the ghost of aussie past

I found the sketchbook that I took with me to Australia in 2003(?) I thought as a way of keeping you guys happy while I’m on my holibobs I will type up a couple of extracts and show you a couple of scans as way of filling the blog with lazy content. The picture is a pencil drawing I did of my friend Twon from a photograph.

22.9

Why does the first beer taste so good, even if I did have to walk through the sketchiest area to get to it? Past the skank haired street squawkers, dusty crumbled poor sitting on milk crates and the firm hands of greasy fat men pulling you into this dive or that. Why does the beer taste so good? Is it the sating of a need, the creep up the ladder of alcoholism, a ladder leading to a milk crate of my own, neon blind and mumbling?

You know the saying “if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is”? Well I have an interview tomorrow for a job that the optimist in me (yeah, that stupid prick) is nervously hopeful for, and the cynic in me is bristling waiting for the catch, ever waiting for the flaw.

My beer is now half empty, or is it half full? I dunno, I sincerely think that sometimes I have lost out on some opportunities because my inner cynic screams for me to cut my losses. I have been In Sydney a week and a half now, I’m rapidly spending money I don’t have and no luck on the job front, so what have I got to lose? Apart from a whole morning of vague wandering in the vain hope of coming cross the “FREE MONEY” basket that the delusional prick in me half expects to find.

The second beer is here and the song playing is reminding me of my family, not in any specific way, its slow and I feel I should be missing them by now so I do – maybe it’s the beer. What am I doing in Australia? And more importantly what would I do back home? What exactly am I going to do with the rest of my life? All these questions are jammed and locked straight back into the back of my mind as the barmaid uses a pool que to turn on the biggest disco ball I have ever seen, red and white spots swarm the room like Liverpool supporting locusts, gods fifth plague was disco.

Excuse the melancholy, long periods of not knowing anyone in the same hemisphere tend to lead quiet introspection. I’ve nearly finished beer number two now and I should go back and rustle up some noodles, but at time like these I always think W.W.J.M.D?* and, of course the answer is have another beer. Now many people would scoff at the wisdom of having Jim Morrision as a guiding influence, especially compared to Ol’ Jeesey. But its worth bearing in mind that J.C. died in horrible pain nailed to a cross, and J.M. deid in the bath having a nap, plus J.M had better hair, its close, but he did.

*What Would Jim Morrison Do