DAY TWENTY TWO

HOW TO ASSEMBLE A FREECYCLED BIKE

Welcome to the latest concept in riding technology: the freecycled bike. 

Your most recent acquisition is as green as the hills you will soon be riding. All of the parts that make up this bike, from the hubs to the handlebar tape, have been collected, gifted or recieved by donation. In other words, entirely free! In addition, the construction of the bike has been a true labour of love as all the parts are second hand, a testament to the local biking community and their inability to throw things away. To top it all off, the freecycle is quite literally green! So as you peddle around the streets of the vintage bike capital of Australia make sure you do so with a certain smugness. Not the usual type seen on the faces of hipsters with their fixies, but the type associated with knowing your freecycled pushy doesn't need fuel, material consumption, ego or lattes to power it. In fact, by choosing to ride this beast you are not only lowering your carbon tyre tread but theirs too...and for that they owe you a latte. 

Happy freecycling! xx

 

step one> Open your ridiculously big box. Childlike excitement included.

step two> Attach peddles to cranks remembering that left pedal is reverse thread.

               Left pedal is marked L

               Right pedal is marked R

step three> Attach wheels making sure the wheel is centered between brake pads.

                 Be aware the locking washers on the front wheel remain on the outer edge of the 

                 forks. See image below.

step four> Spin handlebars until in the correct forward position. See image below for 
               correct angle. The angle of the handles should be in line with the top bar. 

step five> Tighten front bolt. See image below.

step six> Tighten top bolt. See image below.

step seven> Ride with gay abandon around the streets of the vintage bike capital of Australia!

welcome home/happy birthday/merry christmas. in that order. xx

DAY TWENTY ONE

When I was nine my two sisters and I spent a considerable amount of time in factories. Not so much in the child slave labour sense where we might be paid $4.16 an hour to clean the cages of battery hens but more as a form of entertainment. Of course, now that I look back on it, I realise this wasn't the usual choice. Other children wouldn't have taken rusting heavy machinery and an increased chance of tetanus over a comfortable evening of popcorn and Pierce Brosnan. But in a sleepy post-industrial town the options were somewhat limited. You either risked flocks of cranky, disease-ridden pigeons as playmates or chose to be hypnotised by the jiggly arms of Elsie Toothern shaking your deep-fried chips of their oil. After a brief discussion and three artery-clogging meals at Toothie's Takeaway my sisters and I agreed. We opted for bird-flu.

Madeleine, the eldest, always angled for us to play in the old biscuit factory. It was a cavernous building whose lingering smell was a reminder of its previous life. As romantic as that might sound, it was not. The trapped air baked under the day-long sun as if the building was holding its breath until we arrived. Being the strongest Maddy would force back the rusted, once rolling, metal door and from its hot, sour mouth the factory would finally exhale. It was reminiscent of an old man's yawn, had he eaten a packet of Milk Arrowroots just half an hour prior. 

I matched Maddy's eagerness to play amongst the slackened conveyor belts and five-person ovens. Unlike other forgotten warehouses its eroding insides harboured a second life. Echoing empty extruders now played host to a young family of rats, silver pathways along which our imaginary Ginger Snaps travelled had been bombed by the birds above, and the matted piles of half-rotten hair protectors provided excellent insulation for the nests of both. On a good day you might not even notice the smell. Just fifteen minutes of acclimatisation and you could be forgiven for wondering if Mum might bake a batch of Jam Drops for dessert that night.

However our younger sister Anna didn't share our sentiments. She just didn't appreciate all the old biscuit factory offered. Her eyes only saw the residual licks of black smoke along the exhaust fan edging or the mould-lined cutting moulds. When she complained that the floury cloud perpetually hanging in the air made her throat dry I dismissed it, telling her to think of it as an exotic micro-climate. Her enchantment with the factory was as lacklustre as the redundant machines it housed. For her the biscuit factory equated to a lot of 'make' but to me it was a lot of 'believe'.

DAY TWENTY

My heart leaps up when I behold 

          A rainbow in the sky: 

          So was it when my life began; 

          So is it now I am a man;

          So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die...

My heart leaps up when I behold

           An apparition of the sky:

           So is this heavenly body of no flesh;

           Marking rains fallen fresh;

           'She'll never be yours' I am told,

          

                      This elusive love between the sun and I...

DAY NINETEEN

 

Sometimes, when I am really bored, I like to think about you. Mainly in the moments when not much is happening. When I am leant up against the kitchen bench waiting for the kettle to boil or sitting through commercials about incontinence pads that claim their miraculous feat of absorption my mind drifts to that familiar place. There you stake your claim, set up camp and inhabit the corner of my mind reserved especially for moments of nothingness. 

As I pass by Mr Samson fastidiously trimming his white Azalea's or wait for the girl at the checkout with the lazy eye to ring up my loaf of bread and three apples I like to wonder what you're up to. I wonder where you are now and if you might also be buying a loaf of bread and three apples. We could be connected in that sense. Sort of  like a parallel universe. Just as my loaf is waved along its invisible flight path before the scanner so is yours, travelling the space between another lazy-eyed attendant and her register in some other part of the world. It would be right then in that chordal moment that our loaves would chime together. The only difference being of course that my bread is white and yours is undoubtedly wholemeal.

You were funny like that. For someone who could drown their long day at work in a packet of  the cheapest and nastiest lollies, a food I thought closely resembled hyper-coloured nuggets of rubber, you always insisted on buying wholemeal. "White bread is so processed," you would say. Having never expressed any other dietary concerns it always struck me as odd. Your diatribe sounded distinctly rehearsed. "It's a refined carbohydrate, Simon. They remove all traces of the husk and bran, bleach the flour then go and add gluten and raising agents to it to make sure it actually rises. By the time it reaches the shelves there is next to no nutritional value." You would tell me as if I was in desperate need of educating. But instead of being informative and interesting it reminded me more of a high school science teacher recently made redundant.

That was another thing I did between events; I liked to weigh up your contradictions. Just like each apple that made its movement from the counter to the scales I would mentally figure and balance them:

     One. You would loudly claim the ridiculousness of religion given it was essentially based on stories and hearsay. Yet you did so over the crumpled edge of the Sunday paper having just read me your horoscope. 

     Two. Whenever you saw teenagers silently texting in each others company you would hold the technology responsible for a modern breakdown in communication. But anytime caller ID drew the eight lucky digits of your mother's number you would pretend not to be home. 

     Three. Despite your feminist values on marriage - "It's so archaic. It only reinforces outdated ideas of gender roles." - I can still recall the morning of Marc and Eva's wedding when I caught you stuffing your coat sleeves with extra wads of tissues.

It was in the lulls that I enjoyed itemising your inconsistencies. It brought a sense of order to something that was chaotic by nature. Sometimes I would rank them from most annoying to least or alphabetise them: Afraid of spiders, Bad breath in the morning, Cries over period dramas, Dry elbows, and so it went. Mentally picking and choosing their arrangements I created whole shopping lists of shortcomings. In the end though they were just like the apples. In the end the habit cost me. Everytime I sunk my teeth into your faults and chewed them over I was thinking of you and since you'd left. Nothing had tasted as sweet.

DAY EIGHTEEN

Everytime I walk back home from your house the word mocks me. It nags at my guilty self. Just as each step is reassuringly repetitive yet painfully familiar as is my mistake, over and over and over. As I pass by I often wonder if the vandal considered his audience? Was his parental tone specifically for me and my shameful Sunday morning pilgrimage? Did he predict his actions would speak louder than his word? 

I doubted it. All he thought was set on stone.

NIGHT SEVENTEEN feat. Joss

I'm a better woman than I've ever been,
'Cause now I know the score.
I got my sights square on my dreams,
I can't be talked at no more.
You try to tell me that, 'That ain't the truth.'
You say, 'You gotta dream small.'
But I'll believe it when you show me the proof,
and you can watch as I fall.
'Cause see now I got better things to do,
I got a new life and I'm feelin' right on.
No longer will I listen to you,
'Cause my head is high and my spirit is strong.


xx

DAY SIXTEEN

all he said was 'Hold on.'

all i said was 'Don't let go.'

all he thought was 'I've got u.'

all i thought of was u.  

DAY FIFTEEN

she took to the sea 

paddling in its promise

of a brand new year

happy birthday. xx

DAY FOURTEEN

Even if it meant splicing time,

he was flying.

Even if it meant suspending disbelief,

he was flying.

Even if it meant an impact harder than the sobering truth of gravity,

he was flying.

The moment he closed his eyes he felt it,

this is flying.

EVENING THIRTEEN

My Grandad used to race bikes. He was part of a club. Not like the kind of club you see these days mobbing the cafes en masse, replete with lycra and the 'Business Section'. No, these guys were dedicated. It was only a small club. Four members in total to be exact. Apparently they met during their University days. All engineering students. None were what you would call studious though. It was only when a chain came off or in a pursuit to best a downhill record that lessons in mechanical advantage were ever learnt. They would ride 100 miles. Twice a week. If one of them got a puncture the others would whizz by and shout 'see you friday'. 

DAY TWELVE

LOST

 

                       

                       -> smooth red coat

                       -> quiet natured, enjoys being outside

                       -> last seen in the alley behind Piper St

                       -> responds to the name "Pouncer"

                       If found, please ring the bell.

NIGHT ELEVEN

They sat together upon the top of the hill overlooking Newcastle. 

From this vantage it was possible for them to see the entire lay of the land stretching out generously before their eyes. The glowing city huddled amongst the dark mountains presenting itself to them like a beautifully couched crown. Beneath the velvetly cloak of the night its tightly packed suburbs twinkled like clusters of jewels embedded in dense black earth. Stockton Bridge took up its graceful arch over the river where lights, like flecks of gold, helped navigate sleepy cars back to their sleepy homes. 

From up here it was hard to tell that the city was industrious and full of matter-of-fact people living matter-of-fact lives. Its soft flicker belied its history, a city driven by the coal industry. The laden coal trains heavily snaked their way through the back streets traversing the psyche of its inhabitants. It seemed to have an accumulative affect on the people here - all stoney faced, resilient to time and its weathering effects. 

But tonight up here beneath the sweep of stars all she saw was a glittering gem. 

He leaned in closer to her making sure his soft sentiments were heard.

"You're a diamond amongst all this Newcastle coal."

DAY TEN

- man, your stall is amazing.

- oh, cheers man.
- do you manage to set up shop here each week?
- um, yeah, i try to. i mean, i have been collecting a lot lately so the stall is kind of brimming over with life at the moment. but, sometimes it's hard to get here so regularly. y'know, in between working and life...and all the rest.

- heh, yeah, i hear ya. i'm just amazed at how much stuff you have. where does it all come from?

- hmm, i manage to unearth it somehow, y'know, scavange a bit from here, a bit from there. but i guess, now that i think about it, a large portion of it is sourced through work.

- oh? yeah?

- yeah. it's a pretty lucrative job if you've got an eye for buried treasure. i mean, its sort of a case of the quick or the dead, but on most days i'm able to pick up all sorts of odds and ends that other people don't really have a need for anymore.

- wow, to think some people just get rid of this stuff. man, some people are so wasteful. 'spose it works in your favour though; their loss is your gain. 
- hah, yeah. you could say that.
- what do you do for a crust?

- i'm a mortician.

NIGHT NINE

oh brother i can't, i can't get through

i've been tryin' hard to reach you 'cause i don't know what to do

oh brother, where did, where did you intend to go tonight?

they told me that you missed your connecting flight

oh brother, i can, i can help you rearrange

but tell me, what's the point of all this moving if there ain't no change?

oh brother, wait for me, wait for me, just sit tight

home will soon be in our sights

oh brother you won't, you won't believe it's true

when i say i've been tryin' to talk to you

DAY EIGHT

Dear Julia,

Today Jen and I went swimming at Gilmore Beach - the water was the perfect temperature - not like at home. Afterwards, we had icecream and walked along the coastline and never before have I had honeycomb crunch taste so good. It was around the tail-end of sunset which, by the way, had nearly every colour of the spectrum in it...amazing. The deep reds of the sky made Jen's hair look even more red than usual. On our way back home we saw a nice little italian restaurant, lots of intimate corners to chat over your spaghetti and wine, so Jen suggested we go there for dinner tonight. Can't wait.

Sorry I missed your call. I was shopping with Jen at the time (she wanted to get a new dress for dinner) and I couldn't hear my phone over the store's music. Everything feels amazing here, all the sights and smells are amplified ten-fold. It reminds me of when you and I went on our first holiday together to Bateman's Bay - the colours and climate - do you remember?

I've attached a pic of our swim today. I'm still getting used to the new camera but I think I've managed to capture the feeling of the holiday so far.
Wish you were her.

xx Stefan

EVENING SEVEN

She pumped her legs as fast as humanly possible. 

Each stride out-stretched the last, punctuated only by the brief jolt of feet contacting road. Every sinew rippled wildy from the ground up. Her thighs burned with the threat of explosion; their muscular contortion barely contained by the skin. The long sorrowful siren wailed out through the streets and bounced back and forth between the buildings, making it hard to tell its origins. It had her name on it. Haunting in its imminence, the drone steadily bore down on her. 

Fuck, that sounds close. 

She wheeled around, fist clenched even tighter, and between the lashings of hair and shaken vision she could only just make out the quasi-rectangular shape of the vehicle.

She hovered three feet above the ground; eyes fixed on the culprit pool below her that caused her to slip. Arms and legs splayed wide and parallel to the road, she was paused, mid-flight. The world slowed to a halt. 

Tight with constriction, her lungs were at full capacity and struggling to be housed by her chest. Her heart was still beating at triple time. Adrenalin continued to surge to the very extremities of her body, flooding them with now-unnecessary waves of power. Her brain, swimming in the chemical wash of blood and synaptic electricity, acutely focused. Oxygen-rich blood still rushed throughout her body, furiously coarsing along its arterial pathways. The cry of the siren felt on top of her, echoing firstly in her ears then reverberating through her bones. Every cell was alive. This is what it meant to be human.

Why didn't I just listen to Greer? She'd warned me against this.

If it wasn't for that fucking shopkeep. Jesus, why'd he have to call the authorities? Arsehole.   

Even though she scrambled across her memory in search of someone to blame, it was no help. She was here now, this was it. It was over.

She stared at the miniature landscape forming in the bitumen below her; its borders expanding as she neared the roads surface. Her muscles instinctively seized in anticipation. Biting hard into the ground, her cheekbone took the first hit causing a shockwave to repercuss through her bones. The force emptied her lungs in one sharp expulsion and her limbs jarringly flailed before falling into an awkward pile about her. She struggled to breathe and yet somehow emitted a sound entirely instinctive and foreign to her own ears.

One of them crouched closely to her, huddled over her still-clenched fist. Admist the wincing pain she managed to make out the detail of his hands, albeit blurred. His steel-cold fingertips belied their flawlessly human appearance. Although she'd been told about the sophistication of technology here she still mustered surprise at just how seamlessly real his hands looked. 

He called out to his partner. 

"Yeah, Larry, she's carrying."

Larry's distant response came through a mock laugh, "Ha, no doubt...only pushers run like that".

He returned his focus to her and the contents of her fist. More in conversation with himself than Larry, he expressed his quiet confusion, "...wait a minute." 

There was a pause.

She saw the red of the scan before she felt its heat permeate  her hand.  Holding his hand a few inches above hers, the red light emanated from the centre of his palm, moving systematically across hers and the small pile of dark earth that sat ominously upon it. He processed the reading and paused again.

"Jesus," he muttered, "Grade 7, bio-organic material. Larry, you better come see this."

He remained crouched, looking over the heaped body. As if half expecting her to converse between the groans, he leaned in closer to the shuddering pile of muscle and bones and voiced his concerns over the foreign matter he'd just discovered. His steel fingers seared coldly through the sheen of sweat on her face and using her chin as leverage he turned her head to the sky, exposing her face to the perpetual dusk that hung above them. He reeled back in horror. The recent fall of acid rain had left a slick of slime on the road and as he scrambled bakcwards he struggled to gain a footing.

"JESUS, LARRY." 

This time his immediacy demanded Larry's attention.

"What?"

As breathless as the body that lay before him, he punched out his statement in shocked exhales.

"...she's.....she's bleeding."

DAY SIX

The photographer ducked and weaved about his subject deftly agile in his movements. With two cameras crossing his chest in an 'x' the weapons were slung snugly across his body. His manoeuvres were in as quick a succession as the orders he barked. Rohan did the photographers bidding, positioning and repositioning himself according to the rapid fire instructions.

mate, raise it above your head

now look up

no, further to the left

straighten your arms

mate, I said look up

yep, perfect

Loaded with digital ammunition, the photographer took aim. 

With his eyes to the sky Rohan suddenly realised just how beautiful the day was. A cloudless deep blue arched over him. Timeless and infinite he was dwarfed by its vastness. How had it all come to this? When did this publicity bullshit eclipse his passion? He traced a path through his most recent past with the hope of some sort of illumination. There must have been a turnoff I missed, a crossroads where I took a left instead of a right, maybe a misread signpost? But he knew better. This was no assault. There was no war cry marking the takeover. It was an insidious, invisible infiltration. It was only now, with his hands held above his head, Rohan realised he was a hostage to his own success.

that's it mate...I got the shot

DAY FIVE

**** *** 593: i wikkied 'telephones' last nite. man, things r getting desperate - everything is boring here without u. xx

**** *** 899: o, no...that is bad. any revelations? ps.ill b there b4 u no it.

**** *** 593: it said 'the most basic function is 2 allow 2 ppl separated by large distances 2 talk 2 one another'...so, no. not 
                      really. getting so cold here now - u better pack ur gloves. ive 4gotten, what time r u flying in again? i tried to 
                      wikki that...no love. ;-)

**** *** 899: haha, yea turns out wikki doesnt no everything. eta is 16:30 on wednesday. u still good 2 come meet me?

**** *** 593: wednesday?? since wen were u coming wed? i thought u were coming tuesday!! dam, yet another day of 
                      holding on the line.

**** *** 899: since always. i thought i told u ages ago, but we must have got our wires crossed. x

NIGHT FOUR

The girl and her bike sat together on the roadside, providing momentary respite from the journey. With her bike akimbo, straddling the kerb, she riffled through her bag in search of an extra layer of clothing. The night was settling in around them; temperature dropping, light falling. The remainder of the ride was going to be cold and what she needed now was warmth.

The bottom of her backpack relinquished its contents - a deep red scarf, reassuringly thick. Swathing herself in its woollen promise she caught sight of her breath. With a quiet playfulness she inhaled deeply, purposefully drawing the cool ,clear darkness. She watched as it materialised on exhale causing the night air to shiver with anticipation.

A familiar sound cut the moment between breaths. A text.

After a return dive into the depths of the pack, she drew out her phone. It cast a soft blue hue onto her face as three generous words scribed themselves across the screen.

                I miss u. xx

The phone glowed its luminous message into the night. 

She prepped the bike and herself for re-embarkment making final adustments to her jumper, gloves and helmet. It was upon the first sure push of the pedal she realised just how warm that scarf was.

DAY THREE

YES, I'll have it to take away thanks

YES, I would like that in a bag
YES, I will meet you there 
YES, I can stay back
YES, I'm on my way
YES, they told me

YES, I can't believe it either

YES, this is all there is

YES, I need more space
YES, I want more time
YES, I need this
YES, I want this

YES, I want more horizon

YES, I am as big as this sky
YES, I believe in it

YES, I believe in myself
 

YES, I believe in you

DAY TWO

"What a shame."
"Yeah...yep. It's a real shame."


The two men stood with arms crossed, feet fixed and gaze unwavering; sentinals over the scene unfolding before them.
The air was crisp and clear that day - a perfect winters morning. It was incongrous with the moment, unceremoniously beautiful and full of potential. But, the sky knew better.
Without breaking his watch one leant slightly into the other, the only sign that they were in conversation.
"You know what?"
"...hmmm?"
"Ruby and I had our first kiss in that surfhouse. God, I remember it now. She was so beautiful. Yeah, beautiful..."
He paused momentarily losing himself in a movie of times past, but without even a flicker of distraction, his eyes remained on the scene.


"...hmm, what a shame."
"Yep...real shame."

NIGHT ONE

We had to make it across the city in a race against the sun.
Weaving in and out of traffic, ducking on and off the footpath, we doggedly chased down our destination. The threat of darkness was upon us.
Together we drew red lines through the streets, tracing our movements like trajectories on a map. X marked the spot.