Thinking inside a box

Tuesday May 31, Dublin

My hobbling is much improved, and although the ankle is still stiff and awkward, I think there is a fair chance that I can heal it myself using intuitive methods - i.e. gentle exercises, massage, careful movements.

I have been reading Peter Carey's True History of the Kelly Gang. I thought it was very good, and enjoyed it very much, although part of me remained reluctant to enjoy it, because Peter Carey's skillful authorship was so plainly present at all times - in his engagement of different voices, his sudden changes of perspective, etc etc. He is very good, I cannot deny. However, the novel is mostly written in what we are to take as the language of Kelly himself, and I don't think that Carey always carries this to perfection. I think he is sometimes tempted to become the 'great author', and add poetic touches which for me rang quite false for the voice of an outlaw and a semi-illiterate. This occurred especially at the end of chapters, where Carey could not resist the use of overly beautiful phrases.

I was not sure what to make of the 'Australian cultural rhetoric' in the book. Obviously the Kelly legend is important to our national identity, and Carey is keenly aware of this. I felt he sometimes over-played his hand with this, having Ned Kelly pronounce proud phrases about how bold and just the poor rural Austrlians were, as opposed to the 'Colonial English'. I think we are supposed to read this and swell with pride a what great, authentic, earthy, honest and democratic people we are. Beautiful idea, but I just don't buy it. If it ever were true, I don't think it is anymore. We are far too materially comfortable to be that gritty any more. I think many Australians are selfish small-minded people who gladly bow to authority if it suits there pockets. How else to explain the phenomenon that is John Howard?

According to Carey's account, in his final shoot-out with police Kelly repeated declared, 'I'm the bloody Monitor.' This was a reference to his failure as a schoolboy to be chosen as ink monitor. I hope that detail is true - not sure how much else in the book is.

 

Saturday May 28, Dublin

A very bad day.

The insurance company where I am currently working has a soccer team which plays for a trophy against teams from other companies; Thursday evening we played the quarter-final. It was the second half and we were 2-1 down, I was playing up forward and one of the midfielders had put the ball through behind the opposition's defence. Their goalkeeper came out and, although he was much closer to the ball, I thought I might just be in with a chance if I sprinted extra quick. Running at full pelt, I got to the ball about the same time as the keeper. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but next thing I knew I was on the ground, my left leg sending me the sort of deep aching messages that are never a good sign.

I could no longer run, so that was the end of the game for me (we eventually lost 3-2), and indeed I could barely walk, but I foolishly rode my bike to join the other players for post-match drinks at the pub. The Guiness I drank numbed the pain just enough so that I could make the injury worse by walking around on it. I even rode my bike home, and hobbled twice up and down the stairs to put some washing on. The I fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

When I woke up in the morning, things were not good. I sat up on the edge of the bed, and tried to put foot to floor. Agony! My ankle was having none of it. I could no longer walk, and still cannot yet.

I have spent the last day and a half in bed, helpless as an injured sparrow. I cannot go to hospital because I have no medical cover, and certainly don't have the money to cover the bills. I am a little worried that I may have broken some small bone in my ankle, though. I suppose I will have a better idea in another couple of days.

I feel very lonely here, crippled, alone in my flat. My housemates were here for the first part of Friday, so I could yell at them to bring me a glass of water, and Pia picked me up a loaf of bread from the shop. But then they all went away for the weekend, so for the last 24 hours I have been helpless. I get up and hop to the kitchen, to the toilet. Indeed, my flatmates went away after using the last of the toilet paper. Leaving a cripple alone in his flat for three days without any toilet paper - is that a nice thing to do? No. I am thankful that the codeine tablets I have been devouring to quell the pain also have a constipatory effect.

*  *  *

I decided I had to go out. I needed food, toilet paper - I needed to read my emails! I found a broom in Steve's room, and wound a towell around the brush, making a sort of crutch. This does not make a good crutch. Once in the streets, I learnt that:

My outdoors adventure was arduous, exhausting and horrible. My right leg got so tired from all the hopping (hopping with shopping, what is more) that I soon had to stop every ten metres and rest against a wall or railing. Everywhere, people were obviously embarrassed by my appearance, though no-one offered to help. Sometimes I think the bulk of humanity are emotionally retarded. When I went to purchase things from a counter, or when someone picked up the item I had dropped (okay, someone did help with that), I was met with this mute politeness, this horrible lack of eye contact. So many people just can't deal with others' suffering, can't deal with real challenges to be overcome, can't deal with an unfamiliar predicament. They shrivel and wilt in the face of these things - crawl inside themselves and pretend it's not happening.

This reminds me of a scene I witnessed in Melbourne about a year ago. I was on a tram when this fat, bespectacled, goofy looking man boarded. He was very child-like, and obviously had some mild mental handicap, possibly autism. He wanted to play the following game, and was eager to play it with anybody: he had typed some letters on his mobile phone, and asked a fellow passenger, 'which is the coldest capital city in Australia, do you know?' If they didn't know, he would type another letter, then ask again, chuckling to himself and very excited by the puzzle he had set. If the person couldn't or wouldn't guess, and he had to type too many letters, he would eventually surrender the answer, 'HOBART' (I think).

No-one on the tram would play his game; people didn't even politely decline, they just looked the other way and pretended he wasn't there. Too intimidated, because he was too 'weird'. Now, I ask you, who in this situation was the 'retard', him or them?

 

Sunday May 22, Dublin

Dreams

The first dream I remember from last night is one I have had many times before. I am walking along when I notice, say, $20 on the ground. I pick it up, but as I stoop, I notice another $10 nearby. The more I look, the more I realise that the ground is almost littered with money, which I begin to gather greedily. When I was a child, I used to dream this with coins, but as I have grown older and my economic desires have grown more ambitious, the dream has come to feature notes. I now understand better why I felt so strange about the events of May 5 (see blog entry below).

Later I dreamt about book publishing. I dreamt that I was trying to explain to my sister why publishing books in Australia is so difficult. I explained that in America, the people have boundless enthusiasm for all things American; in Britain there is still the lingering suspicion that they are the smartest people on earth; in Ireland there is such nationalistic feeling, and such a strong tradition of famous writers, that they should naturally prefer their own authors over foreigners. In Australia, however, we tacitly expect the best writing to come from overseas. All this I explained in the dream.

Next, I found myself in a meeting with a British publisher, who was interested in buying British publishing rights for Daniel Gloag's novel, Waking up with Strangers. I was very glad to negotiate, but we soon came to a sticking point when he insisted that in Britain it would have to be published under the pen-name of 'Colin Pignell'. I refused this condition. The dream dissolved along with the negotiation, and I woke up thinking about reasons why Colin Pignell would not be an appropriate author's name for this book.

 

Saturday May 21, Dublin

Last night I had my first real night out in Dublin. Late in the afternoon, I had moved in to my new quarters at the Rathmines share-house, and my new co-habitant, Steve, invited me to come along with him and his friends. First we went to his friends' house. These wer a clan of French bourgeois pot-smokers, who spoke most of the time in French, though they were perfectly capable of expressing themselves in English. We smoked a joint (apparently this has to come here all the way from Africa) and I kind of drifted off, tired as I was, watching the Frenchies' outrageous facial expressions, punctuated now and then by the fart-noise of the lips which only they could use to express dismay. After a while we were joined by their house-mate, as Irishman, and talk turned towards the prospect of clubs. The Irish fellow was able to get us in free at a reggae club which would usually cost us 15 Euro entry, so, joint-smoke already in the air, the appropriate phone calls were made, and off we went.

The club was somewhat outside the centre of Dublin, and perhaps because of this, it had a fairly laid-back, not-too-trendy atmosphere. It bore the decidedly lame title of 'The Venue'. It was almost midnight, and inside the band were already playing. They were a gaggle of bedreaded old Afro-Carribeans, flown in from London, I would guess. The skanking guitarist had a gold front tooth, and this periodically caught the stage-lights, lending a subtle menace to his otherwise joyous grin. This was all quite suitable for my degenerate level of wakefulness, as I could easily blend in on the dancefloor doing that vague stepping/swaying thing that reggae encourages. Rather than waste too much energy 'getting into the music', I was giving most of my attention to the people around me. I was interested to see the locals in action. In general, the crowd were unselfconscious, genuinely enjoying themselves, not too dressed-up. There was a girl at the front of the dance-floor, right up near the stage, whose head was entirely shaved, and was wearing a sky-blue tshirt and a long sky-blue skirt. She had this very thoughtful look on her face, which made me think she would be an interesting person. At some point, when the band were about to begin a new song, the singer suddenly stopped them, and announced that he 'would like to acknowledge the presence of the great singer Ms Sinead O'Connor'. The girl in blue reached up and shook his hand. Oh. So that was who she was. Maybe not a 'girl' exactly; but she looks young. At the end of the set the singer asked if she would get up and sing with them, which she did, and very well. The crowd, by this point, had worked themselves up from an easy-skanking trance into a reggae frenzy, which, to be honest, I didn't feel a part of, because I never really liked the band.

When I left and walked home, I was pondering with much satisfaction this European society in which locals and foreigners are always shoulder-to-shoulder, in which regular transit has become entirely normal. We get to know each other over the course of an hour or two, then, usually, move on. And meanwhile, we each carry entire worlds inside our heads.

 

Wednesday May 18, Dublin

I am becoming better established here, now with a room in a share-house, as well as work. The room is at the front of a second-storey apartment, it is huge and high-ceilinged, with a large window looking out on the street below. The previous occupant was a Spanish painter, and applied himself to the walls with great vigour, giving the space a colourful, airy glow. All this is very unusual for a Dublin room-to-let, and yet it is of a comparable price (E90/week) to any other budget accomodation in this city. Someone is now smiling on me.

Though I am very happy about the room, I am nonetheless very sad at the prospect of leaving the boarding house. It is hard to explain what a familial bond I have developed with the other residents here, especially the Slovakians with whom I share the room. There is very strong solidarity between us, we have the same goals, face more-or-less the same challenges (though I am much advantaged by English), and share most of our possessions.

I feel that I am down with the East-European gang, and, thinking back to my experiences with the '1st-class cabin' on the Thai train, I wonder I will really like it so much better having the luxury of a whole room to myself.

Matus continues to entertain with his incredibly idiosyncratic acquisition of the English language. When he wanted to explain a Slovak swear-word, he told me that it means 'easy woman'; when he spoke of how much he likes to go over mountains, he said he likes to 'tramp'; and he has more than once referred to drunken violence in Slovakia as a symptom of 'wrath'. Martin had me in hysterics when he told me that his wife calls him 'Bobo'.

Clare (my sister) left Ireland yesterday, for two months' travel in Europe, taking advantage of the heavy money earned here. She had just come back from the Irish countryside, where on a previous visit she heard Gaelic being spoken. She says it sounds like a dog talking. She is a vast traveller, and soon I think she will have been to every country in Europe (there are a lot, once you start counting all the small and obscure ones).

Another reason I am now feeling more 'established' is that I have a bike. Riding around on one of these always makes me feel just a little like I own the place; and in Dublin, wher the traffic is atrocious and public transport expensive, bike is the quickest and cheapest mode of transport. Since most of the cars are stopped in queues (sp?) most of the time, the cyclist can generally sail past them down the middle of the road, with a self-satisfied, airy grace.

I came upon this fabulous machine last weekend, when I was walking past the council housing blocks in Rathmines, and some likely young characters offered me the thing for 15 Euro. As a first reaction I kept walking, but as I walked I calculated, and realised that within a week this bike would have cost me less than the equivalent bus transport. I turned around. I put it to the youths that they had stolen the said bike, which they unstrenuously denied, claiming that they were only selling it because they 'had another one up the gaff'. Had another one up the gaff, which they stole as well, more likely. I talked them down to 12 Euro, for form's sake, then paid 15 Euro anyway because I didn't have any change. Afterwards, I made sure to buy the flimsiest bike-lock available, so that hopefully I will have it stolen from me in turn (perhaps by the same youngsters), as I deserve.

 

Friday May 13, Dublin

This week, I have gone from having one job, to having three jobs. I have picked up various sources of temporary office work, all of which involve duties that could be adequately performed by a well-trained monkey. I have accepted all jobs offered to me; it is now just a question of which ones I actually turn up for. After two-and-a-half weeks of trailing round for nothing, wasting time and money, turning up to interviews only to find that they wouldn't hire me for reasons that were perfectly evident from my CV in the first place (and if there's anything I love, it's explaining to insurance and mortgage companies how dearly I would love to work for them, be a 'team player', show initiative without contradicting my superious, be ambitious but not too ambitious, and yes I would love to take the position of sales support administrator and can certify that I will continue in the role for the next 3-5 years) - after such a period, I am very glad to be calling the shots, in my own, monkey-like way.

For the last three days, I have been paid eleven euro an hour to put things in alphabetical order.

Alphabetical an days eleven euro for for have hour I in last order put the things three.

I am reading The Life of Pi, which I find slightly less amusing than putting things in alphabetical order. Too much cuteness - bleugh.

Dublin continues to be unremarkable.

 

Sunday May 8, Dublin

I have been staying for almost a week now in a sort of boarding house - not a 'real' sharehouse, but more homely than a hostel. There are about twenty people living here, spread among five or six bedrooms. There are more men than women, and nearly everybody except me is from Eastern Europe - predominately Slovakia. I like the Slovakian people very much. I would say that their overall character is one of relaxed seriousness. They are very courteous, pray fervently at night, usually offer me some of whatever they are having, and do their best to make conversation with their limited English resources.

I share a room with Matos, Martin and Stano. Matos and Martin are in their mind-20s, Stano in his mid-30s. Martin and Stano have wives and children back home, for whose benefit they heroically work here and send money home. The two younger men, especially, speak very little English; but there is work for everyone in Dublin (except me, that is), and with the new EU in full effect, discrepancies of supply and demand in labour are changing the face of the continent. The Slovakians do not particularly like it here; they miss home. Matos explains: 'In Slovakia, I am in willage. Montains. Woods.' Then he gestures with mild exasperation at the busy grey streets outside the window.

But in Slovakia there is 'little money, little job'.  Martin reckons the wages in a typical Slovakian car factory (a major source of employment there) to be about 60euro/week, compared with the minimum weekly wage here of about 300euro. But apparently even these jobs are scarce; Martin says that before, under Communism, everybody had to go to work in the factories as soon as they left school. Not working would get you into trouble with the police, as would having long hair, or playing rock music. But 'everybody have some money - no problem to eat, drink'. Now they have democracy, long hair, and Metallica posters, 'but no jobs'. Thus to Dublin.

Martin and Matos take the upper and lower of one bunk-bed, myself and Stanos the other. On another day, Matos told me that he and Martin are 'brothers in love'. I thought for a moment about what this might mean, and couldn't help but giggle. Matos realised that his English had one awry, and explained that his sister is married to Martin. Another favourite Matos-ism derives from the confusions of English pronunciation, by which he typically refers to the effects of the 'European Onion'.

 

Thursday May 5, Dublin

A curious incident: yesterday evening, I was walking the streets, feeling mildly despondent - still no job - when I began to wonder in a rather irrational manner how I might come upon some money. Sometimes I do this, where I start to look around me, and I see money everywhere, it's all around me, I just can't work out how to get some of it. Anyway, in such a meditation I thought I saw some Euro bills lying on the ground, and mused to myself, 'I wonder if I could make a living by just looking for money - literally?'. It was a few moments before I realised that what I had seen out of the corner of my eye actually were monetary bills. I walked over and picked up 25 Euro (almost double it for Australian dollars).

Now that was nothing so curious - I actually have a quite an eye for it, and find monetary bills on the ground perhaps two or three times a year. Five dollar notes lying around the street are not so uncommon as you might think in Australia - their grey-pink colour in fact blends in with the pavement quite well. However, when I arrived at my destination - a pub where I was meeting my sister - I sat down at a table to find that the previous occupant had left E1.55 behind them. More money! Now, this morning I set off walking in to the city to look for a job, and I couldn't help but cast my eyes around, vaguely wondering if money might just keep coming to me, but hardly expecting it to. What should I find, but another 20 Euro? Perhaps I have found my calling.

 

Monday May 2, Dublin

After ten days in Dublin, I am not especially glad to be back in the West. I am jobless, houseless, and eating badly for want of funds. I am sure I will find a job soon enough, not to mention a home - but still, the impovershed period of waiting is by nature stressful and unpleasant.

Dublin is very grey - sometimes quite pretty, but nonetheless, undeniably grey. Many of the people areound the city centre are of the greyest grey: dour, surly and irritable in their manners. I also find that they are, facially speaking, rather unbeautiful. There is a definite leaning towards coarse, piggish features. Their chins are ugly, but their accents are beautiful.

On the other hand, the pubs are warm, brown sanctuaries of old varnished wood. If only I had the means, stoic alcoholism would surely be the best way to deal with this place.

There are many Europeans here, working or studying while trying to absorb the intricacies of the Enlgish language. You can pick them in the street: when you see someone good-looking, they're almost certain to be Continental. An item in the news last night reported that four out of five Irish nationals would like to see limits on the number of foreigners here - obviously a reflection on their own aesthetic insecurities.

James Joyce is the great celebrity of the tourism industry here; and yet, almost 100 years ago he described Dubliners as suffering from 'moral paralysis'. Mid-way through his life, he fled for the Continent. In the National Library yesterday, at an exhibition celebrating Joyce's time in Dublin, I read of how he could not stand by a 'Church and fatherland in which he did not believe', and of how he would mount a moral rebellion, allowing himself only the weapons of 'silence, exile and cunning'.

* * *

A few nights ago, I surprised an old drunkard who was sifting thrrough the recycling outside my sister's apartment (she has lived in Dublin for about a year), collecting the alcoholic dregs in a plastic bottle. 'Is Martin here?' he immediately asked, hoping to excuse his presence. I more-or-less ignored the question, and we soon struck up conversation on other matters. He had one bright blue eye, and one eye of the deepest green, with almost no pupil. They looked in quite different directions, and the blue eye had a large bloody gash above it, now well clotted. When I mentioned that it was Friday, he stopped dead in his tracks and swore, 'Feck! Is it still Friday? But I'm so wasted - and still Friday!'

'You must have been going pretty hard,' I put in, hoping to help justify his situation. He kept murmuring for a while before he suddenly remembered:

'Oh, no, it was Wednesday I kicked off - must have been Wednesday.' He then lapsed into some highly instructive reports on Winston Churchill, telling me that the great man always drank 'champagne by day and brandy at night'. My companion was evidently quite a scholar of Great Alcoholics in History, and Churchill seemed to be his favourite. Apparently, Churchill announced late in life that 'I have taken more from alcohol than alcohol has ever taken from me.'

An example of a text message in the Brixton style (written by Lance):

No prob im in me sisters at d mo. i b leavin about 4r5 giz a time n place.