“Since we parted
All of my world’s been gin.”
- The Saints, Wrapped Up And Blue, 1989
“Nobody wants to be the weak one
We all want to go from strength to strength.”
- Bernie Hayes, You Made Me Hard, 2000
“I’m gonna cry myself blind.”
- Primal Scream, Cry Myself Blind, 1994
When do you finally admit that the world is moving on, and perhaps you’re not quite keeping up?
The ARIA awards were announced last night, but that didn’t faze me. For the past umpteen years I have ignored the television coverage, mainly as a protest against the mainstream record companies’ attempts to hijack the entertainment. Human Nature? Puhleeze. It’s getting worse than the Grand Final.
Instead I smugly scanned the nomination list and mentally ticked off the Bernard Fanning, Ben Lee, Claire Bowditch, Augie March and Tex, Don and Charlie releases on my shelves. Not exactly cutting edge I know, but given my advancing age and musically stifled place of employ (not to mention lengthy exile from cool inner-city live venues) I think I can be forgiven much. (Accomplished as they are, I have not spent any funds on Wolfmother. I already own a brace of Led Zeppelin records and don’t need another just yet).
No, my sad epiphany occurred when last week I was overcome by a low-chocolate moment. These happen to me rarely, but when they do they manifest as more compelling than crystal meth withdrawal. In need and armed with the $1.15 in change from my wallet, I sought solace from the workplace vending machine – only to find it contained no item for less than $1.80.
Oh, the horror. The humiliation. Were my hard earned, carefully husbanded coins worth so little? Since when did the humble chocolate fix or chip ration cost so much? By that reckoning, if the union’s industrial action is successful, I may benefit to the modern-day cost of a Toblerone. Before tax. Chastened, I returned to my desk to face that sad second-best, an apple left over from lunch.
Some things do move on. And sometimes I hate the Corporation, for its commitment to documentary even if the subjects aren’t charmingly furred, finned or feathered. Too lazy to change the channel before Media Watch this evening, I’ve just endured a brutal 4 Corners program looking at dementia. Well, ‘endure’ is too stoic a word; lest you get the wrong idea, I actually spent the better part of two hours bawling my eyes out. Sat at the dinner table, choking down the occasional bite of fish or salad, and wept.
It seemed to me so so sad, these people losing themselves, loved ones losing their life partners, children their mothers and fathers, bit by bit and without hope. Don’t even remember when the crying started; one moment I was eating and trying to finish the crossword, and the next minute I was breathing funny and couldn’t see. One part of my head was going, “Shut yer face, stupid”, while the rest was going, “Wha’ happen’?” I worry because these days I weep at the least provocation; but everyone in the world seems to be gone or going, gone, long gone. The loss goes on for ever.
After being battered by 4 Corners, I made it through Media Watch and thankfully have stuck around for the first bit of Denton, to see if tonight’s show was any good. There’s just been a lovely story about a Swedish concept, where a local library has started lending out people as ‘living books’. The idea is to allow borrowers to meet and ask questions of their 'book' (another person, a volunteer), and for the 'book' to tell their story to their borrower, the better to meet prejudice and overcome it with understanding. (Apparently the imam, the Muslim woman and the lesbian have been the most popular 'books').
Denton talked to the librarian, and then to a book, Sara – a transvestite – and her borrower Camilla – a young mum – and how their encounter helped the mum understand her own little daughter’s insistence that she was really a boy. (No need for me to repeat the details; if you're curious, read the transcript).
A story of great hope and compassion, it made me think of all the people I know who would make such good reading, and of how perhaps I could be a book too one day. I wish my Mum could have been a book, her life was made of such stories.
If I were a book, what story would I tell?
What story would you tell?
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