I was an angry young man

[I found this essay while going through some handwritten papers and notes I am transferring onto the computer. It was written in probably the second half of 1999, when I was planning on leaving Canberra. It is surprising how much of this still stacks up. It is reproduced here warts and all.]

I am thinking of moving back to Melbourne and, wide-awake, I know I will end up in cheap housing in Depreston or Unfairfield where the defeated citizens of the Northern Suburbs pack sullenly into cheerless conductorless trams. Less is more these days.

The stoic Edwardian indignant cheerfulness, larrikin Catholic charm and Mediterranean swagger of those chaotic streets has been boarded up and replaced by a lobotomised suburbanness with a stark, obsessive, authentic passionless new that only an architect could be pleased with. The streets are teeming with TV programmed drones full of predictable obsequious rebellion that is no insurrection at all – they bought it, off the rack. They trade passion for labels – and labels of labels.

Lamentations are futile. Melbourne, a huddle of windswept memories, is littered with its own unburied dead. The Fitzroy Club Hotel is now a dialasyis [sic] centre.

The pernicious fascism of opinion whines against the sad view we could all use in a fleeting vision of what constructs us. No one wants to know more than the façade reveals. No one wants anything to be behind it. What point of sacrifice when the fields of battle at Arden Street, Glenferrie, Victoria Park, Lakeside, Junction Oval and Brunswick Street are little pathetic venues for the second rate, A [sic] place for weeds to grow? A place for myths to dissolve and several generations of passion to evaporate. The past may as well not have happened.

But it did happen.

Hungry men in hewn army coats dyed black. Their hair lank from worry, neglect and the weather huddled by the Yarra and the Maribyrnong. Fat whores and tribes of children. Angry bicycles. Sad horses that has always been old, like the men bent over the reins. Perplexed immigrants looking both ways quickly without taking a step. The way Ice Cream melts.

It is more than melancholic nostalgia. It is rude defiance of collective effort. John Batman and William Faulkner didn’t lay every brick. Anonymous and underpaid millions created this space, and if we mask their ills it only cheapens their good.

It is not that that time (the past) will ever be again – it is the stupendous denial that it ever was. How can a person reflect on the travails of their predecessors and then profit using the same mentality of past tyrants!

By identifying bastadry it is then no solution to go off and be a bastard yourself. My name has no station in Melbourne, no place. I never grew up there, none of my family did. I witnessed it as a stranger witnesses a fatality – with ineffectual [sic] remorse. I loved Melbourne from afar. She is dying from the disease that took away my own town, Sydney – the disease of greed.

Sydney is now a shiny laquered [sic] over cesspool. A swamp of indignity – with no respect for anything that is permanent. It eats it’s [sic] own excrement for want of anything better to do. Melbourne has become little better.

Now I live in exile and always will. It matters little where I go so out of respect for their faltering memory I have sat down amidst my most ancient of ancestors within my grasp. And they have little to offer for their place has been swept under the tide of the supreme insidiousness of what laughably passes as the nations [sic] capital. A place that all too well shows the braggart hollowness of this failed European outpost.

Their intentions are so shallow they may as well build their monuments of plaster + cardboard as no policy favours anything beyond one lifespan – and life is short.

It is hard to find goodness when things subjective have been flailed by the whip of post-modernism. So goodness be buggered, I will throw my lot in with the art of paying attention.

It very well may be that I will go to Melbourne to learn how to make a quid out of writing bullshit. Or I might just as well go and live in Bermagui or Adaminaby or some such place and wait to die – fixing my mind on such simple and obnoxious pleasures as watching the seasons change, accepting mortality, remembering and learning of the past, and…paying attention.

I have already learnt that there is no capacity to human foolishness – a million tales in a thousand languages have already told us this. I will now leave the fools to admire the emporer’s [sic] new clothes. I have nothing to offer profit, except my dead body – and they won’t get that for a whiles yet. In the meantime those flint eyed pultroon’s [sic] with their commerce and real estate can KISS MY ARSE. I will spite the living by remembering the dead, a club we will all join sooner or later.