I have some reggae playing, just repotted a few succulents like a true indie cliche, and now I’m gonna sock it to ya, aight!?
This week’s article is dedicated to a couple of people I’d like to categorise in the two simple columns: Absolute Bloody Legends and Total Dropkicks.
Absolute Bloody Legend #1 ‘Glen’
So for the last three months I’ve been helping out at a drop in place. Toasting a few sandwiches, ladelling some chicken casserole and then sitting and chatting with the proud and noble and broken detritius, kings and queens, of the city.
One such person is ‘Glen’. He usually comes in with a lady who has a beautiful and drug-fucked up face and always smiles at me and I smile big back. The first few weeks I saw her she was pregnant. Then she wasn’t, but there was no baby to be seen. Well, last night there was Glen and no lady and no baby. He showed me some photos on the phone though – a beautiful tiny baby girl who is no doubt in the care of the government til the age of 13 or 18 or when by some miracle the lady gets drug free and into a new life.
Well last night I learned something new about Glen. “How’s your week been?” I asked. “You got 12 hours?” Glen replied. I said I had nearly that amount of time, so he began to tell me bits and pieces, about getting a drum kit, getting a fridge for the first time, and the biggest thing – spending three hours with a friend early in the week cleaning up his place, only to have it completely trashed soon after by one of the people he let stay there.
Yes, you see, Glen’s life is fucked up enough that he comes to a drop in place for dinner, but he does have an apartment and he told me he can’t help but offer people a place to stay when he sees they need it. It’s not even people that necessarily ask him – last night he said to me “See that guy?” pointing to ‘Stefan’ in a big puffer jacket. “He’s all rugged up, he must be sleeping in the park. People always take it for granted or trash the place, but if I see them like that, I just tell them to come stay for the night.”
Drug fucked, unemployed, eating at a soup kitchen, but still offers strangers to stay at his place, even knowing they might mess up the modicum of order he’s trying to establish in his life. Absolute Bloody Legend.
Total Dropkicks #1 ‘Scott’
I only met Scott one time, and judgement is God/Jah’s to bestow, but I’m still making the Knob Jockey call. Scott was talking at a meeting I went to of concerned residents of Perth, to outline his and his friends’ plan for keeping certain people off the land that is bordered by the beaches around us, from Cottesloe to Bondi.
I was there with a friend who, along with me, is open minded but at the base knows that love is the thing that should guide all our actions, personally and as little groups and as the whole world. Me and my friend both love science and research and logic but know the way to use these things is to figure out by them how people can live peacefully, happily together with one another and the rest of the integrated world.
Scott on the other hand was spouting black venom from his mouth to a room full of people scared into wanting brick walls around what they consider ‘theirs’. A land stolen just recently from the great great grandparents of people who come in to the drop-in place. A culture built on some wonderful morals like ‘fair gos’ and ‘hospitality’ and some shit things like ‘racism’ and ‘white australia policies’.
Scott was spouting venom, they were lapping it up and egging him on. Then my friend piped up and ‘Scott’ realised the room housed another element that he wasn’t expecting. Our love spirits were rising against his, and he wobbled a little, but only momentarily to then draw on the room’s power and insist that his plan was in fact “Saving lives at sea.”
Scott works as a person bringing the wants of others to a group who make the rules by which we all more or less agree to live. But his principles, deep in his heart, have somehow become powerfucked or moneyfucked or aussipride fucked.
Lately some things went wrong at the place he is meant to look after from afar. He runs some kind of apartments, under our collective ownership, on other islands where others who are trying to get here get put to be fucked over enough to set themselves alight. When things go wrong there, he doesn’t open up and say what happened, he lies about it, covers things up, and says he can’t tell us what’s happening for whatever reasons.
You see, this man is for the moment, a Total Dropkicks. There’s hope that he can be changed, or maybe he needs to be unemployed from his job, take a good hard look at the world, and come up with better ideas for how to make a difference in the world. Either way, I’d trust Glen 100 times quicker with my life than Scott, even though Scott has buttloads of money and a position of power in the capital city.
Absolute Bloody Legend #2 ‘Fernando’
I’ve got a friend who’s lived in Perth for a year and a half, from half way round the world. He’s super smart, a total babe, wakes up occasionally in a pool of his own spew from partying too hard, and the night before he leaves for his home country he’s going to help at the soup kitchen again.
He’s going back to his land partly because racism is boiling up there and he wants to be a part of stopping it. He’s going to be a marketing guru and writer, and he looks like a classic hearthrob, in a blonde rocker way, but all those things are put to the purpose of loving the underdog and promoting justice, through his great haircut, band tattoos, leather jacket and insane intellect.
‘Fernando’ is, without a doubt, an Absolute Bloody Legend.
Absolute Bloody Legend #3 ‘Hector the French Bulldog’
Yeah, so Hector is in fact not a human but a French Bulldog. And also an Absolute Bloody Legend. Hector came along with a friend to pick me up from the airport. As soon as I saw this puppy I made the involuntary noise “Awwww!!!” and that noise was one I heard a hundred times that day. We took Hector into Freo, him chewing sweetly on my fingers as we drove down the freeway listening to The Modern Lovers, admiring Hector and making lots of small and big talk and jokes.
In Freo Hector walked a little bit but mainly had to be carried. Everywhere we went people were overpowered by Hector’s being – the essence of him, just being himself, a beautiful, quiet, outrageously cute puppy. People stopped us to pat him, they wanted photos with him, a crowd turned away from the guy busking with bagpipes that shot flames metres into the air when he played, to look at Hector’s face and emit a collective and sustained “Awwwww!!”
Hector may just have sat there in my arms, breathing, blinking, brewing up poop, but he brought so much joy everywhere we carried him. A street woman touched him and held him, and he licked her ciggie stained fingers. A disabled family cooed over him and knew what breed he was. Tiny children and men in their twenties turned their heads to watch him go by. Hector… what a being.
Well, 3 Bloody Legends and one Dropkick. Scott Morrison, you have been beaten in life by a junkie, a swedish exchange student and a french bulldog. You have many lives of other people in your hands at the moment. I ask you to take inspiration from these Legends so you can change from one column to the other. Leave the Dropkicks ways, and let’s all together be a great country, known for our wonderful and clever handling of what life throws into our prosperous laps.