blockage

Writing can be hard.

Sometimes an idea comes and you can ‘stream of consciousness’ it straight out. It can be as simple as opening a window and letting it in.

Of course then there are times when there isn’t an idea and it can be hard to get going. So prevalent and legendary this that it has a name and legend all of its own. Defined as it is. Writer’s block.

The concept is extended across mediums and the artists indulged further. As long as you are writing something creative you are covered. Or are you?

What about worker’s block?

It is a question I have thought about a bit having long since sold my soul, abandoning previous artistic incarnations for wage slavery.

There can be days in the working environment where things are not forthcoming. No inspiration. No flow. Nothing.

Can I not even claim writer’s block when writing for work? Some of the project documentation and proposals I have produced are about as creative as anything I have ever otherwise excreted.

But of course in the professional environment there is no chance of pleading ‘blockage’.

It doesn’t wash.

The best out you can hope for is some solid procrastination, a limp excuse and to live to fight another day.

Still, we need to know. I know what I shall testify next time.

duty of care

As Al Jourgensen’s 90’s Industrial heroes Ministry once implored, “Never trust a junkie’.

I can’t say that I ever gave too much consideration to this advice on account of a) it being quite obvious and b) never being in a position to need to.

On a recent illness induced trip to the emergency ward of St. Vincents at 1am on a Monday morning however, it was these words that kept coming to mind. Well, that and ‘duty of care’.

The ER really is no place to experience sober but how much easier would the lives of the people working there be if more people were?

It was a reasonably busy night and pretty long wait made even longer by one individual. He was on what must be a pretty regular attempted procurement stop, with his dilated pupils, swollen DVT leg, general incoherence and swearing. Every so often his partner would appear for moral support, mutual swearing, arguments, inappropriate touching, or to pop outside for another smoke.

As luck would have it they remained in (too) close proximity over the next 4 hours as we progressed through the waiting and treatment areas in a similar timeframe.

Now junkies aren’t subtle at the best of times and our unfortunate parallel lines ensured a full watching brief. Interestingly, given his difficulty in making sentences that made sense, his encyclopaedic knowledge of high impact hospital grade pharmaceuticals was thoroughly impressive.

When he wasn’t demonstrating this in various pleadings to nurses, doctors and any other person passing by in scrubs, it was all shifty eyes, looking for the opportunity to light-finger anything within reach.

Prior to an anonymous tip to the nursing staff the haul included a tourniquet, gloves and other generic sundries.

It could be that Ministry’s advice does constitute part of the ER educational syllabus though. The primary goal was never reached and he was dispatched swearing into the night with only DVT medicine and a reminder that the methadone clinic would be open in a few hours time.

This incursion over and the staff went back to their myriad other duties with the weary knowledge that the same act would play out again, if not the next night then the night after that. Repeat to fade.

Of course it was just another night in the ER: the tired staff; the overpowering stench of inebriation emanating from the pores and breath of battered faces; the police taking statements; the recriminations and accusations; the ambulance crews wheeling in the next case; the people on the front line.

All of humanity on display. The best and the worst.

the people in the garage

Now there are many things I don’t understand. Rotund cyclists clad in lycra, religious doctrine, Russian and the appeal of the Black Eyed Peas among many.

Top of my list at present however is: why is there a couple living in their car in the garage next door?

Some background could be useful here. We live on the top floor of a duplex in Randwick, Sydney. Next-door is an identical duplex in reverse. The shared driveway between the properties leads to four garages. Next door is vacant.

It is owned by a very strange woman indeed. She lives somewhere in Double Bay and appears occasionally with her son (a special character he is too). They do odd jobs like maintaining the front garden and other similarly superficial things whilst completely ignoring the general state of disrepair of the place. It is the equivalent of giving the Queen a brazilian.

She appeared one day a few months back ostensibly showing a couple around. Sure enough a shiny silver Mercedes AWD started appearing regularly and we would often see the couple and exchange pleasantries by the garages.

So far so normal…

After a short time we noticed the new couple spending a disproportionate amount of time hanging around outside, or coming and going from the garage. Sometimes with a bucket. Suspicions aroused, a little bit of curtain twitching revealed the evening routine of making up a bed in the back of the Mercedes, putting up reflective metallic sheets around the windows as temporary insulation, the brushing of teeth and then bed time.

“Oh well, temporary situation I guess. Perhaps giving them somewhere to pitch up whilst they pass through town?” suggested Mrs H.

Four months later, they are still out there.

Initially the happy campers parked outside but as the weather got colder the car was pulled into the garage. Other developments have included the number plates being removed, the appearance of some boxes and the occasional use of bicycles.

But fundamental questions remain unanswered…

Why are they there?

Where do they go all day?

Why can’t they use one of the empty apartments?

What is in the bucket?

Investigations will continue…