Astrophysics Made Me Streak

Tesla Amber.jpg

Nicola Tesla was celibate but he had heaps of pigeons. He had one pigeon in particular and fell in love with her. There's only one photo of them together, Tesla the celibate hunk, the pigeon, a white pigeon whose mind can't be known by a human, even a physicist.

It was watching a program on ABC's Catalyst about the most current and most exciting and most close to alien research that's happening, dishes pointing up into the air, up into the sky, up into the big deep unknowable cosmos, that made me stand by the edge of a football field, stands of friends and strangers up behind glass in the drinking stands, players on either side, one team, two teams - in a coat and boots, with nothing on underneath, and drop it at one moment, drop that coat and run across that field, the sound of the crowd lifting in a huge moment at nakedness and joy as I skipped across there, all my body exposed, high fiving one of the boys who works at Mojos along the way, and Stephen Bellair on the the other side waiting. We'd never seen each other in that way before, me naked, him seeing a friend naked on a field, and he held out clothes for me, laughing and supporting and with his own thoughts that I'll never know even if he tries to say them. [this football game was the Reclink Community Cup, band members against music journalists for one moderately epic match]

The pigeons are always naked, and it's a very special and illimitably extreme thing to be ALIVE here in this world, in this moment, all the planets we can see just covered in dust and left over streams with no water left, and we are here. So, I thought, if I am free, I will be free. I nearly got too nervous to do it. It was like playing the first shows, where you get a nervous poop before, and where your heart goes skipping and all that, and you gotta work yourself up to it.

Well, it's not really a thing, just a one minute naked run, but it felt like a new dream, and, you know, YOLO.

Well we have a new pigeon in our yard. The nextdoors called her Jefferson, not an appropriate name, but I call her Djilba - that is the season we're in at the moment. She comes over and each day we make some new progress - though it's not like perpetual motion, it's like something that goes in little stages back and forth. One day she will try fly up on my shoulder and I won't be ready. One day she'll let me pat her neck, one day she won't, and then she will again. I wonder if Jack Kerouac would let me pat his neck after the fourth day I met him. He looks like Daniel Craig and the man I loved in Paris. It's a certain look. He's like Tesla's little pigeon, nodding, moving his head from side to side. Deciding what to reveal and what not to, but mainly being naked in a way, in his own nature, in front of people whose moral code seems solid but is in fact just like ink in a bowl of milk.

Hm. The Floors played after the big football match. They were excellent. The drummer's beard floating in the wind, him whipping it round like a wizard, but more a rock or metal wizard, and the Dux boys, mysterious and dark and funny and shy and watchable. They could be a big famous band on all the stages if it all had a tiny bit more poetry. But here they are, strong and wonderful by the side of a football field. Strength in front of hundreds, but maybe just maybe one day strength in front of 10,000 all wearing their tshirts. Who knows what will happen. Poetry goes in and out of fashion, but people always like a strong guitar held low and dark eyes that play with you in speaking or in listening. Hm.

My favourite players on the field were Kristie, undies heading up into her middle, middle meaning the middle of her hidden self, stripes on her cheeks, oh, the power and the passion, in her look, the kind of woman you wish would like you but doesn't suffer fools lightly. I think she would be a loyal friend, a great mum, a great sports person if she'd been grown up in that kind of family - that's what I could see from the sidelines; and Emlyn Johnson, who didn't do as much as he could have on the field, he's been paid to play footy in country towns, but he just ran at a quarter of his real speed, effortlessly doing a few handballs, and his new physics-beating mullet lifting the whole game further into the day, the sky, the air above everyone.

All that sound, all those feelings, flying around the field, naked ladies, the man in a wheelchair doing a strip by lifting his shirt up and over his head, The Floors, hot dogs, rtr people milling. It was kind of exciting, and kind of just an easy way to be Sunday, when you're free.

Amber Fresh