The Poeth Noeth

"I WAS INJECTED WITH HEROIN WHEN I WAS TWOOOOO" the young man cried as he stood screaming at his opponent.  The tough, defiant exterior that allowed him to stand motionless as he collected a series of full fist punches to the face had slowly vanished to reveal the inner agony of a childhood of physical and emotional abuse.

By using the trans-generational war cry of "Carncunt", he had moments earlier dared another alcohol fuelled youth to hit him.  And hit him he did; 'smack' - 'smack'  - 'smack' with pauses long enough between for the receiver to move well clear of the punches.  But he stood there, without moving, allowing the punches to connect at full force.  He then stared at his opponent for a moment before the pain of the punches sunk in, then as his eyes moved downward so did the tears.  The tough boy had disappeared, to be replaced by the beaten child within.

With the only weapon he had left - guilt, he let out the aforementioned revelation: "I was injected with heroin when I was two" as blood streamed from his mouth and floods of tears rolled from his eyes.

He was trying to turn his opponent into an attacker.  "How could you hit someone who was injected with heroin as a kid"? he was saying.

Soon all hell broke loose as he started throwing his own fists about, hitting anyone and anything (mostly air).  As the train pulled into the next station he was thrown onto the platform and beaten again.  This time with a bottle apparently.  Cops and ambulances arrived and the train went nowhere for 20 or 30 minutes as the police chased two of the fighters down the tracks and the ambo's patched up the other one.

Passengers, of which there were few sighed and lamented, complained under their breath and waited patiently.  This is nothing new to them it seems.  This train line is full of this sort of thing.  "Why aren't the carriages patrolled?" was a common question as the train sat motionless.

One of the youth involved in the ruckus began to tremble as another passenger started talking with him.  "It was self defence" he tried to explain.  "You Lie You Fry" said the passenger as he reminded the kid that there are cameras all over the carriage which surely would have recorded what happened.  The kid trying to maintain his sheen of toughness, the same sheen that allowed him to wave his beer bottle around the carriage only a stop or two ago, said "I'll just bail".

"You Run You're Done" said the passenger who added a few more rhyming words of advice that cut straight through the kid who now realised he was in trouble.  A tome of rhymes were sent his way as the kid grew more and more fearful and defensive. "It wasn't my fault, it was self defence".

Then suddenly, as we are waiting for the police to arrive back to begin questioning people as to what happened the two runners arrive back on board, the doors close and the train departs.  

I'm a Homeless Man and I Clean Trains

This weekend I visited my sister as I helped deliver a bed to her new home.  The dirty rotten bum she married had lay siege to her liberty and esteem for well over half her life until he finally cut her loose with little left to show.  Thread bare and broke she was never broken.  Trampled by big fat greedy boots that left imprints that looked like they would never fade, she is rising from the ashes.  A year or so on, the scars are fading.  She has a new home in a street where people knock on the door to welcome you to the neighbourhood "for the first time in my life!"  Yes its a modest home but it is all hers.  Well hers and the myriad pets she has... birds, cats etc, and she now has a room to set up her own little studio whereby she can engage in the arts & crafts she loves so well.

It's not my place to say what she went through, what she had to endure, but she is getting through it and shining more brightly than I have ever seen her.  Step by step she is clawing her way back, perhaps to a place she has never been before.

The more manure the more beautiful the flower.

The train station was sparsely populated as I waited for the 3:45 to arrive to take me home.  You know the scene:  a few pimply skate kids, teenage girl blasting Katy Perry through her ipod, old guy playing pocket billiards, a dead pigeon splattered all over the water tap.  You know, just a typical Sunday afternoon suburban scene, a dude with cuts all over his face wearing shoes too big for his feet and clothes that must have belonged to his grandpa.  He must also have been wearing human repellent because wherever he walked up and down the platform others would walk the other way.
 He was actually kinda scary looking.  Come to think of it maybe they weren't cuts on his face after all.  Maybe he attacked the pigeon with his bare hands and ate it's gizzards out.  The pigeon I saw was missing its entire bottom half - not a pretty sight I can tell you.

But no, I don't think this man did that and I'll tell you why.

Sitting as comfortably as one can in a train seat I close my eyes and try to catch a few Zeds while the train rattles toward the city.  Closing my eyes was the action of choice here as the carriage was littered with rubbish from top to bottom.  It was pretty hard to find a seat that didn't have an empty something or other packet on it.  I'm sure every passenger thought the same as me "bloody scumbags".  But none of us would think to clean it up of course.

Not long into the journey the back door flings open.  As I open my eyes I see our rough looking friend standing at the doorway.  He announces his arrival by saying "Hello everyone, my name's John, I'm a homeless man.  I'm here to clean the train.  If you can spare some change that would be awesome.  If not, could you please put any rubbish you see into the middle aisle so that I can pick it up".

How can you not be impressed by that?  I gave him what change I had and watched as he made his way through the carriage picking up all the shit that the good people of this city were kind enough to leave for this man.  No further coin graced his palm and our fellow passengers thanked the heavens for train windows as they provided a believable distraction, but John kept on picking up the refuse left behind by those far better off than him.

Now I know what yer thinkin.  He's just a crafty little bum who's found a clever way to con people out of their money. Right?  Well if that were the case then good on him I say.  He only asked for loose change and that ain't gonna kill nobody.  But no that's not it.  There is far more happening inside this man.

 The looks of disgust this man received were beyond shameful.  How peculiar is it that the busker sitting opposite me (who also creatively begs for money) shoos John off like a mad woman throwing a bucket of water over a stray cat?  I've seen the standard of busker in this city and it's pretty safe to say that this guy has offended plenty of people with his offerings.  Yet if his facial expression is anything to go by, this busker had seemingly never been so disgusted in all his life, as the day a homeless man asked for change.

'John wasn't just being crafty.  It wasn't just a sly way to scam a bit of coin.  As he made his way past me on his return trip I ask him "How'd you go?"

"Not great" He says before breaking a smile and proudly adding "but the trains clean".

Rise oh Phoenix, rise.

A Funny Thing Happened...

On one of my many expeditions to the city I took this here photo of Hercules' bust in the park.  After getting home and tweaking it a bit to drain what little color there was in the picture - it was a very overcast day so the blues of the sky were very faint and washed out - I named it 'Sorrowful',  uploaded it to my flikr (can I say that here?) page for all to admire and left it at that.

Over the next few weeks I would return to the park and feel pretty chuffed that I had improved the appearance of our friend in the form of some creative lightroom tweaking.

I also thought I'd be really clever and show why he was so "Sorrowful"  by photographing his female companion in the same manner and calling the resulting picture "Little Wonder".  But she has a broken nose!  Some bastard knocked her nose off!  The council glued it back on but it looks dreadful.  How could I publish a photograph of a female with a busted snoz and call it "Little Wonder"!?  That just wouldn't be right.  So I left it.

Cut to this Sunday past and I'm again in the park looking for something or someone interesting to photograph when out of the corner of my eye I catch a bright orange glow.  An orange so bright I could almost feel radiation burns from it.

I turn toward the light and see our poor old mate glowing like a mini sun.  Someone had bombed him and his fair lady with flouro paint!

You know those moments when you don't really know what your seeing?  It took a couple of seconds to register.  These two illuminant orbs were the most brilliant things I saw all day.  In more ways than one.

Making my picture I thought about composition, light yadda yadda yadda, but color?  Noooooo....

The one thing needed to improve this pair was color!  And boy did they get it.

On a drizzly overcast Sunday they looked amazing.  Yeah I know its vandalism and plenty of people would be upset by it but it looked like they had been to the party of their lives.  Sunburned as all get out maybe, but it brightened up an otherwise comatose marriage.  Even if it only lasts a day before the council rub it off.