The Connection
Something happened on the way to work this morning, but nothing much at all.
Last night as I was walking home under pink clouds and retreating skies two brothers skateboarded by me. As they kicked and pushed up on the road behind me, I watched as they rode past, gliding every now and again while grinning at one another. The wilder one's smirk was his trademark; I could tell he wore it often. His energy came from the exhilaration left in the wake of car that he purposefully pushed past as it streaked around the bend. The other one glided along behind him, less concerned with beating the car. His expression was in concert with his mate but he seemed happy enough to play backing vocals. They were off to the park.
I got there a couple of minutes later. I had chosen this route to the train station and back because I it felt quicker in the spatial part of my mind. But I soon realised it was by far the best choice because of the stroll through Elsternwick Park.
Every time I walk or cycle through Elsternwick Park I look for a certain tree. How I will find it I don't know, and this is not my great concern. This certain tree entices me for a reason. A couple of years ago the drummer from crowded house tied a rope around his neck and hanged himself here. I heard it on the radio and on the tv. His listless body was found hanging there in the morning. I always think of who might have found him and I hope that whoever it was, it was not a young child walking to school. I remember a fog that descended here one night cycling home. I imagine the discovery of a dead man hanging from a tree near the small lake in the eerie mist of an autumn morning.
As I look for the tree I wonder why he chose this place. There aren’t many trees to hang a whole body on and those that are strong enough can easily be seen from one of the four surrounding streets. Did he do it because he wanted the attention? I don’t know. But I am sure he found this place beautiful just as I do.
It is almost surreal; stuffed here in inner-suburbia. And as I pace through it I feel that if I willed it enough I could take a step to the left and find myself in the countryside in another world. As I near the skate bowl adjacent to my walking track I wonder why someone decided to fashion a nice little lake over there only a couple of hundred metres from Port Phillip Bay to the West. Flood plains...
Arriving at the skate bowl I see the two skateboarders weaving up and down and along as two little boys, themselves on skateboards, with helmets that make their bodies look even smaller – they can’t be more than 10 years old - watch on in anticipation. For some reason I think about professional skaters. I think about skating and the lifestyle that they chase on those four small wheels. I wonder about all those people that I have known who skate. I know the scene. They have fun, they likely drink, laugh, take the piss and make jokes. My thoughts continue on; I wonder if there would ever be some Muslim pro-skater. But not just some ‘muzzie’ on wheels, but a pious, quiet practising Muslim kid who doesn’t drink or party but goes home to pray. Could someone with anything but an excitable and social disposition be a pro-skater, or a serious skater at all? I have never seen a guy skating to the mosque for Friday prayer, kickflipping along the way. I picture them all getting along cordially, even fondness and enjoying each others company, while watching what they each might say out of respect. But when the shows over, their ways part with a smile and wave, but they part nonetheless.
Without contemplating the generalities of it all this is what I thought to myself. Then I arrived home, exited my working apparel, being careful to hang my pants up without compromising the crease. I cooked dinner, talked rubbish with Dan, watched tv, went to bed, then got up in the morning. This is where I tell you about something that happened, but nothing much at all.
It’s cold in the mornings these days, but a brisk walk makes it bearable. I step onto the short, dress shoe-beaten dirt track that leads from the roundabout onto the walking track in the park. This must have been the place where my imaginings had stopped last night as I approached the traffic to cross back over the roundabout. From my headphones triple J was rambling on. Lupe Fiasco was on the air. Myf, J and the Doctor had him on the show. If you know him, you would know his track ‘kick, push’ about the kid on the skateboard. At this time, the reference was meaningless.
I walked along and listened to their banter as my brain slowly defrosted from the cold winter’s night that lay behind me. But then Lupe said he didn’t drink alcohol in a passing thread of a passing conversation. I was amazed, although a passer-by would have noted absolutely no change in my expression at all. I didn’t know whether he was the Muslim in my mind or not. Nevertheless, spurred on by the coincidence and crisp air, I had processes the event into something meaningful. I walked on; the lucid world of my cosseted imagination finally connected with another world – the real world? – the ensuing metaphysical, quantum collision perhaps even let a little light escape. It was something alright, but nothing much at all.
Last night as I was walking home under pink clouds and retreating skies two brothers skateboarded by me. As they kicked and pushed up on the road behind me, I watched as they rode past, gliding every now and again while grinning at one another. The wilder one's smirk was his trademark; I could tell he wore it often. His energy came from the exhilaration left in the wake of car that he purposefully pushed past as it streaked around the bend. The other one glided along behind him, less concerned with beating the car. His expression was in concert with his mate but he seemed happy enough to play backing vocals. They were off to the park.
I got there a couple of minutes later. I had chosen this route to the train station and back because I it felt quicker in the spatial part of my mind. But I soon realised it was by far the best choice because of the stroll through Elsternwick Park.
Every time I walk or cycle through Elsternwick Park I look for a certain tree. How I will find it I don't know, and this is not my great concern. This certain tree entices me for a reason. A couple of years ago the drummer from crowded house tied a rope around his neck and hanged himself here. I heard it on the radio and on the tv. His listless body was found hanging there in the morning. I always think of who might have found him and I hope that whoever it was, it was not a young child walking to school. I remember a fog that descended here one night cycling home. I imagine the discovery of a dead man hanging from a tree near the small lake in the eerie mist of an autumn morning.
As I look for the tree I wonder why he chose this place. There aren’t many trees to hang a whole body on and those that are strong enough can easily be seen from one of the four surrounding streets. Did he do it because he wanted the attention? I don’t know. But I am sure he found this place beautiful just as I do.
It is almost surreal; stuffed here in inner-suburbia. And as I pace through it I feel that if I willed it enough I could take a step to the left and find myself in the countryside in another world. As I near the skate bowl adjacent to my walking track I wonder why someone decided to fashion a nice little lake over there only a couple of hundred metres from Port Phillip Bay to the West. Flood plains...
Arriving at the skate bowl I see the two skateboarders weaving up and down and along as two little boys, themselves on skateboards, with helmets that make their bodies look even smaller – they can’t be more than 10 years old - watch on in anticipation. For some reason I think about professional skaters. I think about skating and the lifestyle that they chase on those four small wheels. I wonder about all those people that I have known who skate. I know the scene. They have fun, they likely drink, laugh, take the piss and make jokes. My thoughts continue on; I wonder if there would ever be some Muslim pro-skater. But not just some ‘muzzie’ on wheels, but a pious, quiet practising Muslim kid who doesn’t drink or party but goes home to pray. Could someone with anything but an excitable and social disposition be a pro-skater, or a serious skater at all? I have never seen a guy skating to the mosque for Friday prayer, kickflipping along the way. I picture them all getting along cordially, even fondness and enjoying each others company, while watching what they each might say out of respect. But when the shows over, their ways part with a smile and wave, but they part nonetheless.
Without contemplating the generalities of it all this is what I thought to myself. Then I arrived home, exited my working apparel, being careful to hang my pants up without compromising the crease. I cooked dinner, talked rubbish with Dan, watched tv, went to bed, then got up in the morning. This is where I tell you about something that happened, but nothing much at all.
It’s cold in the mornings these days, but a brisk walk makes it bearable. I step onto the short, dress shoe-beaten dirt track that leads from the roundabout onto the walking track in the park. This must have been the place where my imaginings had stopped last night as I approached the traffic to cross back over the roundabout. From my headphones triple J was rambling on. Lupe Fiasco was on the air. Myf, J and the Doctor had him on the show. If you know him, you would know his track ‘kick, push’ about the kid on the skateboard. At this time, the reference was meaningless.
I walked along and listened to their banter as my brain slowly defrosted from the cold winter’s night that lay behind me. But then Lupe said he didn’t drink alcohol in a passing thread of a passing conversation. I was amazed, although a passer-by would have noted absolutely no change in my expression at all. I didn’t know whether he was the Muslim in my mind or not. Nevertheless, spurred on by the coincidence and crisp air, I had processes the event into something meaningful. I walked on; the lucid world of my cosseted imagination finally connected with another world – the real world? – the ensuing metaphysical, quantum collision perhaps even let a little light escape. It was something alright, but nothing much at all.
posted by Handsome Hish at 6:29 PM
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