I'm sitting adjacent to Central Station in a park favoured by hobos, tourist couples and junkies.
To my left is a scene ripped straight from the Limewire porn archives... Two blonde girls, judging by the Scanian cross on their bags they're Swedish, lying on the grass... and making out.
It'd be pretty hot if it weren't for the homeless bloke sitting to the right of me, who's not making much of an effort to conceal his rapid hand movements underneath his worn sleeping bag. His sinister grunts, coupled with the squarks from fighting seagulls lay an apt soundtrack to the scene.
It
had crossed my mind to tell him to cut it out, but it occurs to me that he probably doesn't get laid very often and similarly doesn't have access to an internet connection, so this is probably the best thing that has happened to him since the last time they forgot to stamp "Not for alcohol purchases" on his Coles cash vouchers at the Welfare Office.
So instead I've shifted far enough away that I can no longer taste his booze soaked breath.
I've been here not but 20 minutes and yet I've been offered flyers about the "great" Rob L. Hubbard twice... by the same person. It's mildy bearable only because she's been strategically groomed to perform a suitable role within the company's Public Relations Department and therefor is cute enough that if I
were single, I'd probably feign interest long enough to learn the rule on sexual interaction within the Scientologist community... But since I have a girl, I plan to hurl this pile of dog shit that I've relocated next to if she comes within 5 feet of me again.
I'm distracted by an arguement that a couple of junkies, no older than myself, are having.
Apparently those
shards make him too paranoid yet all that smack has made her a "lying, cheating cunt." His bellowing voice is an innacurate representation of his skin-&-bone ice head physique.
She storms off leaving her two kids, Jaden and Tiara, in her wake.
I can't help but notice the cruel irony behind a heroin addicted mother naming her child Tiara... like a constant reminder of a life that mum never had and a premonition of every daughter's dream that, at least in this case, remains out of reach... and within this paradox lies the truth of Sydney.
A picturesque harbour, afloat with shopping trolleys and jellyfish.
Cultural diversity, pulsing with xenophobic resentment.
Rats fighting for food scraps beneath a train platform that is cloaked with expensive business suits...
It's filthy despite the scrupulous rinsing... I dig it... we both do.
We may hang 'round for a while longer, thanks undeniably to some divine intervention from back home...
Yesterday I had a beer in a silent toast to dad and downed all that Miss X couldn't... because the last thing he'd want to see, is half a scooner go down the sink.
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