and abundant. They enhance the experience of life I’m sure. But as the body declines, as this novel charts, so to does the experience of these things. The spirit is willing yet perhaps, but the body has changed, and, most pertinently, the world no longer sees you as it once did. That’s a scary, desperate realisation, and much of what makes up the male persona – particularly the alpha male – is about preserving and hanging onto that as long as possible. To become frail is a bitter existential pill.

I read a book called Gun Machine, by Warren Ellis. This was an excellent book of its kind, an enjoyable, quickly consumed bit of entertainment. The writing is skilful, but the reading of it is pretty much like the reading of something on holiday. Reading it you’re immersed, but when its finished, its gone.

A book I had a less favourable impression of is Haters. This may well become a movie apparently, and I guess I can see the potential in the premise. All the same, I didn’t enjoy this though I read it to the end. The writing is no better than average, and there’s something just a little poisonous about the story.

No-one Loves a Policeman sounded like it might be interesting. It was, culturally, but it had none of the atmosphere I was promised on the blurb.

In the last month I finally completed a book I started reading years ago: The Sailor From Gibraltar, by Marguerite Duras. She’s an author I greatly admire, and there is a lot of great writing in this book, but it struggled to hold me. Towards the end I thought it got a bit weird, though this is not intended as a conventional novel. It’s about obsession and aimlessness, detachment and alienation.

Mario Puzo wrote the Godfather books, and so it was on that basis I picked up one of his books going cheap: The Dark Arena. It’s set in Germany just after WW2, centring on the occupying forces – and one in particular – and their relationship with the local Germans. It’s a shady story that feels true enough, but which also feels a bit dated. You can imagine it selling ok back in the time it was written – 1953 – but reading it now it seems archaic in some way. I read it in fits and starts, with neither pleasure or displeasure.

Finally I read The E-Myth Revisited, by Michael Gerber. It’s one of those books you find in the business section of the bookshop, and is one of the cult books of its kind. This is on one of my reading lists, so I caught up with it. It was apropos given that I’d just taken over a small business when I set about reading. I’m not a big fan of the folksy style of writing these help books, though I guess it helps digesting. Much of what I read here was eminently sensible, and more, but a lot I think I already knew. It was good to be reminded nonetheless, and it did prompt me to get more involved in the business – just as I needed to.

I have a big pile of books waiting by my bed to be read in the months ahead. Some I picked up from second-hand book shops. I bought a bunch online through the Book Depository, and a couple in a real life bookshop. Looking forward to getting stuck into them, as always.

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Sunday morning in the bath

19 May

I’ve just finished reading the paper, and crawled out of bed with the clock having ticked passed nine and the morning sun – for the moment anyway – quite bright. I’m tapping away here wearing a pair of track suit pants I lounge around in indoors, with the remnants of my latte drying in the bottom of the cup. In a minute or two I’ll get up and run myself a hot bath.

Not everyone enjoys baths. I can’t imagine why not. I love them. That said, it’s very rare I have a bath at any time but late afternoon or early evening. That’s the perfect time for a bath, but there is a moral aspect to it as well I think. I’m of the generation who think it’s bad form to watch TV during the day, and who get restless occasionally enjoying ourselves while there is work to be done. To shower in the morning is necessary from the hygienic perspective, and approved because it is entirely functional. One of the great things about lounging in a bath is the utter indulgence of the act, which goes way beyond getting a good wash. What is properly appreciated after a long day of work and activity feels a tad misplaced at the beginning of it. I haven’t earned this indulgence. Am I getting soft?

In this case I happily permit it. It’s Sunday after all. I’m happy for you to go to church: I’m having a bath. I ache too, am weary in my bones after a few days of abrupt over-indulgence. Despite coming straight from bed (albeit from a sleep littered with odd dreams), I feel that reclining in the soothing hot water of a bath will do wonders to knit my muscles again, will ease my old bones, and for the fraction of the hour that I’m there, will calm my mind.

After a full Thursday evening of food, wine and dessert, on Friday night I attended the annual barrel tasting at the NGV. This is always a fun event. You rock up, load up on some excellent cheese, partake of the nibbles circulating the hall, before starting on the journey of wine discovery. This is perhaps the sixth year in a row I’ve done this. I always have friends keen to join me. This year it was JV, always keen, and Donna.

We have a system. We do a lap of the room first tasting all the whites. We’ve lined our stomach with a bit of food (including, this time, a bowl of fries as well as a pint of Grolsch at nearby bar beforehand), and have a general disdain for spitting – though the dregs are happily poured out if the wine is not to our taste. That room is precious.

Having disposed of the whites we get down to the real business of the night – tasting the red wines. As most years there were some rippers. The Dorrien is always good, and the 2010 Krondorf Shiraz just great. As always the Stonyfell was good to – JV and I shared cases of both the Krondorf and Stonyfell walking out.

The room is crowded, noisy, full of wine connoisseurs, celebrating their affection in the most fun way possible. Inevitably it can take its toll. This year JV started to get a bit wobbly an hour out from the end. In past years we’ve all got there, either individually or as a collective. Food becomes the cry, so after making our purchases we filtered out of the grand building into the cold of St Kilda road, from whence we wandered up to get an overpriced burger. At about 11 we set off for home, JV and I sharing a train. He was done, nodding off in his seat so that I had to prod him awake to remind him to get off at his stop. I was fine, but got off at Hampton to find a misty rain falling, through which I walked along the dark streets to home.

I woke yesterday feeling very full of everything. You know that sluggish feeling, and I refused to see myself in the mirror after getting out of the shower. Afterwards I popped into the shop to do the usual duties, before heading out over the bridge to Burnside – I place I’d never heard of previously, let alone visited.

I was there to celebrate the wedding of two of my ex-colleagues from work years ago. In about a month they tie the knot in traditional style in KL, from where N hails – and I’ll be there. Yesterday was a civil service I missed, followed by a small gathering and a barbecue. I was there for that.

I was not yet convinced that alcohol was my friend, but with beer in hand found that we’d made up easier than I thought. I chatted with my friends, with Fozzy particularly, and with his friends, who I had not met until that day. I like meeting new people when I’m in the mood, and I guess I was in the mood yesterday. We exchanged stories and laughter, each meeting over the common reference point, our joint affection for the now officially married couple.

I met with the parents too. I chatted with Fozzy’s dad about El Salvador, from where they emigrated nearly 30 years ago, and about our love for our dogs – Rigby is a star, much better known in social media circles than me. N’s dad, a Malaysian Indian, asked me what I liked to drink. The imprudent answer to that is everything, but it was an answer he seemed to relish. I gather from N that he is charge of the booze for the wedding proper, and has taken to it with some gusto.

It was one of those fond family style events you can recall a hundred times in your past, plates and bowls of cooked foods and salads you help yourself from, a table too small to accommodate all so that you find yourself perching anywhere convenient, and loud conversations being carried out across and intersecting each other, all a happy chaos. I left late in the afternoon full as a goog, full of homely hospitality, and generally content in mind, if not body. I look forward to the wedding in a month.

Later today I’m heading out with the Irish for a 5 course Sichuan banquet in the city. On Tuesday I’m having a drink or two with a woman I had a one night stand with back in January – she’s kept in contact, though we haven’t seen each other since then. I have three lunches next week, including one full-on, and am catching up with the African again probably next weekend.

I need to slounge in the bath to contemplate all of this disconnected activity, to ease the muscles as they are, and to prepare myself for the road ahead.

Where does it all lead; what does it all mean? I don’t know. Perhaps it will become clear in the bath.

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No happy endings here

17 May

Been a busy week at the shop for me putting things right, but it’s starting to shape up just as I want it. Put new systems in place, initiated a couple of very promising marketing activities, and interviewed a succession of people in the cafe next door for receptionist and masseuse positions. Put a very keen receptionist on, and will possibly another.

Amid all of this are some interesting stories. Have been advertising for masseuse pretty well from the day I walked in the door. They’re obviously critical to the business, and there appears to be a tight market.

One day we got separate calls from two Asian woman inquiring about the role. In both cases they asked if we gave our customers a ‘happy ending’, and when we said strictly not they lost interest very quickly. No amount of money would induce me to do that, but I guess in pure economic turns they’re lot better off in shops who do just that – they probably double their take, if not more.

Another day another woman rang and asked the same question. This one sounded like an Aussie. When, once again, we said no, she thought it reasonable to ask if we allow them to have sex with the customers. She went on to explain that she was “desperate to have a baby.”

On Wednesday this week I interviewed a woman for a massage job. Had a chat first in the cafe before returning to the shop for a demo of her skills. How it works is that someone volunteers to be massaged while the prospective employee massages them under the close scrutiny of one of the masseuse already on staff.

In this case I volunteered to be the guinea pig as no-one else could be spared. I took my top off, but left my dacks on, before climbing on board the massage table face down. They entered.

Pretty well the first thing this woman on seeing me lying there was to state that she “hasn’t learnt to do backs yet.” That produced a bemused silence before Vi, my masseuse, suggest that I turn around so that I could be massaged from the front.

Turns out this woman is still studying Thai massage, and has not yet got to that stage of the course – though apparently she completes it within a fortnight. She proceeded to give me a perfectly acceptable front-on massage, but, as I told her afterwards, we do both sides of the body in our shop. I suggested she give me a call when she’s up to that stage.

Tomorrow I must pop in again for two more interviews and sessions on the massage table. Lucky me you might think, but truth is I’m not particularly partial to Thai massage, and there’s something about being a test subject that doesn’t quite feel right.

You missed the best news in the budget

16 May

You missed the best news in the budget.

Could not agree more, on all counts. Firstly, that Wayne Swan, and the government’s communications skills in general, are abysmal. And, more importantly, about the deficit.

Unfortunately economic discussion has been hijacked in recent years by political parties seeking political advantage, and more often than not making claims and accusations that have little relationship to the truth. Quite naturally the tabloid, often partisan, press will pick that up and blazen it across the front page as if reporting a crime againt the good citizens of Australia (though, I think, this is a worldwide phenomena).

The good citizens of Australia, many of which have no more idea about economics than they do about cold fusion, heave a collective gasp of horror before getting on talk back radio to hurl their uneducated invective to sympathetic shock-jocks. The rest quietly, and occasionally loudly, seethe.

As an aside, there is an instructive moral in this about the virtues of thinking for yourself, and making up your own mind. That’s become very unfashionable in this day and age when much of the general public prefer to get their opinions pre-articulated and off the shelf. I’m not sure if it is intellectual laziness, ignorance, or if it’s not something they teach in schools anymore, but regardless there is little that riles me more than uninformed prejudice masquarading as informed opinion.

I take great though grim pleasure these days in taking down those blowhards who present patent untruths and hand-me-down-slanders as fact. What makes it worse is that mostly that they oblivious of the fact – I have more respect for those wilfully prejudiced than I do for those who can’t be bothered being wilful and instead will simply package up as their own whatever the newspaper tells them.

While I’m on my high-horse, my contempt goes beyond the unthinking portion of the electorate. The media should do better, but the standards are a long way below what they once were, never to recover. And of course my greatest contempt is for those fine upstanding citizens representing us, the greedy, corrupt, self-serving politicians who would rather peddle an untruth if it serves their purpose, than acknowledge a truth that serves the nation better. Public service has become a misnomer.

Back to the contents of the article, which lauds the fact that our budget will be in deficit this year, and next as well. As anyone who actually knows anything about economics will tell you, there is a time and place to have a budget deficit. A deficit can be a tool to stimulate the economy. It’s not like your credit card Mavis. To spend more than what you have may be frowned upon in polite society, but in economic terms it means that there is more money in the system, and therefore more money to go around – and hence an increase in economic activity.

This was the thinking around the stimulation measures globally when the GFC hit. While there was much talk, and quite a bit of action regarding austerity measures, it is the worst thing in such circumstances because an ailing economy splutters and dies. It may seem counter-intuitive in such circumstances, but to spend more injects dollars into the economy and kick-starts activity.

Ok, enough of economics 101 – I’m no expert in any case, just an interested and engaged onlooker. I know enough to make up my own mind. And in this case I’m happy to join Michael Pascoe in giving a cheer about the looming deficits, for exactly the reasons he has given. You don’t want to do it every year, and you want to pay back what you borrow – an issue in many parts of the world, but not OZ (contrary to what the tabloids and the opposition nuff nuffs will tell you). Australia can afford a deficit now, and it’s all for the good in the present economic environment.

One can only hope that the misinformation about budget deficits will be wound back, and the cargo cult mentality in relation to budget surplus will be seen for what it is – absolute bosh at best, and political cant at worst.

Our state politicians perhaps should take a leaf out of this book – the fixation on running a balanced budget put Victoria behind the eight ball from the time the Libs took office. Even now, when there are worthy infrastructure projects needing investment commitments they’re reluctant to go into the red. Dumb economics, and ultimately dumb politics I would guess. Unfortunately it’s we, the general public – even the rabidly ignorant members of it, who pay for this stupidity.

Feet up, metaphorically

13 May

Here I am sitting at the reception desk in the shop. It’s fair to say I’d rather be home sitting on the couch contemplating dinner options, but by the same token it’s not nearly as bad doing this as I thought it would be.

I’ve never had a really cruisy job. I’ve had a few that would ebb and flow, including periods when fuck all would happen, but never a job as such where so little was expected of me that I could put my virtual feet up on the virtual desk.

Now I’m the boss here, and so while it’s not a good look I can put the authentic size 12′s up on the furniture if I feel like it. I don’t of course, but the reality is that sitting behind a desk in a massage shop is a pretty cushy gig.

I keep myself busy. I’ve got a spreadsheet NASA would be proud of which tracks every aspect of the business, and that takes some work to keep up to date. I’ve organised interviews for new staff and arranged an appointment with a printer. I made a call about sorting out an issue with the security cams, and there’s a few other things I tend to. Somehow though they ultimately subside until I’m doing little more than surfing the net, or peering out into the dark outside watching the traffic pass, or chatting with the clients as they come in.

I’m not sure quite how this is the case. At home I’m flat-out; here I’m leisurely. I’ve even got a book in my bag I might dip into later.

Is this normal? Are there really jobs like this? Or is it just me?

Ok, time for my book.

What the stars don’t tell you

13 May

This morning in my inbox waiting for me was my ‘weekly love forecast’. I’ve been receiving this for years. About 1 in 20 occasions I might click on the link to read it, out of random curiosity perhaps, or perhaps because something in it catches my eye. More often than not I don’t even open the email, instead deleting it automatically. I should unsubscribe, and it’s probably laziness that has prevented me from doing that as yet. When I think about it though I feel a kind of reluctance. I don’t believe in these things per se, and will read with a wry smile when I read at all, yet, like most people I suspect, there is an aspect of hope when I do take the time to investigate, a mix of sceptical amusement and ‘wouldn’t it be nice’.

The other reason I don’t go and unsubscribe is from nostalgic remembrance. I admit to that much sentimentality – that if I go ahead and hot unsubscribe then the last link to another time will be severed. It’s a silly thing, but very human. Back in the day when I hit subscribe I had a very different state of mind. I was in love – I think – and enduring the torturous twists and turns so much a part of romance. I sought reassurance, insight, understanding; I looked to the stars and to signs about me for clues as to where I was and where ‘we’ were heading. It was a time when I felt strangely mystical myself, but even I hadn’t I’d have wanted some sort of confirmation that what I felt was true. It was a time I might have peered at my tea-leaves in the hope of discovering some new insight.

The times have changed greatly. I drink coffee to start with, and the rare tea – generally with a tea-bag. I hardly contemplate my horoscope, and I just about abstain completely from ‘romance’. I’m in a different place and time, a completely different circumstance.

Generally that is how I go about things these days. There is the odd detour, often documented in these pages, but nowhere near as common as these writings would suggest. I remain thoughtful and observant, but even given the strange and myriad directions my life takes, I generally move in straight lines, moving forward with a inexorable rationality, dealing with things as they come my way. There are those detours though, however infrequent.

A few weeks back I had a busy day with appointments in the city, a visit to the shop, and catching up with the ex-owners in beatnik Windsor (I felt home returning to those alternative streets with cool cafes and hole in the wall bars with Spanish beer – but that’s another story).

It’s at about the midpoint of this day when the detour occurred. I’ve caught up with a bunch of people for coffee in separate meetings in the CBD through the morning. I’m on public transport, and catch a train from the city out to Malvern, where the shop is. I sit on the train with my music plugged in and look out the window. I feel a little sour. In my mind is a trivial escapade a couple of days previously. I’d been out with someone, we been social and then we returned to her home where she made it clear she was up for more.

I’ve certainly knocked back sex in the past, but it’s a rare thing. The rare occasion that I have it’s generally because the person proffering it has given me the shits so much that I can’t even consider it. Or, once or twice, when I’ve got calls asking for it now when I’m not there and can’t be bothered making the journey. Generally if it’s there though I’ll take it. Hey, it’s fun, mostly, and it seems arrogant to decline it. Plus, the sun shines you make hay. Tomorrow may be cloudy.

And so, like too many times before, I go along for the show. We have unspectacular sex, my fault probably because my heart isn’t really in it. We go through the motions, make all the appropriate noises at the appropriate times, and so on. I’m separate throughout, my mind elsewhere, uninspired and performing on automatic.

That’s what’s in my head as I ride the rails to Malvern. There’s a sense of waste. Why did I do that? I feel a little diminished by it. I’m all for sex, but at this moment I’m on the other side of it. This is the counterpoint to the past a few weeks back extolling sex for it’s own sake.

In any case we roll into Malvern station with the sun beaming down. I alight and suddenly remember the last times I got off at this platform – more than 20 years ago. Was it so long? I wondered as I walked the length of the platform. Longer probably, I thought. And of course with that thought came a jumble of memories.

Back in days long ago I was in love with a girl I’ve written about here, B. We worked together, and lived nearby – me in South Yarra, she in Malvern. I recalled those early, sweet days of getting to know each other, of realising like a profound truth that we liked each other. I recalled, and remember still the first time I called her. I felt so fucking nervous, like a schoolboy going on a first date. Her sister answered before putting me onto B. I could hear her sister laugh with her boyfriend in the background, affectionately amused by the call I think. Then B coming on and us speaking for half an hour.

By now the memories are in full flood. In the months and years after that I would often travel with her to this very platform, and to her home. There’s hardly anyone about, and I look around me as I climb the ramp to the concourse, as if to see the ghosts of our much younger selves many years ago.

The memories have been general till now, one after the other, a random collage of long ago moments that now as I exit the station centre on one memory.

I remember in those very early days, perhaps a week after that first call, and I am with her in her home. I had, perhaps for the first time of many, accidentally on purpose forgotten to get off at my stop and continued on to hers. I think she knew full well that was the case. We’d had dinner when she announced that she had an appointment to get her hair cut, and I was welcome to come with her.

So we left her home and walked the short distance to her hairdresser, just across the road from he station. We sat waiting for her to be called to the chair. We talked before she picked up a woman’s magazine beside her and in a happy, put-on voice read to me my horoscope. She began then to read her own, then stopped. Go on, I urged her, but instead she just smiled and put the magazine down.

Later, while she was getting her hair cut, I picked up the magazine to read what she wouldn’t read to me. And I understood. Her horoscope seemed to describe exactly the situation she and I were going through, stating that perhaps I was the man for her. Was she happy reading that? I believe so, and believed it. She was just too embarassed to read it aloud so rawly. Later I spoke to her about it. I told her I’d read her horoscope, and she just smiled.

Much was to come after that, much happiness and hope, a few dramas, and, ultimately, tragedy. I knew nothing of that then. I was just happy. I believed too. My heart was full. I had no conception of walking those same streets 25 years on, and of all that would happen in between.

All this was in my head as I exited the station and after looking left and right, crossed the road. Right where I remembered it was a hairdressing salon. It seemed so surreal. Was it the same salon? Probably not. Still, I could almost feel our ghosts again.

I walked on, down the street, around the corner.

Happy Mother’s Day

12 May

It’s Mother’s Day today, something I’d be very aware of even without the annual soft-focus media spotlight. It’s the second Mother’s Day since mum died, but it feels like the first really as last year mum had only recently passed away, and with all the other strange and disturbing things occurring in my life it didn’t really register. This year it does register. I had wondered about that, wondered what I might feel. I thought I would be fine, and I am, really. Still it was on my mind, and if it hadn’t been there’s been plenty of people in the last week to remind me of it.

For me this is a bit of a nothing day, and that is what I feel. I visited the shop this morning just to check in on things. We have a Mother’s Day special on for the day, complete with chocolate roses as a bit of a treat. I stayed about half an hour, then left. I imagined that in every car I passed there was a family bound to celebrate the day, and in every house, every restaurant, some celebration in progress. Back in Hampton I stopped in the local shopping strip to pick up some ingredients for a soup I want to make today. It was busy in my green grocers with people lining up to pay for bouquets of flowers. How familiar it seemed.

In anticipating the day I thought if I felt any sadness it would be that mum is gone, not dissimilar to what I’ve felt before and described here. I find instead that I feel something different, though the difference may be subtle.

I think I’m entitled to the odd selfish thought, and that’s what this feels like. Sitting here I feel like I’m missing out. While everyone around the country, around the world, is out to celebrate this day with their dear mother, as they have year after year, I am not – I have no mum to celebrate with. I’m not inclined to self-pity, and what I feel is a long way from that – but there is a slight, and unwelcome, sense of the forlorn.

It heartens me to see others enjoy this day. Perhaps it means more to me now in the circumstances, and so I have a greater appreciation of the pleasure others take in it. I can’t help but feeling a little sentimental about it – I see someone with a bunch of flowers and I wish them a happy day, and good luck to your mum as well.

For me it’s the way it is. At some point it happens to all of us, and I’ve been luckier than many. Anyway, I’ve got soup to make.

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