Wednesday, January 26, 2005

An Australia Day Address:

351 High St.

An Australia Day Address Part 2:

It seems fitting that I make this speech hungover as hell on a 37 degree day. Outside my squeaky back door, the Hills Hoist serenades me with un-oiled abandon as the hot Northerly Wind brings with it neither malaise nor menace, but memories of BBQs and teenage canoodling, when the smell of chlorine was intrinsically tied in with the rush of blood felt when my thigh brushed the naked limb of a secret crush.

I used to have a pool. I used to live with my Mother and her Millionaire Boyfriend in a three story mansion in that Mecca of Bad Taste and Money, Brighton. Of course, I rebelled in the style of the time, holes in jeans, a spikey do, electric instead of acoustic...but in reality it was nice to come home on a day like today, ponder wistfully the fortunes of the poor before disrobing, petting my Alsatian kindly and jumping into the pool.

Then my gangsta Step-Father killed my Mom and I had to leave.

So I really miss having a pool. I have tried the public facilities, those bastions of perverse poverty where screaming sucklers trail celulite havens and buff dandys dive in ever increasing danger to prove their mettle to nubile prey. And circling, camouflaged and covered, also on the scent are the father figures, daring to steal a glance at that 15 year old nymphette but doomed to be burdened by bag and towel and umbrella and wife.

I have become of a different country, an indoor book club preferential to air conditioning rather than skin conditioning. Like an outback gekko, I hide in a cinema / cave by day and supplies myself at night. Joining the alchohol set and enjoying the excuse such weather gives for over extended debauchery and public displays of moon tan physiques.

I miss having a pool. I miss the social-centric nature of it, the non-stop clang of the telephone (non cellular) the warnings, the lack of heeding, the lack of heating, the lack of clothing and the meeting of eyes. The meeting of eyes. That moment. Diving deliciously downward until you surface and delighted and dripping they watch. She watches. And there's running and laughter and more touching and is it the smell or the heat or is it her or is it youth or is it the acid you secretly put in everyone's cordial?

My bedroom used to be in it's own seperate wing, far down the back of the block. With my Gangster we grew marijuana to sell at my High School and built french doors which opened directly from my room to the Grotto Spa and pool. So many champagne seductions. Left alone, often for weeks at a time, I would strike deals with whoever was chosen to be my minder at the time and hold parties that ran for days. And each day would end....wet. Soaking wet. And so fucking happy.

I miss having a pool. I miss watching the chef, as they drank and burgered and sausaged whilst we bombed and bounced and bludged. In the future, I hope to be Chef. I hope my tongs bring you joy as I flip my sausage whilst watching you frollick in my pool. Come for an afternoon, stay for five days. Let your kids jump on my leather couch, I really couldn't care. If they and you and me and her and all of us are happy and fed and cool and wet and a little bit tipsy and no this isn't a sex party but do you remember those days....

There are times still, youthful and vibrant at age 32, where I feel ready to give up my quest for World Domination, and just hope for a bloody house with a you-beaut pool out the back, a cracking sheila on me arm and an ice cold tinnie in me hand. Antipodan Delight.

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