"Did you know that we'd all move faster if we drove courteously and merged like a zip?" the boy asked the driver in the car beside him on the motorway who had just cut him off to get ahead.
The driver looked at the boy sitting in his vehicle beside him and did not respond.
"If we merged like a zip and everyone travelled at a reasonable speed and distance, we'd all get where we were going faster and without stress."
The boy was in a merging lane on the motorway and no one was letting him in. If any space opened up in the adjacent lane a car would fill it as fast as possible so nobody else could take it. No merging was occurring.
"Imagine a world where every driver was courteous and showed each other grace" the boy went on. "Imagine if we could do that. We'd all be moving seamlessly. We wouldn't be accelerating and quickly braking. We wouldn't be tailing each other so closely that when one person suddenly brakes, people 5km or further back on the motorway brake. Do you realise that a lot of traffic on the roads could be avoidable with courteous driving and safe following distances? But the problem is, people are not courteous. They only think about themselves and their own needs. No one trusts each other so everyone shits on each other. No one gets ahead. We end up going nowhere."
MEET OUR ANTI-HERO, WHO, FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS ALLEGORY WE SHALL NAME ‘BOB’. HE STARES AT HIMSELF IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR OF A NIGHTCLUB AND HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON IS SAYING;
Okay. Okay. You’re looking sharp. Straighten that collar up a bit. No. Not too straight. You want to look a bit rugged too. Rugged but classy. Now compose yourself. We’ve thought this through. She’s going to be there but it’s going to be okay. It’s going to be no problem.
You’re over her.
Over her.
Over her.
Over her.
She is nothing to you.
It doesn’t matter how she looks, what she’s wearing, what she smells like, who she’s with.
Immaterial.
Im-mat-e-ri-al.
You are going to have a good night. It’s going to be just like she’s not there. Okay? Are you ready? Deep breath. Open the door. Let’s go.
Wow! It’s pumping in here! So many people! You are going to have yourself a good time!
Look at all the fine ladies! Foxy as hell too! Just don’t scan the room looking for her.
Remember: act like she is not here. Play it cool. Play. It. Cool.
Hey!
Hey, hey, hey. What are you doing? You’re looking for her aren’t you? We’ve talked about this. Don’t do it. Move on! She has! She doesn’t matter anymore.
Ahhh.
You’ve seen her haven’t you? Quick look away before she sees you. Look away.
LOOK AWAY.
You’re not looking away are you?
You want to see who she’s with don’t you?
It’s not going to make you feel better you know. Why are you such a territorial bastard?
Why do you need to know even though it doesn’t matter?
Wow. She really does look stunning tonight. Can you believe you once held a girl like that? Wow, she is looking damn fine! Damn fine! If only... No. Don’t even go there. What’s past is past. We’re moving on. Plenty of fish in the sea. Ahem. I said, we are moving on. Come on...
You really can’t help yourself can you? You really have to know. Well, since you are
looking... He’s handsome isn’t he? Looks successful too. Well built, athletic. They seem
happy! So happy together. They make happiness look natural. Like they own it, or it owns them.
Okay. We’ve seen enough, lets walk away before she sees you.
It’s too late isn’t it? She’s seen you. In the midst of her happiness she spotted you, paused briefly, then resumed all too easily her happiness. But she’s going to look again isn’t she. Yep. She’ll do it again. Because even though she is happy, she is just like you. Easily jealous. Insecure. And even though you mean nothing to her now, she still needs to know.
You make a great pair. You really do. Oh you guys are pathetic. Okay. So we had a plan. A good plan. A great plan. But you have strayed, had better ideas so we’re going to have to run with a different tact now... You’ve got about ten seconds before she looks your way again, so quick. Look happy. Don’t just stand there like a solemn idiot. Not cool! Dance! Do something! Look like you’re having a good time. Dance with someone! That girl there. Yeah. She looks like she’d be into it. Good work! You look kind of convincing. She’s watching you and you are dancing with this girl, who is not that bad looking by the way. Good job. Why not have a good time with her tonight? Forget about your ex.
You don’t want to do you?
You’re already looking in her direction aren’t you?
I’m disappointed you know. Out of all the people in the world, I had to be your inner voice of reason. Well. They’re dancing very closely aren’t they? Sensually even. His hands. They are pioneers on her body. She’s really enjoying herself, but still despite all this, still she looks your way and you are...
What are you doing? You’re up close and personal with her now. There’s a little bump and grind action going on. I bet you can feel her breath on your neck. You know. She might even be into you.
You don’t care do you.
You’re still looking over there aren’t you?
You fool.
Well, I take it you are enjoying his hands run down her thighs. I think he’s even spread his hands a bit and making suggestions across her inner thigh. I bet that’s really getting her going... His firm hands...
Well... You are original my friend. Copy his exact moves with your girl except try and make it look more sensual. It’s a game now is it? You versus him? Or you versus her? Are you trying to prove a point? Or trying to win her back? You versus her is it? Okay. Thanks for the clarity on that point. You really baffle me with your logic. Well, since you are playing this game you might as well kiss her. Go on. Beat them to it. That’s it. With lots of tongue. You are both animals. Dirty, dirty, sex crazed animals. You want to devour each other, tear each others clothes off and have sex right here on this dance floor. Just like the song that’s playing! How apt! What are the words? “I want to make love in this club?” Or something like that? Hmmmmm, it’s laughable, the popular music industry and it’s willingness to take off it’s clothes. Well go on. You’ve made a good start. That’s it. She’s watching! I don’t think she likes it! You’ve made her jealous by being so into this girl. She’s feeling a tad insecure about it! You’ve set them off kissing now. She’s all over him like she’s got something to prove. You humans. Pathetic. Look at you both. Kissing someone else while sneaking glimpses of each other across the dance floor.
MOMENTS PASS. WHAT IS AN INNER VOICE OF REASON TO SAY IN MOMENTS LIKE THIS? IT THINKS BEFORE CONTINUING:
So...
Um...
This girl.
This girl you are kissing...
I wonder what her story is? I wonder why she is kissing you and reciprocating all this... affection.
Affection isn’t really the right word is it?
Attention. Yes, attention is the best I can do at the moment.
I wonder who hurt her? I wonder who she is trying to forget. I wonder if she is also
sneaking glimpses at someone else in this club.
You guys. You really humor me sometimes, you know that? Weaving your intelligent webs, everyone getting tangled in the same mess.
Oh.
But you’ve stopped now. Stopped all the kissing and fondling, etc. I knew this would
happen. She wants to get some drinks doesn’t she? Some hard liquor? Of course she
does, and so do you. And so does your ex and she is persuading her new man. Both
parties will down drinks from opposite ends of the bar because you need them in the
pursuits you are undertaking. You need to be plastered, hammered. Because what you are doing is non-sensical. You know it. But you do it anyway and you want to drown voices like me out.
BOB DOWNS MANY STRONG DRINKS AND A REASONABLE AMOUNT OF TIME PASSES BY. DURING SUCH TIME, ALCOHOL PERMEATES THROUGHOUT HIS BODY. TO APPRECIATE THIS PROCESS AND TO GAIN A SENSE OF THE PASSING OF TIME WE WILL NOW REGARD A YOUTUBE VIDEO FOR THE EFFECT OF SYMBOLISM.
Chumbawamba - Tubthumping
AND NOW WE RESUME WITH OUR ANTI-HERO AND HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON SOMEWHAT DRUNK...
Hey hey! Ho! Wooooooooooo! I feel good! Don’t you feel good? Buddy! Yeah! My man! My main man with the master plan! All is full of love! This room! This girl! Her legs! Damn! Don’t you just wanna spread ‘em? I bet you do! You dirty dog you! She’s hot man! Hotter than before! I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention. Sorry if I was being a bit critical towards you before by the way. I was just-
BOB FORGIVES HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON.
You forgive me?
Aww gee.
That’s right.
I was just looking after my boy!
You’re my boy!
You’re my boooo-oy!
Yeah! That’s it. This is how we do it. We’re back dancing. With this girl, this HOT girl.
Dancing! Her body so, so, close! The heat! The heat! The heat coming off her body!
Ohhhh yeeeaaah!
You are picturing it aren’t you?
BOB IS THINKING ABOUT HIS EX.
You’ve got her naked in bed and you’re riding her like a stallion!
That’s right a stallion!
Look at those breasts, those plump, plump breasts, that chest, that wonderful neck line,
those lips! Those luscious lips. So soft and succulent!
Oh!
And when she exhales. The warmth on your neck! Oooooooo. It makes me shiver inside!
And look at her eyes. Those devilish eyes, man. She’s giving you the look of sin. She
wants it. She needs it. There is only one way this night is going to end. She will let you. Let you do any-.
Hey!
What are you doing?
Don’t look away. We’re dancing with the lustful girl. Don’t look over there. Don’t search for her.
Heaven has dropped you a date in the form of this sensuous beauty and you want to look elsewhere. What is your problem? Get back to dancing. Do not look over there.
DO.
NOT.
LOOK.
OVER.
THERE.
Yeah. That’s better!
Oh yeah! Yes! Look at this! The way she is rubbing her body on yours as we dance. Look how suggestive it is. Time to get it on! We’re pulsing buddy! Thunderbirds are go!
BOB CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT HIS EX EVEN THOUGH THERE IS ANOTHER WOMAN’S BODY GYRATING AROUND HIS PENIS. IT IS TRUE THOUGH, HIS THUNDERBIRD IS STRONG.
Okay.
This is the new plan. Are you listening to me? Tonight. This girl. Bed. Hers. Yours. Who the hell cares. Lose yourself in each other. That stinging, hollow pang you feel nagging at the inside of your chest. The one that your ex has left. The one you are feeling now. The one that got all the more blown open when you saw that she is now with someone else and has left you feeling replaced and inferior, like a rear projection television -you know the big fat bulky heavy ones that look so ridiculous, definition laughable, when sitting next to an LCD flat screen. Fill it with this girl! You’ll wake up in the morning victorious. Things will be anew! Refreshed! A new girl! New memories! New memories that will cloud the old ones, and the more we do this, the more we will replace. My friend, this plan is fool proof. Repeat and replace, repeat and replace, repeat and replace. Do this until there is nothing left of her. You won’t even think of her. There will be too many to filter through to even remember her. They will all be insignificant and mean nothing to you. There will be no more meaning. No more love. But no more pain! Just sex, sex. Lots of sex! And more alcohol. Come on. Drink up. Yeah that’s it. More alcohol.
THE PAIN IN BOB’S HEART IS SO GREAT IT SURPASSES THE JOY IN HIS PANTS
AS IT EXPERIENCES FRICTION BY THE WOMAN IN FRONT OF HIM. IT IS CLEAR THAT HE NEEDS MORE ALCOHOL. BOB DRINKS AS IF A CAMEL AND HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON SAYS:
Good.
We just have to play this out a bit longer. Maybe another couple of hours. I don’t know why it is this way. You know it and she knows it. In a few hours you will be in bed at one of your homes having sex. But you can’t leave now and arrive at such a conclusion prematurely. Even in alcohol lubricated scenes like this there is etiquette. I know, I know. Stupid isn’t it. Etiquette. It’s all about sex but we can’t make it all about sex, if you know what I mean. There has to be an illusion of connection. And this illusion will come. We just need more time. More time, more dancing, and more alcohol. More alcohol. Drink.
Hey!
Why are you still looking over there?
BOB IS... WELL, HE ALWAYS IS...
AND WHEN HE IS, THEY ARE ALWAYS HOLDING EACH OTHER SO CLOSE,
INTIMATELY, LUSTFULLY, EROTICALLY, WHICH DRILLS HOLES INTO BOB’S SOUL.
Focus. You amateur. You pussy. Call yourself a man? You and all your feelings. Letting
your emotions and a girl dominate you. You are pathetic. Weak! I am going to implement a punishment from now on. Every time you look or even think about looking in your ex’s direction you are going to have to drink. I am doing this to help you. It will help you rationalize. Alcohol will help you conform to our set plan. Destroy love. Destroy pain. Obliterate it. Replace it with conquest and temporary pleasure. We are stealing from love. Stealing. Taking the best part, the pinnacle, and dispensing with the rest. The rest is crap.
Now drink.
That’s it.
And again.
Yep.
And again.
And.
Again!
BOB LOOKS IN THE FORBIDDEN DIRECTION AS HE DRINKS.
Man you are hopeless! You can’t help yourself but look over there. Why do you find it so difficult to stick to task? It seems pretty straight forward to me. And now...
Shit.
BOB CAN BARELY STAND STRAIGHT.
You can barely stand straight! You’ve drunk too much. You can’t even dance properly
anymore. You’re wasted. You’re putting this lustful girl off. She’s slowly pretending like she doesn’t know you. And she’s...
gone.
Disappeared into the sea of clubbers. And you’re left barely treading water. Man,
you’re useless.
BOB’S HEAD IS CLOUDY. IT HAS LOST IT’S ABILITY TO PROCESS AND FILTER.
FINALLY IT GRASPS AN IDEA, AN OBJECTIVE, A FUNCTION. IT IS JUBULANT! IT
CLINGS TO IT, FOCUSSES ON IT, BECAUSE IT KNOWS, IN THIS CURRENT STATE,
THESE MOMENTS ARE RARE, THEY ARE GOLDEN. THEY MUST BE EMBRACED.
SUCH SMALL LOGICS LIKE THIS ONE SEEM EPIPHANIC.
Where you going? Look at you. So pathetic. Staggering. So slow. Drunk. You weakling.
BOB HAS DECIDED TO APPROACH HIS EX.
Are you going towards her now?
Towards your ex?
You are pathetic.
You are pitiful.
BOB STUMBLES INTO HIS EX GIRLFRIEND WHO IS DANCING WITH HER NEW MAN. HE HOLDS HER:
BECAUSE IF HE DIDN’T HOLD HER NOW HE WOULD HAVE LOST ALL BALANCE AND FALLEN TO THE GROUND
BECAUSE IT IS ALL HE HAS EVER THOUGHT ABOUT DOING SINCE THE DAY THEIR RELATIONSHIP ENDED. IT IS WHAT HE WANTS MORE THAN ANYTHING. TO FEEL WARMTH, TO TANGIBLY HOLD A DREAM, TO DEFY THE IMPOSSIBLE, TO RECREATE A TIME WHEN BOTH THEIR BODIES WERE HELD IN SUCH PROXIMITY, A TIME THAT BOB WOULD DESPERATELY LIKE TO SUSPEND, WOULD SACRIFICE ALL HE HAD FOR, AND POSSIBLY DIE IN.
You are an over-sentimental, disillusioned, mentally ill, idiot.
BOB FEELS A FIRM GRIP ON THE BACK OF HIS NECK. IT IS TITANIC. IT PULLS HIM AWAY AND TURNS HIM SO HE IS FACE TO FACE WITH IT’S SOURCE. BOB’S EYES ARE BLOODSHOT AND SLOW. THEY PLEAD POSSIBILITY. HE IS MET WITH EYES THAT SCREAM INTOLERABILITY AND DOMINEERING POSSESSIVE ANGST. THEY SHOVE HIM IN THE CHEST AND BOB FINDS HIMSELF ON THE FLOOR.
Man! This is embarrassing! Embarrassing for all concerned! It’s embarrassing to even
witness this! You are an embarrassment! An embarrassment of a man!
BOB CRIES. NOT LIKE A BABY, BUT A FEW TEARS RUN DOWN HIS CHEEK. THEY DO THIS UNEXPECTEDLY. HE DOES NOT NORMALLY DO THIS. THIS IS A SURPRISING RESPONSE EVEN GIVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES.
Are you...crying?
Tears?
Tears!
What a baby!
BOB SITS ON THE FLOOR OF THE CLUB AND WATCHES AS HIS EX AND HER NEW MAN STARE INTENTLY INTO EACH OTHERS EYES. SHE IS ADMIRING HOW
STRONG HE IS, AND HE IS...WELL...WHAT ISN’T THERE TO ADMIRE? THEY ARE
DELIGHTED WITH EACH OTHER. HE IS A HULK AND SHE IS A PRINCESS. THEY ARE A FAIRY-TALE.
And you are a joke.
And now you are on your feet. What are you doing?
BOB STARTS BACK TOWARDS HIM WITH HIS FIST CLENCHED. THERE ARE
THUNDERSTORMS NOW IN BOB’S HEAD. THERE IS RAGE. SUICIDAL POSSIBILITIES. MARTYRDOM. GLORY. HE DEFIANTLY SHOVES HIS NEMESIS.
Are you an idiot? Have you no logic? You can’t do this! Not in front of his girl! He’s a lot
stronger than you...
BOB HAS NOT CHOSEN THE BEST METHOD OF COMMUNICATION. WHAT HE
REALLY WANTED TO SAY WAS: MY HEART IS IN A THOUSAND FRAGMENTS.
NOTHING WILL PIECE THEM TOGETHER. THERE IS ONLY A SLITHER OF HOPE FOR ME. I ONCE HELD THE SUN, IT’S GOLDEN RAYS ILLUMINATED MY SOUL, KEPT ME WARM, MADE BEAUTY OF EVERY ILL. BUT NOW, MY LIFE IS DISASTER, ENTROPY REIGNS OVER ME, FOR MY ONLY LOVE HAS DEPARTED FROM MY LIFE AND I CANNOT GET HER BACK. I WONDER WHETHER IT IS BETTER TO NOT KNOW LOVE AT ALL THAN TO HAVE HAD IT, LOST IT, AND LIVE KNOWING THAT YOU WILL NEVER HAVE IT AGAIN. I KNOW YOU (HIS EX GIRLFRIEND) DO NOT WANT TO HEAR WHAT I HAVE TO SAY. YOU WILL NOT LISTEN TO ME. YOU WOULD PREFER NOT TO SEE ME AT ALL. WELL HERE I AM! I WILL DANCE! I DON’T CARE THAT I STILL LOVE YOU. I WILL DO SO FOREVER. I WILL SCREAM IT FROM ROOFTOPS, CARVE IT DEEP INTO MY CHEST. I WILL DO ALL THESE THINGS KNOWING THAT IT IS ONLY I WHO FEELS THEM, THAT THEY ARE NOT RECIPROCATED AND THAT THIS IS WHY TONIGHT IS SO AWKWARD. SO BE IT. I WOULD DIE FOR YOU. HARM MYSELF FOR YOU. P.S. THIS GUY. HE IS A BASTARD. I DO NOT LIKE HIM. HE IS A PIECE OF SHIT.
BUT BOB DOES NOT SAY THESE THINGS. HE HAS OPTED FOR THE SYMBOLIC AND METAPHORICAL APPROACH INVOLVING VIOLENCE AND THERE WILL BE
CONSEQUENCES. HIS NEMESIS RAISES HIS ARM, FIST CLENCHED, RECOILS AND...
“NOOOOOOOOOO!” BOB’S EX GIRLFRIEND SCREAMS.
Damn! What the hell was that! Are we flying? The world is spinning. No. We are still on our feet, just... No. Not anymore. We are down. Damn it. We are down.
BOB’S NEMESIS IS STANDING OVER HIM DEFIANTLY AS IF TO METAPHORICALLY
SAY: I WIN.
BOB’S EX DOES NOT COME TO HELP HIM UP. HE HOPED THAT SHE WOULD. HE
WAS AT LEAST GRATEFUL FOR THE PITY ON HIM PORTRAYED IN HER SCREAM.
BOB TOOK HOPE IN THAT SCREAM. IT WAS FOR HIM, FROM HER. FOR A MOMENT, BOB HELD HER CONCERN AND FOR THAT, HE WOULD GLADLY TAKE THE PUNCH AGAIN.
Pathetic. You are hopeless.
BUT THAT IS WHERE ANY SENTIMENT FOR BOB ENDS. SHE GOES TO HER MAN
AND THEY LEAVE. SHE DOESN’T LOOK BACK. BOB STUMBLES BACK TO HIS FEET. BALANCE IS A STRUGGLE. THE FLOOR IS MOVING, TILTING. HIS FEET SEARCH FOR, AND THEN FINALLY, INERTIA. BOB LOOKS AROUND. THIS CLUB IS BLURRY. A CORNER OF HIS VISION IN ONE EYE IS OBSCURED. THERE IS PAIN. THERE MUST BE SWELLING. ICE. LATER, HE IS TO SEEK ICE. SUDDENLY BOB CAN FEEL HIMSELF MOVING, WHICH IS STRANGE BECAUSE HE DOES NOT INTEND IT. HE IS MOVING BACKWARDS THROUGH THE CROWD. HE IS BEING... CARRIED. CARRIED! NO. DRAGGED. YES. DRAGGED! THROUGH THE CROWD PAST THE BAR, DOWN THE STEPS AND THEN IS THROWN. THE PAVEMENT IS HARD. THE BOUNCERS DUST THEIR HANDS OFF OF BOB AND RETURN TO THE CLUB.
They could have been more gentle. Those bastards.
ENOUGH. BOB’S INNER VOICE OF REASON HAS HAD ENOUGH. IT SUGGESTS TO BOB THAT IT IS;
Time for a cab. Come on buddy. This night has been a complete and utter disaster. The
only thing you have succeeded in doing is taking me to new levels of disappointment in
you. Come on. Back to your feet. That’s it. A cab’s just stopped for us.
BOB DOESN’T WANT A CAB.
Hey.
Where are you going?
The cab.
The cab is back there.
You can barely walk. Where are you going? Where the hell are you going! Stop this! What’s come over you! Home! Home calls! Bed! Rest that sorry, waste of space, pathetic head of yours! To bed! To the cab! Home!
BOB HAS A BETTER IDEA.
Where are you going?
This isn’t funny! What are you doing? Are you going to find a bridge and jump off it? That’s the only logical thing I can think of. It would actually come close to redeeming tonight. That’s how bad and utterly embarrassing the night has been. Your death would end the punishment for me. Emancipate me. From your stupid, good-for-nothing head.
Where are you going?
BOB IS DETERMINED.
HE STUMBLES HALF A MILE. HE FALLS HALF A DOZEN TIMES IN THE PROCESS
BUT DOES NOT GIVE IN. GIVEN HOW DRUNK HE IS, IT IS A MAMMOTH EFFORT. HE RESTS OCCASIONALLY AGAINST POWER POLES OR FIRE HYDRANTS. HE FIGHTS TO GET HIS STRENGTH BACK. IT IS SO TIRING WALKING DRUNK! HE SEEMS TO AIM HIS STEPS IN THE DIRECTION OF THE BRASSERIE WHERE THEY FIRST MET AND WHEN IT IS IN SIGHT, HE STUMBLES ONE LAST TIME EXHAUSTED AND IS CONFRONTED BY HIS REFLECTION AMIDST CIGARETTE BUTTS FLOATING IN A PUDDLE ON THE GROUND.
Ahhh. I see what you were... You don’t know it, but I am standing somewhere inside the control centre of your brain and I am looking at the ground and shaking my head. Look at yourself in the puddle. You are pathetic. We have come full circle.
BOB REGARDS HIS OWN REFLECTION. HE HAS A SWOLLEN EYE, A BLEEDING LIP.
HIS THOUGHTS ARE SLOW. HIS HEAD SWAYS.
OKAY, OKAY, HE SAYS TO HIMSELF, STRUGGLING TO HOLD HIS HEAD UP ABOVE THE PUDDLE.
YOU’RE LOOKING SHARP. NOW STRAIGHTEN THAT COLLAR UP A BIT.
NO. NOT TOO STRAIGHT.
YOU WANT TO LOOK A BIT RUGGED TOO. RUGGED, BUT CLASSY.
NOW COMPOSE YOURSELF.
HIS VISION IS BLURRY BUT HE CONJURES ENOUGH FOCUS FOR A BRIEF MOMENT TO CONNECT INTENTLY WITH HIS VISAGE.
A LARGE GROUP OF YOUTHS WERE GATHERED into an empty concrete warehouse and spread out along the perimeter of it’s walls. Each youth was designated a large area of wall and given ten cans of paint and a paintbrush.
"Each of you has an allocated area of wall" a man said through a megaphone, blasting his ampliified voice to all corners of the building. He walked in small circles at the warehouse floor’s centre trying to ensure that all four corners could hear him.
"You have twenty minutes to paint whatever you want on the wall. After twenty minutes you must put down your paints and nothing more can be done. You must leave your area of wall as it is."
There was dissent amongst the youths as they heard this and a barrage of sighs and internal mutterings ensued. Each respective area of wall was vast: 10 metres wide and 3.5 meters high. It seemed impossible to do anything to it in just twenty minutes.
"I don’t understand" said a boy to the girl next to him. Each were placed in one of the corners. "Did he say we only had twenty minutes? His megaphone is not very loud and the acoustics in here are bad."
"I don’t know" said the girl. "I think that is what I heard."
Looking around the warehouse and reading the body language of others, they assumed that what they had heard was accurate.
"Do you know what you are going to paint?" asked the boy.
"No idea" said the girl.
She looked at her large section of empty wall.
"I don’t even know where to start."
The boy scanned his eyes around the warehouse in an effort to gage people’s intent. But everyone appeared different. Some were ponderous, some focussed, others worried, agitated and pacing.
"Okay" the boy and girl in the corner thought they heard the man in the middle say. "You’re time starts now!"
And at that moment a loud buzzer sounded, like the kick off to a sports event.
Evertything took the boy and girl by surprise. Before they knew what was happening, the warehouse exploded into life, hundreds frantically going about their business.
People ran to their paint cans and back to their wall, commencing to make their marks.
But the boy stood on the spot stupidly, frozen, as the initial moments passed by.
He watched as some people started to draw an outline of an image, others just going about painting a background base colour.
But everyone had different styles, the boy noticed. Some were extremely meticulous and slow. Each stroke had to be perfect and straight, there had to be a certain depth of colour and consistency in stroke. Whereas others were quick and erratic. It appeared that they had something in mind but their vision was only confined to the immediate area of wall, they knew what they wanted to do in one section of it but they would be at a loss for what to do for the rest of it. The total area was so big.
The boy looked back to his wall and contemplated it’s seemingly impossible area of space. Then he looked at his paint cans.
No one is prepared for this, he decided. One cannot plan, only have a rough idea.
He looked at the girl beside him who had also been slow to get started. She laughed at him as she held a green paint can in her hand and tried to cover a small area of wall.
"You going to get started or what?"
The boy watched as the girl started painting her section of the wall and took note of her speed. She went about things quickly but even by continuing at her speed, she would not cover even half the wall.
After a minute she realised this. Hopelessly, she looked back at the boy who still did nothing. Her face was concerned, pannic stricken, like she was onboard a sinking ship.
"Enough mathematics" the boy said to himself.
He pried open a paint can, dipped a brush inside and ran to the wall.
At first, the boy wanted to get a sense for the size of the wall. He slapped the brush against it’s surface and made large, rough, up and down marks, jogging along it’s length to and fro. After several dips of paint and back-and-forths he regarded the wall and the wave-like pattern he had made. He realized that even by reaching as high above his head as possible, he had not even reached half way up the wall.
The boy decided that he needed a different tack. He needed to go to the extreme. He pried the lid off another paint can, picked it up and began to swing it back and forth. His eyes were set on the top of the wall. Eventually, when the paint can had developed enough momentum he halted it in the midst of its upward swing sending paint hurtling in a fountain splattering the top of the wall. He did it again and again, in different spots, at different angles and trajectories until the paint can was empty and a section of the wall was awash. Watching and inspired, the girl did the same. Soon they were opening more and more paint cans and emptying them with reckless abandon, on their walls, pleasure evident on their faces as they watched the colours bleed.
But more texture was required thought the boy and there was still a lot of space left to cover.
He paused again for a moment and thought about things. He looked at his wall and at hers.
"Want to collaborate?" he asked.
The girl smiled. "Sure."
"Anything goes?"
"Why not" she replied. "The clock is ticking."
And with that, she watched as the boy ran at his wall and jumped, pressing his body right up against it, such that it created an imprint of himself on the wall and the front of his body was completely covered in colour.
With a blue face he smiled back at the girl, who by this stage was laughing, then ran to her wall and started to press his body all over it in various poses.
The girl ran to his wall and did the same, each drawing from each other’s inspiration, both bodies constantly crossing back and forth with glee.
There were handprints, footprints.
Patterns.
Delicate finger drawings.
They gathered clumps off liquid paint in their hands and flicked them at each other.
Competitions arose to see who could jump the highest and leave a hand print.
Then, realizing both attempts were futile, the game evolved into a collaborative effort, the girl standing on the boy's shoulders in order to reach the top of the wall.
Her inscription whilst up there: "This is the top of the wall"
"Is that all you could think of writing?" asked the boy.
They stood and contemplated the phrase.
"Take me up again" demanded the girl.
The newly adjusted line: "This is the top of the wall, ...bitches"
Then when the megaphone man announced that there was only a few minutes left and they had covered most of their walls, they both paused, panting, exhausted, hungry for air. Without talking, there was a consensus that they needed to pull things into a dramatic finale.
"I’ve still got a can of paint left" the boy said.
"Me too" replied the girl.
"I’ve got an idea. Grab your last can."
He walked over to the corner of the warehouse where his wall met hers and stood on one leg, his other splayed in the air but pressed against the wall. With one arm outstretched he reached for the corner where his wall ended and hers began.
"I want you to throw the paint on me" he said. "It will leave an outline."
The girl did as he asked and the image was perfect.
With time running out, the girl did the same, the siren sounding just as the last few drops of paint hit the wall.
"Paintbrushes down" commanded the man on the megaphone. "Step away from your walls."
The final image was ideal. It was the richest in colour and had the most definition. It was as if two bodies were being pulled apart but they held onto each other, both hands reaching for each other and meeting in the corner.
Dragging their multi-coloured bodies away from the wall, each of them collapsed on the ground leaving a trail of paint.
"You look quite ridiculous" the girl said trying to be serious but unable to contain her laughter.
Around the warehouse, painters looked at their walls. Some appeared somewhat satisfied, some discontent. They compared their work to the works of others. Although each had made a dent on the wall, the majority of the wall was still predominantly grey. But the lack of colour was not noticeable until the far corner of the warehouse was reached, where on the floor two bodies soaked in colour lay, chests rising and falling with great expansions, completely worn out.
When it was time to leave both the boy and girl made a lap of the warehouse to check out the artwork of others. There was some boring stuff. Some people had painted in only one colour, devoid of pattern or image in an effort to fill in the wall. Others had some good ideas, some had artistic skill but 95% of their walls were left blank.
"If only we had more time" said the boy, completing the full circuit and exiting into the engulfing bright light.
"I agree" said the girl, the paint not yet properly set on their skin.
There's been a lot of these floating around lately so I thought that I would just add to the noise...
DON'T DATE SOMEONE WHO TRAVELS for they are clearly not career focussed and know more about life and culture than they do about conformist slavery and mortgages.
They can’t be relied upon for funding those weekend trips to malls to buy things you don’t even need to impress people you don’t even like.
Don’t date someone who travels because they are good with budgeting and otherwise termed ‘cheapskates’. They know that a typical $80 dinner for two equates to a week of accommodation in India or three days worth of royal treatment and adventure activities in Central America or Asia.
Don’t date someone who travels because you will never be able to impress them with your belongings, work achievements or general bragging. They don’t care about your favourite soaps and dramas, the current reality television craze or the facts that your coffee mugs match your coasters.
Don’t date someone who travels because their life focus is completely different to yours. They will most likely be focussed on experiences and memories that they feel no need to tell anyone about. There are too many and you will likely never be able to relate. They have given up because all their stories have been met with blank expressions or jealousy and conversations that have been steered towards episodes of ‘The voice’ , ‘The Biggest Loser’, or ‘Xxx Idol’. Such conversations send them looking for the first plane to the other end of the earth.
Don’t date someone who travels because they are extremely selfish. They care only about themselves and want to understand the world. They leave their homes, country and culture looking for hope and meaning because they seek a universal truth.
Don’t date someone who travels because they have spent their lives getting to know their own humanity. They look at life the way someone looks at the stars - it is infinite, a journey never-ending. They have become so caught up in this that the conventional life has little meaning. It seems irrational, a predictable and costly repetition. They have found more exciting alternatives.
Don’t date someone who travels because they will piss you off. They will turn you upside down and empty all of the contents. They will ruin you and everything that you believe in. They will force you to face your fears and encourage you to expand the limits of your personal boundaries. They will look you in the eyes and ask questions that only you can answer.
They will spend a bulk of their free time researching the feasibility of climbing peaks in Kyrgyzstan or overlanding through West Africa.
They are unpredictable and spontaneous.
They are a combination of capitalism, communism and subsistence farming hippies.
They have the ability to embrace standard muesli and milk like it is the nectar of kings.
They look at 5 star hotels and yawn, calculating the price of every fake smile.
Don’t date someone who travels because you know it already. You know it all. There is no life with them. They are a flash in the pan. They will struggle when it comes to raising a family. They will struggle when it comes to retirement. They will end up nothing but glorious memories with nothing to their name. They will embrace their share of oxygen to the very end.
Is this your view of someone who travels? Are they unreliable? Undependable? Beggars asking for one more chance to dream?
Do they live in a fantasy land in which the real world never meets, or do they embrace the world for what it really is?
Good. Find someone just like you. Build a picket fence around all that you strive for and cast your photos into the annals of history.
One day you will probably look a traveller eye to eye and you will both scratch your head. You will be caught at odds and both ask the same question: “What will you do with your life?” One answer will be obvious and the other will remain an unfolding mystery.
Don’t date a traveller because they are self important, egotistic and arrogant. They will look upon the life that you want to live and have the cheek that they can do it better.
Don’t date a traveller because they aim at turning the mundane into the remarkable. They are lost to the world, but in themselves they are found.
DARKNESS AND FLASHING STROBES, thumping bass and fake machine smoke. Several drinks spilt on me. Room sticky, people bouncing like it's going to explode. But I'm a burden to myself, fifty down at the bar and still clinging tightly onto too much care. If I could move in such direction, if my head was like the wind, I'd shake this place like it's never been shaken before, I'd harness the essence like I always lived at it's core. But my limbs are useless, their rhythm a discoursed process, my mind sways around too much that is broken, this venue, part of the stain that remains. She looks at me and tells me to 'smile'. But my world is filled with such improbabilities, though I chance them, I fear they won't be bought out. Again she tells me to smile, this time not with words, but an exaggerated action of the lips. I lack skill I tell myself, I fall short of such abilities and talent although I try so hard. To listen to this Justin Beiber/One Direction remixed bullshit something something, marketed billion dollar industry prepackaged social engineering. We celebrate and propose love in the shadow of a fat alco-pop promoting beast. We feed it money. We feed it money. We feed it money. Dropping hundreds at the bar, in this club, patrons of pricey short-lived liberation. I desire nothing of it and wonder how I got here, a conflict to all this place imparts. I contemplate running on stage and punching the DJ in the face. I'm picking up the turntable and smashing it on the floor. Static screeches and reverberates like the devil screaming in the silence, the crowd's footsteps suddenly take on sound. They are all looking at me blankly and I'm holding a broken cable in my hand. "I am your liberator" I say and their expressions exude confusion. She looks at me again and this time I receive no prompt or instruction. It seems I am amused and now fluidly moving. Laughing as the bass-line reverberates through my body I realize that the world is doomed. It's heart is artificial. The life support system stupid! In one hand you take Ronald McDonald, in the other hand Simon Cowell favoured X-Factor/Idol runner-up from year 2003 singing Ring a Ring o' Roses.
Ring-a-ring o' roses,
A pocket full of posies, A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down.
But there is a girl on the other side of the circle. She smiles at you like she is aware of the con. There is a bass-line that somehow matches both of your heartbeats. There is hope, light, the lyrics plausible. When the alcohol takes effect Justin Beiber suddenly becomes a bard, an oracle. And who is that random guy rapping? What the f*** is he saying? Somehow the doomed plight of the world descends metaphorically and you become some sort of hopeful doe eyed protagonist.
"I really like it here" said the male bird to the female.
He traces his main claw, drawing small circles in a puddle of water on the rocky part of the bay.
"It's nice, this corner of the earth. It's not too hot but the sun is strong and the air is fresh."
The female bird looks at him longingly.
"Do you come here often for vacation?" she inquires.
The male bird looks intensely into her eyes and takes a purposeful step backwards as a stone flies directly in front of his face, the exact place where he had just been standing.
"Often" says the male bird disregarding the stone's threat casually. "But I go other places as well. There is a lot to explore and many nice places to pass a summer.
Both birds hear a stone pass sailing over their heads. This one is well off it's mark, as were the majority of stones in the 10 minutes prior.
They turn their heads and regard the stone's source, a freckled eight year old kid who sits on a driftwood log. He searches at his feet and looks for more suitable stones to throw.
"And how about work?" The female bird asks intrigued. She is a hint playful but also serious. "Where do you go?"
"I usually breed amongst the chain islands in the Berring Sea" he replied. "I enjoy the remoteness, the peace after snow-melt. There, I find a certain freedom in the wind."
"The Aleutians? Me too. Do you have a preferred island?"
The male bird tilts his head to the side and thinks. There were so many islands, each one with its charms.
"I'm going to have to go with Kiska" he chooses finally.
"Oh, I'm not sure I know it."
The male bird nods knowingly. He thought as much. "It is a small island" he explains. "But not too small by Aleutian standards. Most flock to Attu, but I find Attu crowded. Kiska is what Attu was in the 70's."
The female bird is impressed. "Kiska eh? I'll have to check it out. Maybe I'll breed there in the next Northern summer. Do you have a breeding partner?"
"Not yet. Do you?"
"No" she replies and smiles.
Both birds hop closer together, each hop slow and delicate, their respective momentum driven by shiny notions seen in each others eyes. Their beaks are almost touching, the air warmer from each others breathing, when suddenly the male bird extends his wing and quickly pushes the female bird away. He does it just in time as a bullet like stone passes directly between them, the speed and force ten times greater than what they had been contending with before.
Startled, they each turn their heads and regard it's source. The boy's father now sits on the log beside him and joins him in searching for suitable throwing stones.
"Want to get out of here?" the male bird asks.
She nods and both birds take flight.
"I know a good spot over the headland. There are less people there. None of the city holiday campers like we get here."
"Why do you think the humans hate us birds so much?" the female bird asks.
"I don't know" replied the male, effortlessly floating into the sky.
They watch as both father and son stand up from their log now and hurl stones rapidly with all of their might. They grow smaller and smaller, like tiny ants, the power and trajectory of their throws pathetic and feeble.
They extend their wings and glide through the air with ease. The earth taking shape beneath them. Their paths careless, unencumbered.
"I have no idea at all. Perhaps they long to be free?" he muses.
"Have you been to the Hawaiian islands? Kauai in particular is magic this time of year..."
