There is a valley between the freeway and the train line. A choked and filthy little creek struggles down the concrete path we made for it. The trucks that rumble past overhead would mask any sound the creek made anyway - but even in the wee hours of the morning the creek doesn't bubble nor does it flow. As you walk along the path up to the train station the air itself is stagnant, stale.
Just beyond the freeway, three beige coloured low income high rises stand like sentinels over all this, a pauper's kingdom. Rats thrive here, and among the Sudanese women who barely speak any English, there is already a fierce whisper about a baby borne away in the night by a giant, monstrous rat. They forbid their children from chasing after miskicked soccer balls in the valley, but this being a free country they wait for their mothers to turn away and then they take it in turns to be Burke and Wills.
Screaming in on the blustery wind smog and dust disembodied conversations in the form of micro waves of radiation from the mobile phone tower nearby. The woman with the tumour swears she gets snippets of conversation in her head - she plans to sue an Indian call centre for 'constant harrassment', even though she doesn't own a phone.
If she were to trek into the valley she'd find, amongst all the other debris, many broken and unbroken phones, discarded by jilted lovers or cornered thieves from the bridge up above.
And beyond the phones, amongst the hardy weeds which have flowered into trees, she might find a human ear. Where did it come from, this ear? And what does it now hear? What has it heard?
Perhaps, on your way to the station you stop and looking at the valley properly for the first time you imagine it blooming, into a real valley. You imagine a real creek, that bubbles along and perhaps you trade the high rises for some mountains. And then the sickness sets in as the squalor seeps into you and you think you're going to be sick. That's when you run down to the creek - hypothetically speaking, of course - but once there you see the severed human ear and you forget about all your sickness and the valley and all that instead you look around for the owner of the severed ear but there is no one else around and yes you half expected to see Peter and Jesus and the servant clutching his head but it's just you and the ear and then picking up the ear you
---
Watching their children play with the strange oval shaped ball, the Sudanese women whisper to each other about the young peach tree supposedly sprouting in the decaying valley. They whisper very quietly that there might have been a human ear at that very same spot but now there is a peach tree. And then one whispers so quietly that the others have to lean in to hear, forgetting about their children she whispers that when you eat a peach from this tree you hear the confessions of every tortured soul that wandered down to that filthy creek.
And at that very moment, their children are biting the juicy fruit and in each of their little heads a different monologue begins, "I...I don't understand..."
Friday 29 February 2008
Friday 22 February 2008
Peaches and Desire; the Glory of a Faded Photograph, the Pleasure of an Injured Ego
s c a t t e r e d
applause
like peacocks on show they
twirl
one two three four
on stage, handshake, smile for the camera
five six seven
...eight...
for a
moment
your heart stops
your eyes savour
your interst peaks
then
nine ten eleven twelve
number eight is gone
and already you
have begun
to forget because
fourteen is quite peachy.
applause
like peacocks on show they
twirl
one two three four
on stage, handshake, smile for the camera
five six seven
...eight...
for a
moment
your heart stops
your eyes savour
your interst peaks
then
nine ten eleven twelve
number eight is gone
and already you
have begun
to forget because
fourteen is quite peachy.
Thursday 21 February 2008
Peach Feels His Soul Being Slowly Sucked Out, Peach Smiles Politely and Says Thank You Very Much, Sir, May I Have Some More?
Sometimes, I think it would be nice to be irrational. There are entirely too many good reasons to do things we detest, and none whatsoever to do the things that break us out of the everyday banality of life. And when I say the things we detest, I don't just mean those things that are hard or boring - despite what Hillary Clinton might say about the youth of today. I mean those things which trample all over the little child inside us that wanted to be a painter, or an astronaut or perhaps quite simply not an arsehole.
It is not as though we are money hungry - god knows we have enough money being thrown at us by parents, grandparents, the government. Not to mention the monolithic mega corporations with whom we trade time and daylight for some small tokens - which we onsell for booze and peaches in order to lose what's left of the day along with our change as we fumble with the coins at the bar.
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked"
Not much has changed in forty years except that perhaps Ginsberg should have added a postscript: At some point I saw the best minds of my generation learnt to assimilate madness into managerial gibberish: now they run the world.
Most of us have convinced ourselves with nice rational arguments that we really are the best minds of our generation: accordingly, the mad hysteria of the corporate world awaits. For the rest of us, the problem is that we are too caught up in the aesthetics of our forebears - whether it be the Beats or other rebels of yesteryear - rather than forging ahead and finding our own paths. Those well-trodden paths of rebellion are now really just the same as "The Man" they oringinally fought against. And the same tired rationality underpins them both.
It is not as though we are money hungry - god knows we have enough money being thrown at us by parents, grandparents, the government. Not to mention the monolithic mega corporations with whom we trade time and daylight for some small tokens - which we onsell for booze and peaches in order to lose what's left of the day along with our change as we fumble with the coins at the bar.
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked"
Not much has changed in forty years except that perhaps Ginsberg should have added a postscript: At some point I saw the best minds of my generation learnt to assimilate madness into managerial gibberish: now they run the world.
Most of us have convinced ourselves with nice rational arguments that we really are the best minds of our generation: accordingly, the mad hysteria of the corporate world awaits. For the rest of us, the problem is that we are too caught up in the aesthetics of our forebears - whether it be the Beats or other rebels of yesteryear - rather than forging ahead and finding our own paths. Those well-trodden paths of rebellion are now really just the same as "The Man" they oringinally fought against. And the same tired rationality underpins them both.
Friday 15 February 2008
The Peach in the Desert
After days or weeks of dreary rain that left puddles on our tent floor, the sun showed herself from between mauve clouds. We stepped out of our tent, blinking our eyes in surprise.
We packed our things in the unfamiliar sunlight, holding onto our useless torches out of habit. The sun is out, we mumbled to each other, we must have a picnic. With only a vague recollection of what a picnic involved, we tried to pack our things in the unfamiliar sunlight. We paused to hold up our water bottles and books and biscuits up to the light, marvelling at the sudden transformation.
The beach stretched on forever into oblivion over the horizon. Looking back, the city, which we knew to be a vibrant labyrinth of laneways and rooftops, seemed to us from that distance flat, as if it were painted onto the hill that sloped away from us and into the azure sky. The clouds were sparsely scattered towards us from some mothership over the horizon, which gave birth to leonine cumulior else lennonesque strata.
At some point, we came to a stop. Putting down our bags and our towels, we survey the area. Before us, the endless bottomless pacific. To either side, white sand as far as we can see. And behind, green undulating dunes covered in close shrubs.
Reaching down to open our bags we find an uneaten peach resting on the hot, squeaky sand. We look at it for a second, an illusion of consideration before we each take a bite. There is a sepia sunkissed airbrushed quality to this moment.
---
I am walking amongst the green, verdant dunes and everything around me rises and falls as if I were actually out there on the great rolling ocean, which I can still hear clearly when I reach the top of a dune - but in the valleys I can only sense a low rumble, which might well just be my stomach, or my imagination, the cogs of which must be very rusty as they churn out this bizarre fantasy.
As I continue inland, the broken beer bottles and apocalyptic litter gives way to little patches of green sprouting between my feet, until I break the crest of the next dune and then I'm walking on a carpet of clovers beneath the azure sky.
I am luminous, standing here. I consider my own luminosity with my head cocked to one side. The sun runs her hand down my neck.
---
From the top of any one of these dunes, not more than three or four metres high, the whole world is visible. But no sound reaches up there, except the wind which whips and lashes about. Nowhere could be further apart from the rest of the world, even as it is laid out so clearly at the foot of the dune, like a map for the taking. And it is so removed from what it beholds because from here, the ability to describe that world laid out like a map is almost - but not quite, in reach. The words are there - the wind lashes, the sun caresses, the waves roll in silently - but then there is the urge to just gaze benevolently and stop speaking or writing or thinking, to just let it come, just this once more, because who can say when, if ever, such glorious sight will be granted again?
---
The world comes crashing back in a motorised roar. A teenager whizzes past on a dirt bike. His friends, in their utes and their four wheel drives, criss-cross over the dunes, blasting tunes across the sand. We clutch at each other fearfully but the magic is gone. We cannot will them away. Looking at out hands we see that the peach is gone - we've eaten it all. The taste lingers on our tongues but the hoons close in, circling.
We packed our things in the unfamiliar sunlight, holding onto our useless torches out of habit. The sun is out, we mumbled to each other, we must have a picnic. With only a vague recollection of what a picnic involved, we tried to pack our things in the unfamiliar sunlight. We paused to hold up our water bottles and books and biscuits up to the light, marvelling at the sudden transformation.
The beach stretched on forever into oblivion over the horizon. Looking back, the city, which we knew to be a vibrant labyrinth of laneways and rooftops, seemed to us from that distance flat, as if it were painted onto the hill that sloped away from us and into the azure sky. The clouds were sparsely scattered towards us from some mothership over the horizon, which gave birth to leonine cumulior else lennonesque strata.
At some point, we came to a stop. Putting down our bags and our towels, we survey the area. Before us, the endless bottomless pacific. To either side, white sand as far as we can see. And behind, green undulating dunes covered in close shrubs.
Reaching down to open our bags we find an uneaten peach resting on the hot, squeaky sand. We look at it for a second, an illusion of consideration before we each take a bite. There is a sepia sunkissed airbrushed quality to this moment.
---
I am walking amongst the green, verdant dunes and everything around me rises and falls as if I were actually out there on the great rolling ocean, which I can still hear clearly when I reach the top of a dune - but in the valleys I can only sense a low rumble, which might well just be my stomach, or my imagination, the cogs of which must be very rusty as they churn out this bizarre fantasy.
As I continue inland, the broken beer bottles and apocalyptic litter gives way to little patches of green sprouting between my feet, until I break the crest of the next dune and then I'm walking on a carpet of clovers beneath the azure sky.
I am luminous, standing here. I consider my own luminosity with my head cocked to one side. The sun runs her hand down my neck.
---
From the top of any one of these dunes, not more than three or four metres high, the whole world is visible. But no sound reaches up there, except the wind which whips and lashes about. Nowhere could be further apart from the rest of the world, even as it is laid out so clearly at the foot of the dune, like a map for the taking. And it is so removed from what it beholds because from here, the ability to describe that world laid out like a map is almost - but not quite, in reach. The words are there - the wind lashes, the sun caresses, the waves roll in silently - but then there is the urge to just gaze benevolently and stop speaking or writing or thinking, to just let it come, just this once more, because who can say when, if ever, such glorious sight will be granted again?
---
The world comes crashing back in a motorised roar. A teenager whizzes past on a dirt bike. His friends, in their utes and their four wheel drives, criss-cross over the dunes, blasting tunes across the sand. We clutch at each other fearfully but the magic is gone. We cannot will them away. Looking at out hands we see that the peach is gone - we've eaten it all. The taste lingers on our tongues but the hoons close in, circling.
Thursday 14 February 2008
American Peach
ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER
---
I live in the American Gardens Building on W. 81st Street on the 11th floor. My name is Andre Peach. I'm 19 years old. I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little peachy I'll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep peach cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a peach almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an peach-mint facial mask which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion.
---
There is an idea of an Andre Peach, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can peel my skin and bite into my juicy flesh and maybe you can even sense that I am comparable to other peaches: I simply am not there.
---
Name any peach accessory, and it is likely that I already have it. I own peach peeler by Louis Vetton, which matches my peach apron by Hugo Boss. My peach blender by Polo Ralph Lauren sits next to my peach viewer by Sony. I have a peach tree by Armani, and a new peach themed Nokia that hasn't come out on the market yet. My favourite possession is my 180g vinyl of Peaches' second album, Fatherfucker. Before that, I didn't really understand any of her work. Too artsy, too intellectual. I think Shake Yer Dix is her undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility. At the same time, it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding album. In terms of lyrical craftsmanship, the sheer songwriting, this album hits a new peak of professionalism. This is Fuck the Pain Away, a great, great song, a personal favorite.
---
THIS IS NOT AN EXIT
---
I live in the American Gardens Building on W. 81st Street on the 11th floor. My name is Andre Peach. I'm 19 years old. I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little peachy I'll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep peach cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a peach almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an peach-mint facial mask which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion.
---
There is an idea of an Andre Peach, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can peel my skin and bite into my juicy flesh and maybe you can even sense that I am comparable to other peaches: I simply am not there.
---
Name any peach accessory, and it is likely that I already have it. I own peach peeler by Louis Vetton, which matches my peach apron by Hugo Boss. My peach blender by Polo Ralph Lauren sits next to my peach viewer by Sony. I have a peach tree by Armani, and a new peach themed Nokia that hasn't come out on the market yet. My favourite possession is my 180g vinyl of Peaches' second album, Fatherfucker. Before that, I didn't really understand any of her work. Too artsy, too intellectual. I think Shake Yer Dix is her undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility. At the same time, it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding album. In terms of lyrical craftsmanship, the sheer songwriting, this album hits a new peak of professionalism. This is Fuck the Pain Away, a great, great song, a personal favorite.
---
THIS IS NOT AN EXIT
Tuesday 5 February 2008
The Peach and Rejuvenation
Walking down Swanston St, I feel the urge to plant peach trees everywhere. I'd plant hundreds in Supre so that ripe, juicy peaches spilled out into the Mall. I'd scatter seeds all over the bluestone, so that peachy green shoots might sprout in the cracks.
All the filth and the apathy would be swept away by a wave of fruit, and when it all finished up, there would just be a beautifull sunlit garden, a man playing the dulcimer and the hoola hoop guy, spinning his hoops above a golden harvest of peaches.
All the filth and the apathy would be swept away by a wave of fruit, and when it all finished up, there would just be a beautifull sunlit garden, a man playing the dulcimer and the hoola hoop guy, spinning his hoops above a golden harvest of peaches.
Monday 4 February 2008
The Decline of the Peach
The peach (Prunus persica) is a species of Prunus native to China that bears an edible juicy fruit also called a peach.
Peaches don't even rank in the Top Ten of Most Popular Fruits these days. The three ranked most popular probably don't surprise you - tomatoes, bananas and apples. I can accept that grapes and oranges might be more popular than peaches. I can even deal with watermelon being up there - but figs and dates? How could these two insignificant, minor fruits be more popular than peaches, the fruit of kings?
Sadly, this is not an aberration of the public psyche, but yet another signpost along the way to cultural degeneration. A society that does not value peaches doesn't value morality, progress and free thought. A society that does not eat peaches is doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past. Empires that are now merely footnotes in dusty unread history books ignored the most noble of fruits to their peril - Rome, the Tang Dynasty, the British Empire.
The Great Explorers of the 17th Century brought two things with them into the darkness of the unmapped continents - the torch, and the peach. The first, they used to push back the darkness, to fight it. But the peach, that was no mere weapon. The peach is both magic symbol and magic object. It represents civilisation, eternity, enlightenment. It gives its consumer nourishment, essential vitamins and rejuventation.
Every major city in the world was founded around a peach tree. In smaller ones, where the pace of modern life has yet to take hold, you might still find that original peach tree, at the centre of the city. In these cities, people seem to breathe a little slower. The birds still sing in the morning and when you bump into someone on the street they smile, you might even join them for coffee.
But in more and more cities, the peach tree is buried beneath construction sites. In its place rise sporting stadiums and shopping centres. The people have no time for each other, and no one ever smiles, because their teeth are stained red with tomato juice.
Peaches don't even rank in the Top Ten of Most Popular Fruits these days. The three ranked most popular probably don't surprise you - tomatoes, bananas and apples. I can accept that grapes and oranges might be more popular than peaches. I can even deal with watermelon being up there - but figs and dates? How could these two insignificant, minor fruits be more popular than peaches, the fruit of kings?
Sadly, this is not an aberration of the public psyche, but yet another signpost along the way to cultural degeneration. A society that does not value peaches doesn't value morality, progress and free thought. A society that does not eat peaches is doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past. Empires that are now merely footnotes in dusty unread history books ignored the most noble of fruits to their peril - Rome, the Tang Dynasty, the British Empire.
The Great Explorers of the 17th Century brought two things with them into the darkness of the unmapped continents - the torch, and the peach. The first, they used to push back the darkness, to fight it. But the peach, that was no mere weapon. The peach is both magic symbol and magic object. It represents civilisation, eternity, enlightenment. It gives its consumer nourishment, essential vitamins and rejuventation.
Every major city in the world was founded around a peach tree. In smaller ones, where the pace of modern life has yet to take hold, you might still find that original peach tree, at the centre of the city. In these cities, people seem to breathe a little slower. The birds still sing in the morning and when you bump into someone on the street they smile, you might even join them for coffee.
But in more and more cities, the peach tree is buried beneath construction sites. In its place rise sporting stadiums and shopping centres. The people have no time for each other, and no one ever smiles, because their teeth are stained red with tomato juice.
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