21st September 2009 - A brief history in the present tense...

I wake up tired.

A disturbingly familiar way to start most days in my recent past and most probably the distant future. My body hurts. My head hurts too. I think about going to back to sleep and not worrying. But then I remember that its exactly how the downward spiral starts. First not going to work, then eating out of a bin. Extremes maybe, but sometimes it’s what I need to bring myself to attention. I feel like terrible. Just like Elliott Smith. His lyrics spring to mind; “I always feel like shit, I don’t know why I guess that I just do”. But he stabbed himself in a recording studio. I have no plan to do that. Recording studios are sacred.

I find clothes in my room. A three or so meter by three or so meter box filled with clothes, guitars, computers, wires, and other redundant paraphernalia. I grab the necessities and head to the shower. When I return my room is the same. I always seem to find that strange. I don’t know why. Sometimes I wish it would just change, or not be there at all. Wouldn’t that be refreshing?

I’m wearing Rivers boot cut blue jeans, a plain black FCUK T-shirt and Redback steel cap boots (no laces of course). I have my 2Gb apple Ipod filled with randomness. I put my Koss headphones on and walk out my front door. I need to unlock 2 doors before I reach the outside world. I believe this to be a fire hazard. On the way I stop at a coffee shop that doesn’t yet have a name. I flirt with a young Moroccan girl who is currently studying at the university of Sydney. She is wearing a “Grateful Dead” T-shirt. I tell her that I think the grateful dead are amazing. She quickly replies that she agrees. She then adds that the lack of clouds make her happy and that sunny days are the best. I smile. “Fair enough” is the only thing I can manage. As I’m walking out with my large cappuccino to go with one sugar, she yells out goodbye. Again I smile and again add “fair enough”.

I get on the train and immediately set my Ipod for Jay Z and Linkin Park. I listen to 3 songs, which I wont list, and then I randomize. “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin starts up. A fittingly somber middle to the start of my day. Then Zero 7 and Jose Gonzales do “Left Behind”. I’m on the verge of a breakdown when I finally hear “Berlin Chair” by You Am I. This perks me up to no end. “Without You” by Silverchair follows. The timpani's (or what sound like timpani's) at the beginning put me in a mood suitable for work. I don’t get to finish listening to it however. I change trains.

I meet a friend from work at the interim station and we exchange the standard pre-work sentiments. This mainly consists of an initial greeting; one of us will say “another day” and the other will finish “yeah, another dollar”, to which the first will reply “yeah, but never enough”. Then we start to complain about everything from weather, to work, to women, to the news, and occasionally digress to stories barely believable about Bondi in the 70s and 80s.

I’m on the edge of a second breakdown for the morning after ten minutes of said banter. We get off the train and walk past the horse track to work. Sometimes someone will pick us up on the way sometimes not. Sometimes its freezing cold and sometimes not. Sometimes I chew gum and sometimes not. Today is all “not's”.

I arrive at work. Today is Monday and I apologize for not being at work the previous Friday – I had called in sick. He asks me if I’m ok. I say “not really, but I’m here”. I give him an update on work I’m currently involved in that he neither has a stake in nor cares for. He seems impressed that I keep the talk to a minimum realizing that I know how he feels about the situation. He says “good work” as I leave. Small victories.

I walk over to my desk and grab a purple speckled coffee cup. Its as clean as it is ugly. I’m relieved. I take it to the lunch room and make myself a rather ordinary instant coffee. On the plus side the milk is good. A person from work comes in and asks me a question. I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t hear the question. “I don’t know” I said, “but try one of the people downstairs, they usually know about those kinds of things”. He looked at me strangely, grabbed an iced vo-vo biscuit and left the room.

I walk back to my desk. I have no time to drink my coffee. Its too hot and its not very good anyway. I attach the safety gloves to the belt loop on the back right hand side of my jeans. I put on my high visibility vest, grab my digital camera, hand cover notepad, hard hat and safety glasses and begin the five or so minute trek through the car park to the cement wall factory. I pass a total of two factory workers on the way. I don’t acknowledge them, and they me. No harm done. I pass the ear plug dispenser. I twist it twice and three come out. I’m disgusted. I feel like technology should have caught up this much by now. Apparently not though.

I insert the earplugs and make my way through stacks of cement sheets three tall people high with timber gluts in between half meter sections. The lighting is bright. I think about the Beatles. I doubt that Paul McCartney ever worked in a factory. Happiness is indeed a warm gun. That very thought and the poetry and the rest of the Beatles back catalogue calm me for a brief moment.  I reach my destination.

I’m looking at a broken down machine. It’s stopped and nobody knows why. I ask an operator a few questions. I ask what happened and what he did. I knew what was wrong but I thought it more interesting to see how long it would take them to figure it out. I think about the Rolling stones. No sympathy for the devil. None indeed, and certainly none here today, not from me anyway. Ungrateful bastards.

After fifteen minutes and a possible monetary loss of a number of thousands, I decide to ask the right questions in order to facilitate a quick fix – a mechanical band aid if you will. I am in fact a mechanical doctor, or rather an intern in a farm of geriatric mechanical devices. I take notes and photos about and of the situation. I’m comfortable with the outcome. The cement sheets roll down the line like rigid waves. Over. And over again.

The next 3 hours are monotonous. They take me through to lunchtime. I walk over to the work café and order a ham and salad sandwich. As they are notorious for making the sandwiches plagued by elephantitus I ask for minimal portions of all involved. She asks if I want butter and I say that I do however I reiterate that less is more. To my surprise she takes a big chunk I of what I believe to be margarine and heaps it on one of the two pieces of bread. I am perplexed. She puts the pickles on first, then ham (What?) then cheese, tomato, salt, pepper and lettuce. The general order of the sandwiches creation upsets me to no end. I don’t know if I can even eat it. I’m hungry though so I take it – and a bottle of Pepsi too.

The sandwich is as predicted, average – reminiscent of a pizza when the ingredients are right but added at the wrong time. However I’m in a good mood now. The lunchtime table tennis challenge is on. I play the top player one on one. He wins 21-15. A loss of epic proportions. I’m improving. I team up with said player, and though I'm usually considered a “handicap” today the words “on fire” are heard echoing through the halls and corridors of the office.

I finish up with a 3-1 win loss scorecard for the day. My happiness is cut short by the realization that I must now return back to work. I call a company to make sure they ships some parts I have ordered. I think her name is Terri, though she assures me it was Kerri. Whatever. The parts would arrive on time. I walk back down to the machine and nothing is happening. The next three and half hours drag. Slowly. As a troubleshooter, lack of trouble seems to equal boredom.

I get a message on my phone. I am to meet a friend for Vietnamese. This doesn’t excite me very much as all the Vietnamese I have eaten in Sydney to date has tasted rather average. Though as always, I am hopeful of not being disappointed. Glass half full right?

I leave work and get back to the city (I live there) at around 5:30. I am early. I wait at a bar on Gouldbourn Street. I think about Nick Cave. What does it mean to have a “red right hand” anyway? I wonder what it would be like to do a duet with Kylie Minogue and have your own festival.

My friend arrives. She expresses her love for VB. It takes all the self control I have not to get and leave at that moment. I tell her for a person of unquestionable taste she has done something not many can do, and actually surprised me. Though disgusted, I am still excited. She tells me I am like everyone else who hates it. I explain that a million people can never be wrong. This is not something I agree with and I know that in the future it will more than likely be used against me.

After two schooners of James Squire Golden Ale, we relocate to a Vietnamese place on George Street. We order Pho, which is apparently pronounced “Fur”. I make a rather lame joke about telling my friends I ate fur for dinner. To my surprise she laughs. Probably pity.

After the absolutely impressive Vietnamese we walk back towards Town Hall. We pass a Japanese sweets shop and eat green tea flavored frozen yogurt, and talk about Metalocalypse. She begins to tell me about black metal bands and how much she loves Metalocalypse. I mention that I have never even met a girl who had seen it let alone enjoyed it. Rare.

We walk back to the station. I get on a train. I see my friends brother. He asks me what I'm doing. I tell him I’m going home. It seems we are both doing the same thing, though in different directions. He needs to change.

I get home and remove the day before setting my alarm and lying in bed. I think about how things could be so much better. Then I think about how things could be so much worse. Then I get depressed.

Because I know, tomorrow, I will wake up tired.