I had the dubious privilege of
meeting Predator in 2000, in Erskineville, while he was doing
something for community TV on genetic engineering. He was a
sort-of rogue scientist who was in exile because of his political
stance and lifestyle choices. I never saw him again, except
maybe at a Broadway Squat party. When I heard he was dead, I
bought a copy of pred.txt from Paint it Black in Newtown. It
turned out to be the greatest thing I read in six months.
The book appears courtesy of his
associates at Cat, the people responsible for Sydney Indymedia.
It's a collection of disparate writing, but roughly arranged
in three sections. The first is a how-to guide for draining.
Not surprising considering that Predator is attributed with
starting the Sydney branch of the Cave Clan. The second section
consists of his scientific theories and unfinished phd thesis.
Predator was interested in both information theory and molecular
biology and drew analogies between them. The third part of the
book is most significant, and should ideally be printed as a
separate paperback under some literary prerogative. This part
contains his personal blog entries recounting the last six months
of his life - a truly remarkable romp throughthe Sydney underground.
It begins when Predator, 31 years
old, is diagnosed with acute renal cancer, and given approximately
two years to live. He calls it his "oncological marching orders."
Ironically, as a qualified biochemist, he already knows a lot
about cancer, and more than most of the doctors who are treating
him. He contemplates some truly radical therapy to perform on
himself. But he knows the odds are against him, and instead
lives out his last days as fully as possible.
During the next six months he is
sleeping with no less than five different women. "Not in parallel,"
he tells an acquaintance. It appears some people are attracted
to his "death porn" and the scars from his operations. He is
involved in several farcical scrapes, which he describes in
vivid detail. For example, after carelessly wandering through
a drain with Purple Death Fairy he is apprehended and charged
by police. He rides his motorcycle around town, dodging speed
cameras by riding in the gutters, the peg an inch from the kerb.
He attempts to secure an early death by buying pure heroin,
but is ripped off. He contemplates explosives and tries to cash
in on his super. He catches a computer hacker at the Universtiy
of New South Wales, breaks into a disused factory in Port Kembla
and considers fatherhood.
Simply put, these diaries are not
only a record of life with a terminal illness. They are also
a riotous celebration of Sydney. It's the anarcho-lifestyle
that usually remains virtually invisible to people outside of
that culture, here told with complete candour. "I'm so glad
I never pissed my life up against the wall," he says, quoting
Tism. Predator records these thoughts and experiences with an
infectious cynicysm - he's a fine wordsmith, among his many
talents. Even the biology is easy to read. Then, suddenly the
cancer takes control and the entries disintegrate. His plans
to take his own life have failed for a variety of reasons, and
he is sent to hospital under the care of his father, who doesn't
really understand him. One of his girlfriends takes over the
diary and the last pages are her record of a few weeks in hospital.
She doesn't have the same vocabulary or sense of humour as her
lover, but it makes a fitting conclusion.
It's easy to see this book has
a great future. Doctors should prescribe it to cancer patients,
junior schools should put it on the mandatory reading list and
Cave Clan members should analyse it for encrypted messages.
At the moment however, it's not easy to come across. Contact
cat [at] cat.org.au,
or read some of it online at http://tinyurl.com/2tzxq.
