Diary Entries

My bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off. Amongst a mess of some proportion, I decided enough was enough.There were shoes against the wall. Some with used socks in them. There were clothes thrown onto, not into the wicker basket. Like I couldn’t be bothered. There were half-read books on the bed, and on the floor. There were blankets I had discharged onto the floor during the nights and just left there. There was a whiteboard that I no longer use, filled work inspiring self-quotes like “This is a wonderful magazine”, “Think strong, think positive”, stuff that was supposed to assist me before I got on the phone. Truth be told, I’m not really one to be inspired by such writings. I can only imagine I must’ve been feeling particularly desperate or bored when I scrawled these words. There was a pile of freshly washed clothes and bedsheets laying on the bed. There was dust. There was the Qantas-provided eye covers to shield against the intrusion of morning light. There was Wendy’s old heat bag, being used as a doorstop. Down the hallway, I fossicked in the laundry until I found a cloth and bucket and the vacuum cleaner. I opened the bedroom windows to let in fresh air. This would be my daily exercise, I figured. And I was right. It was an imposing task. Half an hour later I’d raised a sweat and my bedroom looked like one of those ersatz IKEA rooms. Signalling another day is almost done, I’m in the kitchen shaking a martini. I forgot to buy gin today so will suffice with soft, sweet Japanese Haku vodka. The local radio station is on. The trackies are on.

Diary of an independent publisher The air is cooler now. T-shirt, shorts and loafers have been replaced by leather jacket, gloves, jeans and boots. Travelling slow enough to take in the surrounds. It’s evening. The sun is setting and the shadows long. It will be cold tonight. A young kangaroo runs in front of Vespa. He slips and falls. He picks himself up but slips again. He’s panicking. He rights himself for a second time and runs off. Five minutes later, the lapping of the water reminding me that I am back at the ocean. I had passed Long Beach tonight and continued to Maloney’s, only an 8-minute ride from home. I parked. I didn’t do much at the beach tonight. I stood and pondered. I thought of the book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and the authors exploration of Tao. I thought of enacting problem solving skills. I felt a little guilty. With my first Vespa, in my twenties, I used to service the bike myself. I took great pride in that. To be a successful grease monkey when I was not a grease monkey left me feeling independent. These days I get Vespa serviced but find my independence in other ways. I arrived home in time for the bar to open. I replaced the leather jacket with a cardigan. I warmed my hands over the gas stove. Tonight it’s chicken curry. The coriander and peppers, beans and Japanese mushrooms are on the kitchen bench. Cooking is enacting problem solving skills. The martini is shaken. The radio’s on the local station.

On some days you feel aligned with Peace. On some days Peace is so distant, you’ve forgotten what it feels like. You know what it looks like. A loving text. A photo of an old friend. A cherished recipe. A smile. Graffiti. A Japanese garden in the back streets of Tokyo. A spider web. A suitcase in your bedroom. An open bar when you thought everything was closed. Herbs on the kitchen bench. Sounds. A voice saying yes. A favourite song. A bird singing. The sound of a parcel being dropped outside your door. A running creek. The sound of your motorbike starting. The sound of hello. A whispered affirmation. When Peace returns you are welcoming. Too welcoming? You are casual. So casual you’ve left notes laying around expressing your love of peace. A kiss seems appropriate but your affections are clumsy and you walk with Peace around the house as if to say, “Look, nothing has changed since you were last here.” You shower with Peace. You cook dinner with Peace. Obviously a favourite meal that you are confident with, as a token of your appreciation to have such welcome company. You sit for dinner with Peace and break bread. You savour every mouthful and chew slowly because eating with Peace is artistic. Late at night in bed you feel the embrace of Peace and her kisses and you would swear that Peace has a perfume. You want to tell her she’s been gone too long and that you nearly forgot what she felt like. You hope to tell her you don’t need her, but you do so you shut up. You hope she never leaves again but you know that she will. You breathe in deeply. You glance through the window and view the stars.

Diary of an independent publisher: The rain is falling and it’s cold outside, I can see the garden from where I’m sitting. I would like a Japanese garden. I am drinking a cup of Chai. Earlier, I took a hot-cross bun from the freezer and toasted it. There are roasted vegetables in the fridge, left over from Tuesday night. I contemplate COVID. I touch my face. I need a shave. The rain fall becomes heavier. I put on a jumper and start writing. In the late afternoon I water indoor plants and go through a box of old photos. Later, I shave and then drive into town to shop, have coffee and to buy fish and chips. It is still raining. Back home I unwrap my chow on the kitchen bench and add lemon and salt and cut bread. I am dressed well. So well I would feel comfortable going to a movie premiere in this garb tonight. But I won’t be doing that. I grab napkins and turn on the heater. I turn on Spotify. Pieces of a Dream. The sun comes out in time for a sunset. www.thelastpostmagazine.com