Oblivion Seekers
*
And so, as he passed out of consciousness and into the gutter, the office workers stepped over him as if he didn't exist. They were all the same, these carrion birds, these creatures from another planet, another place, the office workers. They bore no resemblance to him, there was no reflection of his life. They might as well have been another species. He looked up, phasing in and out, but none stopped. Except an old queen. They always stopped. Are you alright? the man asked. And he slurred his words. He wasn't alright, he hadn't been alright for a long time. He was as smashed as he could get, destroying his own consciousness. He didn't want to be awake. He didn't want to feel anything. He came stumbling around the corner, and saw himself, already dead, rising out of the gutter, helped by the gay guy who had stopped out of concern, or maybe he just liked a bit of rough trade. Are you alright, the man repeated, and he stumbled into him, unable to stand up straight.
I'm a bit pissed, he said. I can see that, the man said. And after a short period, the offer came. Do you want to come back to my place, you can have some coffee, sober up. And so it was as it always was, a shower, a blow job and $20, that's the sort of kid he was, crazy as. Nothing stopped. Nothing ended. He was caught in a downward spiral and had already hit rock bottom before he had barely begun, dashing across the thin red line as if it was non-existent. He was entranced by the underworld, the gangsters he met around the Cross, the underground gay scene, anything that was hidden, subterfuge being his natural order. He didn't know where it would end. He didn't understand what was happening. He didn't understand why his heart ached, awfully, always. There was no end to the agony and yet he had only just begun.
No one could see through this turmoil, no one could touch his heart. And so he dusted himself off and climbed back into his old clothes and made his way down yet another suburban street, not knowing where he was going or where he would end up. These strange days were an ample curse. He couldn't go back to his parents house, not to the frozen war and the belts and the harsh anger always directed at him. Briefly, before he started renting the tiny room in the private hotel by the water, he was homeless. He sped all night and drank all day. He was under age and it was hard to get alcohol, but he managed one way and another. Standing in the street swaying, hiding in corners and watching the trammelling traffic, secretive, frightened, completely alone. He didn't know why God had cursed him so. He couldn't find a way out. He sat at the bar and let the men buy him drinks. He could drink most of them under the table anyway. It wasn't the beginning of a dark time, he was already in its midst.
And so he opened his mouth and could see the slurred words coming out. No, I'm fine. No, I'm not alright. Where am I? What am I doing here? You've passed out in the gutter, the man said. All he could think of was what happened to the bottle, had he finished it already, would this bloke have alcohol back at his flat? He told these stories years later; and they sounded so humorous, so forlorn, the lost child, but there was no pity for what once was; in a brutal place, in a brutal time. The smart BMWs and Mercedes were parked along the Darlinghurst streets. Wealthy people ate in the restaurants. A group of middle aged men gathered for a meal, drinking water, in recovery, gossiping to each other. He felt infinitely alone, infinitely different, and knew it was self indulgent. Humans were much the same, wherever they came from, whatever had happened.
If only he could be spared the worst of it. If only he didn't have to face up to these brutal truths. If only he could hug tight the love, the flesh of another. And instead they all gazed at him as if he was some freak from the zoo, and he felt intensely self conscious. Only a thin membrane separated the sober world from that other, darker slipstream, the liquid intensity of the other world. It called him constantly. He could see the bars shining in the dark, the fabulous strangers, the international guests, and he knew, before the money ran out, he could join them and pretend, just for the evening, just for the moment, to be a normal, successful, happy, integrated person with a fascinating job and a string of successes behind him, with all the daily commitments of a real, connected person. Oh how he longed for a different space. And just for a moment, he could feel the fabric of things, once more glorious, the night large, the restaurants full, the strangers disappearing down alleys; and knew that while he not be right with the world right now, there was hope. He might not always be the lunatic stranger, the oblivion seeker, the shattered, disconsolate soul.
And so, as he passed out of consciousness and into the gutter, the office workers stepped over him as if he didn't exist. They were all the same, these carrion birds, these creatures from another planet, another place, the office workers. They bore no resemblance to him, there was no reflection of his life. They might as well have been another species. He looked up, phasing in and out, but none stopped. Except an old queen. They always stopped. Are you alright? the man asked. And he slurred his words. He wasn't alright, he hadn't been alright for a long time. He was as smashed as he could get, destroying his own consciousness. He didn't want to be awake. He didn't want to feel anything. He came stumbling around the corner, and saw himself, already dead, rising out of the gutter, helped by the gay guy who had stopped out of concern, or maybe he just liked a bit of rough trade. Are you alright, the man repeated, and he stumbled into him, unable to stand up straight.
I'm a bit pissed, he said. I can see that, the man said. And after a short period, the offer came. Do you want to come back to my place, you can have some coffee, sober up. And so it was as it always was, a shower, a blow job and $20, that's the sort of kid he was, crazy as. Nothing stopped. Nothing ended. He was caught in a downward spiral and had already hit rock bottom before he had barely begun, dashing across the thin red line as if it was non-existent. He was entranced by the underworld, the gangsters he met around the Cross, the underground gay scene, anything that was hidden, subterfuge being his natural order. He didn't know where it would end. He didn't understand what was happening. He didn't understand why his heart ached, awfully, always. There was no end to the agony and yet he had only just begun.
No one could see through this turmoil, no one could touch his heart. And so he dusted himself off and climbed back into his old clothes and made his way down yet another suburban street, not knowing where he was going or where he would end up. These strange days were an ample curse. He couldn't go back to his parents house, not to the frozen war and the belts and the harsh anger always directed at him. Briefly, before he started renting the tiny room in the private hotel by the water, he was homeless. He sped all night and drank all day. He was under age and it was hard to get alcohol, but he managed one way and another. Standing in the street swaying, hiding in corners and watching the trammelling traffic, secretive, frightened, completely alone. He didn't know why God had cursed him so. He couldn't find a way out. He sat at the bar and let the men buy him drinks. He could drink most of them under the table anyway. It wasn't the beginning of a dark time, he was already in its midst.
And so he opened his mouth and could see the slurred words coming out. No, I'm fine. No, I'm not alright. Where am I? What am I doing here? You've passed out in the gutter, the man said. All he could think of was what happened to the bottle, had he finished it already, would this bloke have alcohol back at his flat? He told these stories years later; and they sounded so humorous, so forlorn, the lost child, but there was no pity for what once was; in a brutal place, in a brutal time. The smart BMWs and Mercedes were parked along the Darlinghurst streets. Wealthy people ate in the restaurants. A group of middle aged men gathered for a meal, drinking water, in recovery, gossiping to each other. He felt infinitely alone, infinitely different, and knew it was self indulgent. Humans were much the same, wherever they came from, whatever had happened.
If only he could be spared the worst of it. If only he didn't have to face up to these brutal truths. If only he could hug tight the love, the flesh of another. And instead they all gazed at him as if he was some freak from the zoo, and he felt intensely self conscious. Only a thin membrane separated the sober world from that other, darker slipstream, the liquid intensity of the other world. It called him constantly. He could see the bars shining in the dark, the fabulous strangers, the international guests, and he knew, before the money ran out, he could join them and pretend, just for the evening, just for the moment, to be a normal, successful, happy, integrated person with a fascinating job and a string of successes behind him, with all the daily commitments of a real, connected person. Oh how he longed for a different space. And just for a moment, he could feel the fabric of things, once more glorious, the night large, the restaurants full, the strangers disappearing down alleys; and knew that while he not be right with the world right now, there was hope. He might not always be the lunatic stranger, the oblivion seeker, the shattered, disconsolate soul.
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