Author Archives: shortleftleg

An email from Anne

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Anne sent through this email, just minutes ago. Without further ado, I pass it along.
Cheers
Lucas

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bee longing
to: shortleftleg@yahoo.com

hey lucas. it’s sunday. the day after your opening. which offered a very meaty bit of bait to those of us who aren’t hooked yet. mind you, bit late to get hooked. but anyway, maybe the time for baiting is over and it’s the catch, we’re being shown now. hmmmm … that’s interesting. the ‘catch’. y’know, like ‘so, what’s the catch?’. which is an expression of suspicion isn’t it? that there will be something required or asked of us. in legalistic terms, it’s a ‘consideration’. which skirts the notion of exchange. but i’m getting ahead of myself now. which isnt surprising, because these last few sentences were written AFTER the ones to follow, if you know what i mean. because this email is getting so long that i’m writing my way back INTO it. yeah, so as i was leaving (with hard copy of blog tucked under me arm, and mixing with the experience of the mayoral tour to warm me heart) i told you it made me feel glad/sad. you seemed puzzled by the ‘sad’ bit. think i was too.
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statistical analysis?

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poll

Anyone know how to interpret this data?

It pleases me to know that a large proportion of readers are from Petersham itself, and from the Inner West more broadly. I like the idea that the project communicates with the same people who are featured within it. My fear from the Kellerberrin blog was that most of my readers were in Sydney, although apart from comments I had no way of testing that. But even the thought itself made me feel a bit odd – a kind of exoticism, urban subjects spying on the countryside…

But to what extent can we trust these ‘sham stats? For instance, a nice man called Benedict has admitted to voting himself into Petersham, although he actually lives in Marrickville. How much of this is going on? To what extent are locals more likely to vote, out of pride? To what extent can we measure the apathy of out-of-town readers? Are there other stats issues that I’m not even aware of here?

[footnote: I have applied to be a census collector in the ‘sham later this year. A few days ago I got a call from a nice fellow indicating there might be a possibility I’ve got the job! I’ll keep you posted, and you might see me at your doorstep with some forms to fill in soon…]

having an experience

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shoe poster

I drift inexorably towards my conclusion. I trust less and less the prediction made by Caroline the op-shop lady. Back in early April, she assessed my personality, and judged that I “function better by working towards a deadline”. But here we are, with only two days to go ’til my exhibition, and I’m still blundering about like Mr Ryder, the pianist in Ishiguro’s novel The Unconsoled.

The entire time I’ve been working on the ‘sham, I’ve been reading this novel. And I feel like it’s had some powerful yet subtle influence over my writing, not to mention the way I move through time and space in the suburb. In The Unconsoled, Mr Ryder arrives in an unspecified European city. He’s a famous pianist, and is booked in to do some sort of presentation on “Thursday night”. Trouble is, everyone seems to know what he’s supposed to be do except Ryder himself. Worse still, it appears he’s agreed to countless minor appointments between “now” and Thursday – none of which he can recall. He rushes, flustered and irritated, to make each meeting, only to be waylaid en route by someone who has been expecting him somewhere else. In fact, he should have been at that encounter more than half an hour ago. And so on. Each journey bifurcates, and every subsequent path is itself diverted… After four hundred and thirty seven pages (I’m not yet at the end!) Ryder still hasn’t arrived at Thursday night.

In novel time, less than three days have passed. But for me, it’s been more than fifty days. And although most of my days in Petersham have been nowhere near as frustrating as Ryder’s, to a certain extent I share his feeling, that I’m not quite master of my own destiny. And even more: the absurd sense that the looming deadline is somehow rather meaningless. In my case, all the more so, since my exhibition is going to take place in Camperdown. And still, I allow time to wash over me, moving me closer to the end.
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a little Portugal

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Finally, the moons line up and I’m in the right place at the right time. Manuel only comes in on Tuesdays to the travel agency. The girl at the desk says he’s definitely the right person to talk to if I want to hear a Portuguese story. Manuel is attending to what looks like an old and loyal customer. I wait for a little while, thumbing through the package tours to New Zealand and Tasmania. These tours seems uniquely unappealing to me. Thousands of dollars blown in a fortnight where your every move is circumscribed. And what’s more, you have to pay a “singles supplement” as a punishment for not having a travelling companion!

Manuel waves me over. “So, why me?” he teases. “Why me?” And before I can answer, he launches into a long joke about a famous football player who also asks “Why me?”, when there’s a stadium full of eighty thousand fans, not to mention twenty two footballers and two referees. I wont spoil it by revealing the punchline. If you pass by on a Tuesday you might be able to hear it for yourself.
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dream

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Instead of the Oxford Tavern, there’s an op-shop on the corner of Crystal and New Canterbury. Standing outside the shop is a cardboard removalist box. It’s full of rejected clothing, that even the op-shop itself doesn’t want. I pull up on my bike. Surely there’s something in here that can be salvaged. Standing casually, smoking a cigarette next to the box is the barber from The Locals Barber Shop. He laughs and says he’s been thinking the same thing about this box. We rummage through it together. It contains old crimplene dresses that are nearly interesting, but with patterns we just don’t quite like. At the bottom of the box is a eighties silk suit, brand new, still on the hanger. “What about this one?” he asks. I consider it. It has a peach and brown design, more brown than peach. It’s almost passable. He lifts it out so we can look more closely. On the back, the pattern changes from an angular abstract motif to a predominantly peach colour scheme, in fake Aboriginal dots and squiggles. We don’t need to say anything. Back it goes in the bottom of the box. Now we understand.

a short trip to Marrickville

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map of route to visit lester at IWACC

With a slight shudder, I carried my body across the intersection of Livingstone and Frazer, and into Marrickville. I looked up and saw one of those white stripes left in the sky by an aeroplane. There was a stillness in the air, and the light seemed sharply focussed. The day was warm, I was out of the house by ten. I hate to say it, but it felt good to leave Petersham.
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gulp…

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When I woke up this morning I made a list of things to be sorted by Friday and Saturday for the dinner and exhibition. There are a fair few, to say the least. Complicated, of course, by the fact that the exhibition is happening out of my boundaries, and I haven’t even seen the gallery recently…

And here I am still aimlessly wandering around meeting people and walking dogs. It might (!) be time to get down to business.

I’m just off to meet the visiting Filipino artists…more soon…

Need a job?

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This message came through from Fiona at the Big Bowl Bistro:

The Big Bowl Bistro at the Petersham Bowling Club is seeking an assistant for dinner service and functions. Duties include ordering, collecting plates, dishwashing, preparation, cleaning, moral support for cook and encouraging customers to buy dessert. Bistro operates Thursday and Friday nights and Sunday brunch with functions on most weekends. Shifts between 3 – 5 hours each and paid at $17.50 a hour. Experience not necessary but enthusiasm, initiative and proximity to the Club would be favourably considered. Call Fiona on 0434 813 926 or drop into the Club on Thursday or Friday afternoons.

(The club is at the corner of The Avenue and Brighton Street (on the northern side of the tracks)…

Companion trades

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Friday arvo. I join Alex at the Livingstone. The Waratahs are already being beaten by the Hurricanes. Alex says the locals are being surprisingly tolerant tonight. They despise rugby union, and resent having it shown on the TV in the pub. (Union’s a toff’s game). Alex explains “ruck” and “maul”. The players put their heads down and mesh together in a ruck, the matrix of muscley men pawing the grass and lurching about like a great twenty-legged beetle. Actually, it’s not bad to watch. Alex knows the names of all the players, and calls out to them in familiar tones, as if they might hear him through the TV set. He asks if I want a drink. “Yeah, how about a shandy?” I ask. “Oh man, I hope none of the locals hear me ordering that!” he says. As soon as the game ends he puts down his red bull and rushes out the door. He’s got to get across to Wooloomooloo. The play he wrote, about AFL, is due to start any minute…
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trophy up for grabs!

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north south dish

Come one, come all, to the North-vs-South Bowling Match this Friday night at the Petersham Bowlo!

Vanessa (a seasoned op shopper) found this pearler of a dish, which she has donated to the cause.

All are welcome to bowl, you don’t need to be from Petersham. All you have to do is align yourself to “North” or “South”, depending on which end of the compass you feel represents you best. The triumphant side will carry off the Bowler’s Ten Commandments Dish!

This event is running concurrently with the dinner and slide show on Friday night. Kick off at six. Full details over here.