Editorial notes: The first part of this short autobiographical narrative refers to the time Shai lived in a debilitated farmhouse in the Brisbane area. I was there is June 2015 and the description of the farmhouse, its surroundings and inhabitants is spot on.
The last paragraph is Shai’s beautiful, yet painful, reflection of his continuing battle with drug addiction. The analogy he draws between his journey and Frodo’s journey in the epic trilogy of “The Lord of The Rings“, is deeply moving as it describes Shai’s view of the torturous path out of drug addiction.
We lived in a farmhouse with – since this is all made up I’m going to call them by their real names – the Bronwin’s, whom I term after the first name of the family’s matriarch, Bronwin. She had her man hooked, a NZ ex-fisherman, and they used to spend all day and night (barring shifts at the airport) at the main and only dining room, watching TV, lots of music videos, drink and smoke. The kitchen next room was extensively marked by the presence of cockroaches which lived out in the open, whole colonies. The sweet couple would engage in frequent and loud fornication, filling the environment with a sound like “Ugnnnnnnnnn” (the precise melody of which forever perplexed me).
Sharing a wall with the Bronwin bedroom was her son. Who lived with his girlfriend.
Downstairs is Corey and kids. Kids are lovely.
In the poolhouse is Corey’s eldest daughter, who is a separate economic unit, and who lives with her boyfriend. The two are sexy hot.
The pool is full of stagnant rainwater and branches.
Then out a bit is the big blue shed. Which is Dave’s shed. And he was my ex’s ex. And Dave’s current miss is his niece’s mother, aka brother’s ex-miss.
And around all that were horse and cow paddocks.
My ex would always complain about it. Like how she couldn’t relax, because there were always people everywhere.
“But you don’t have to talk to them.”
“But they’re still there. I just want some peace and quiet.”
Which in retrospect was an early sign of her bourgeois tendencies. As was her further complaint.
“And there’s dog shit everywhere.”
Which was true.
“I know. It’s so strange.”
Which was also true.
—
Oh man. I gotta tell you more about that Kitchen! It had some sort of linoleum floor. Which was good because it meant that it was moppable. Which it was once a week. But it was basically grubby. It was the combination of the dogs walking in and out, the half-a-dozen plus people that used it as a thoroughfare to the toilet and laundry, and its general use. In that regard it was disgusting.
There was a deep-frying and it was used. Imagine really gross deep fryer. Now it’s not cartoon gross, because there’s no mould or smelly lines. Um, think of a brand new shiny silver deep fryer filled with clear oil, now add oily, congealed, stained, food bits, unpleasant to the touch, unpleasant to the beholden, features.
And cockroaches. Armies of them. Legions. They had like pocket bases, where they concentrated, something to do with combinations of nesting habitat and food proximity. And there were so many, walking on the counter, on the wall behind the counter, on plates of food, in the sink running out when you turn the tap on.
I fought a war later with the cockroaches. The war lasted a couple of weeks. And I won. Though it was a victory only by forever stalling the enemy with traps and poisons.
I was the first Jew in my neighbourhood to get three Nobel Prizes. One each in Medicine, Peace, and Literature. My mum was so proud.
My main job for a while was picking up horse shit, which entertained me thoroughly by the spirit of its novelty, having never done any work before.
On the last day, he went for a walk at night down the path that lined the cement stream. It was a cement clad rivulet crossed by cement bridges, and backed by copy cat houses. It normally ran low, so that if a supermarket trolley lay on its side, about half would be above the waterline, and ducks may be prone to using these to sit on. When it rains the waters rise substantially, and shopping trolleys are washed away.
He lay down under a Buddha tree, which was a tree casting a shade hiding him from any onlookers, and smoked a fat reefer. He thought about the stars, and how they’re the same universe that Socrates saw, and what we would say to him, and what it means to talk to spiritual figures, and the role of autochthonic self-creation versus nurturing at the feet of past gurus, and of the songlines that once passed through him.
On the way home I thought about two contrasting descriptors for my life. I was at the late beginning of an epic journey that takes me from being a heroin addict to a valuable professional doing some pretty cool stuff. And I envision the long road Frodo imagined lay between him and Mordor. Except my Mordor is hopefully less violent. But on the other hand the battle was every day, and in fact, every decision wherein we are prone to being tawdry in our responsibilities to our self, therein we are due to talk to Krishna and be taught the value of service. I envision the long lines of men in the Bagavahad Gita. The soldiers aligned in armour and sword. Archers and horsemen. Both armies scream with noise to celebrate the start of the war and cast fright. The battle is now, and you MUST fight.
