A City Between the Lines

Wednesday 14th of August 3.15-6.30pm Clifton Hill

Although I haven’t ventured out to the tunnels of Clifton Hill Station recently, I can’t even remember it being as cold down here as it is today. The clouds which drew a curtain to the heavens yesterday have opened with plenty of rain and a wind which sends a bitter chill down the dark corridor’s spine. Given such conditions, I’m not surprised to find the tunnels unusually quiet and question my wisdom in attempting to play through the numbing cold.

Initially, I am alone in the tunnel for quite some time until the cold monotony is broken by two blokes who walk past with a mean looking dog and a slab of beer. Between them and the dog, it was hard to tell which posed more of a danger and I keep my head down as they walk past. The weedier of the two treads that uncomfortable line between gregarious and threatening as he polishes off a bottle of beer and hurls insults my way. “Play something good, and by the way, what are ya doin’ wearin’ a shitty scarf like that for a shitty club like that?” The second observation is a fair call, as I’ve chosen to wear the Essendon’s colours, the arch rival to the biggest football club in this area, Collingwood.

To appear meek is to invite further taunting, to retaliate would provoke a fight and to ignore them would perhaps be an insult they wouldn’t stand to bear. Instead, I laugh and take it in my stride, making a few off colour jokes about the doping scandal which afflicting my footy club. “See the Bombers shoot up, up, to lose their Premiership points” is the bastardisation of the club song I offer. Though they laugh, that isn’t quite the end of it.

The smaller and more vocal of the two pretends to hand me a dollar, but instead taunts me with it. Surprisingly, his quieter but more intimidating counterpart tells him to give me a break and I’ve likely seen the last of them. To my relief, my friend The Old Master appears but my happiness is short lived on account of him looking like a nervous wreck. Looking frail with his nervous shake and maudlin gaze, I can’t stand to see the old timer like this even if it’s one of the rare occasions he’s sober. Every time that I see him, he’s got a bottle or two of cheap wine or port either on his person or in his belly. That he was a chronic alcoholic was tragically apparent in the way he was tipsy when we first met and completely incapacitated by the night’s end at his art exhibition.

“I had to do a night in rehab”, he begins, but he struggles to say much else. “I can’t take the cold. Sorry, but I have to get home”. Freezing as it is down here, there’s a good chance his shakes are as much due to going cold turkey than feeling cold. Regardless, it was horrible to see him clearly suffering. As much as I wished he were cured of the demon drink, if a snifter of something meant he were spared the pain, I would likely give it to him.

As a young girl walks a tiny breed of dog I don’t recognise, the tunnels reverberate with barks and yelps. The two dropkicks who started my day walk past with their beast of a thing, barely contained by its leash. Clearly intimidated by the larger dog, the girl isn’t given so much as a polite apology by the two unflinching thugs. Again, I’m told by the runt of the duo to play ‘something good’. Bizarrely, he starts singing the Cat Stevens song ‘Moonshadow’ in a nasal bray ravaged by years of drinking, smoking and screaming at buskers. Getting increasingly fed up with his goading, I once again change the lyrics to suit my own devices.

“I’m being followed by a poo-jabber, poo-jabber, poo-jabber”, I croon. Unbeknownst to me, an old girl my grandmother’s age has just walked passed and I acknowledge her presence with a sheepish grin, though she returns with an amused smirk. Unexpectedly, riff and raff are cackling in amusement and just before they turn the corner of the tunnel, the loudmouth hurls another insult.

“You’re a poo-jabber!”

“Yeah, you wish”, I say without blinking an eye. Before I can, I suddenly hear a rush of footsteps and look up to find a bottle thrush in my face.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING SAY I’M A FUCKING POO JABBER. I AM A WOMAN. I DON’T TAKE SHIT UP MY ARSE”.

I don’t know what to be more shocked by. I knew fully well this guy was teetering between aggressive and friendly, but thought the latter to be the case with that last harmless jibe. The dark amber bottle could be either smacked across my head, or thrust straight into my face as I stare down the end of it. Wait. Did I hear right? Did he, or she, just say ‘I am a woman?’

With the face only inches away from mine, I realise that she is indeed a woman as I study her jawline and cheekbones which are characteristically feminine. Apart from that, little else about her is.

“I GAVE YOU TWO BUCKS. DON’T GO GETTING SMART”.

As her shouts reverberate off the empty tunnel walls, I realise it is indeed the voice of a woman for whom years of abuse have rendered her with a tone barely feminine.

I stare her down. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to confront danger and literally stare it in the down until it was clear I was not intimidated. There was that time at indoor soccer where one sore loser made a point of running full pelt at me and stopping inches from my face, effectively screaming at a human brick wall. Only a matter of months later, I found myself in a staring contest with a young neo-Nazi with a fist full of marbles who demanded I empty my pockets only to get a prompt ‘fuck off’ and minute’s silence for his efforts.

It’s twisted logic, but the minute you cower, cover your face or even let the faintest tremble of the lip or blink of the eye give any indication they’ve taken you by surprise, they will pounce. Essentially, they are as primal as any beast and at the mercy of the most base functions. Hence, they employ stare-downs to assert momentary dominance over the unsuspecting. Why? To account for the lack of control they feel in their own eyes.

I’ve never been entirely confident of my abilities to fight. Having a bottle thrust in your face while sitting here behind my keyboard, I am vulnerable like I haven’t been for a long time. Still, I cannot give the faintest trace of fear and I am so adrenalised that the tunnel no longer feels cold. Without warning, she pulls the bottle out of my face and walks away as her cohort calls out to her. There are no words to describe how wrapt I am to be left to sit here without a face full of broken glass.

Staring with a gaze as cold as the air around me, I’m only just beginning to come down from the rush of adrenaline with the inevitable ensuing headache. Right now, I would love for The China Girl to be here, or Baby Jesus, or The Drifter, The Red Head, The Man with the Piano, Tiger Eyes, any single one of those good people to be here.

Instead, I’m sitting here freezing my arse alone in a tunnel in the outer suburbs, apprehensive about leaving should I meet with an ambush. Suddenly, a person I’m familiar with appears but I’m not entirely enthused about my company. It’s the guy a few potatoes short of a full sack who insists I sound like Delta Goodrem and should play all of her songs. After what just happened, I’m not in the mood for playful conversation and play on without saying much. I probably looked like a real rude little bastard, but I simply couldn’t say anything. He, on the other hand, had plenty to say. “This is beautiful!”, “So much feeling”, “Elton John”, “Liberace”, “You should go on the Voice”, “You should go Australia’s Got Talent” and finally, “Delta Goodrem” repeat over and over again like automated Rain-Man responses. Where it would normally be cute and amusing, it becomes problematic when he shouts in the faces of passersby and I have to tell him to calm down.

Fortunately, he doesn’t get upset. I suddenly realise I could have well precipitated for the second time today. Instead, he gets bored and walks away. Even though the next person to cross my path is an ex-girlfriend, I’m more than glad to see her. Without telling her about what just happened, I end up airing a whole lot of other frustrations. Instead of being repulsed by my ramblings, she actually echoes a lot of my sentiments. She too is a full time artist.

“I’m just finding it difficult, really bloody difficult to find time to learn new stuff and actually live off this busking. I mean, I can do it, but it compromises any improvement. I spend most of the day playing the same things over and over again and the repetition just kills the technique. I could just do the cover band stuff, and frankly, doing my own thing is starting to turn into its own different kind of situation”.

Taking this in, she agrees. “I know. I’m feeling it too. There isn’t much commercial work for me either and it’s been hard”. She’s slightly vague and I’m not sure what the specific nature of her situation is, but I don’t doubt for a minute she’s much in the same boat. I briefly lament the fact that once, we were privy to a great deal of each other’s secrets, fears, battles, dreams and hopes. Now, the disconnect has well and truly been made clear by a silence I never was once used to. Hugging her as she leaves, the way she feels when I hold her hasn’t changed. That memory is one small comfort on a day like today.

A couple walk past me and they could easily pass for the junkies you’re bound to cross if you’re ever in the inner city or near the housing commission flats of the inner suburbs. Having walked a good thirty metres past me, the male suddenly turns to look in my direction.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY TO ME?”

That all but confirms they’re on the gear. I can only guess what the voices in his head were telling him what I said. Then again, perhaps it was a trap and he was friends with the woman who held a bottle to my face only half an hour earlier.

“Nothing mate, nothing” is all I can say to him, but it works. Saying nothing, the gentleman turns back to the direction he was headed and I wait a good while after it’s clear they’ve gone to pack up my gear. Whenever I relate tales of being attacked unprovoked, there is always someone who will helpfully suggest that perhaps it was something in my countenance, gait or most absurdly, my ‘aura’, that invited such attention. Having come to Clifton Hill Station with nothing but good spirits and the desire to earn a bit of money playing the piano, I take solace at least knowing that trouble is unavoidable in some instances. There truly are some arseholes that have little other purpose than to make their horrid presence felt. 

Swan St, Richmond, 27/5/2013, 3pm

Today’s mid-autumn sunshine is textbook busking weather, save for the chilly wind. Inevitably, the heart of the city will be pumping with countless renditions of ‘Wonderwall’ and Pachebel’s Canon. My best bet is the inner suburbs, not so close to the city that I have any competition, but not so far away that I’m in unfamiliar territory.

It’s been a long while between drinks out the front of the Coles supermarket where I once busked often. Given the sunshine, I’m unsurprised to see my old haunt is occupied by a bloke dancing around feverishly with a harmonica. He’s a little bloke, bespectacled and wearing a battered baseball cap that tells me he’s down on his luck. Instead of being disappointed, I make patience a virtue and head for a drink or three at the pub over the road. Starting with a pint of lager, I pinch a newspaper smeared with sauce and a throwaway headline across the front page.

Sitting alone at the window facing the street, I look up from my crossword with each word solved to see the harmonica man still at it. Though I nurse it, my pint’s soon been polished off and I let happy hour justify another one. A faint fog of inebriation drifts in from the bottom of the second glass, but still the harmonica man persists. There’s no use sitting here for another minute amongst the barflies and tradies knocked off for the day.

The fresh suburban air feels like an ocean breeze the minute I step outside the dingy pub. Watching the busker, I note the indifference of the passersby and figure it probably wasn’t worth making a go of it today. Suddenly, I twig; I recognise those glasses, the baseball cap and the harmonica.

It had been so long since I’d seen this man. He’s one of the many street dwellers I’d chat with in those summer nights busking in the city. A wave of relief washes over me. You never know with someone sleeping rough. If they had a bad cough when you last saw them and it had been a while since then, there’s the grim possibility you wouldn’t see them again.

 “What’s going on mate? How’ve you been?” I ask, hoping that he still remembers me. It’s a question people always use to break the ice, but there isn’t always a good answer like we expect. For some, it’s little more than a moment where they are forced to articulate the reality of their situation.

“I’ve been here all day from eight in the morning, every day for the last two months. I can’t find any work and I’m still homeless.” He isn’t fishing for sympathy or bemoaning his circumstances. Instead, he’s deadpan and telling it like it is. With every rasped word that leaves his mouth, I spy the blackened roots of teeth grey and snapped like gumtree stumps.  These few fragments of the state of his health made his situation that little bit more confronting than when viewed from afar.

“I was sleeping on the steps at the Town Hall, but I keep getting moved on and I’m up shit creek. I’m desperate to work, but who’s going to give a job to anyone without a resume, let alone a bank account with no fixed address?”

Though the answer’s obvious, I remain silent. These things which never occurred to me are now painfully obvious as I stand here confronted by another man’s misfortune. It strikes me that even while he’s out on the street all day, he doesn’t seem to have had a single person to share his troubles with.

“I’ve even offered to work a week for free. No one wants ya, still. You know what that feels like?”

Yet again, it’s another question I have no answer for. As he begins rolling a cigarette, I notice the tobacco in his pouch is a lighter tinge than Ruby Red or any other decent rolling tobacco. I’m guessing that he’d been ‘bumping’ discarded butts of the remaining dregs of tobacco. Tailor-mades tend to contain an unnaturally golden coloured tobacco.

“I’m trying to do the right thing, I even got the permit, but that only lets me busk in this part of the city”. As he points to the crumpled and dirtied bit of paper at his feet, I note the pittance he has earned for the day.

“Have you been going alright here, at least?” Clear as it is that he’s not earned much, I ask the question since there are countless other variables to consider. A good day busking also consisted of avoiding troublemakers spoiling for a fight or miserable souls with nothing nice to say. In the past, he had told me about the time a couple of drunken cretins pinched his harmonica and broke its reeds. Undue attention from the authorities was also the bane of many a busker’s existence and my friend ha d good reason to get a permit of his own. For lacking one in the past, he had not only been moved on from Flinders St Station, but had his money confiscated by the police. ‘Proceeds of crime’ was the justification for the heartless act, with the crime in question being ‘begging’.

To them, it didn’t matter that he was trying to break out of his rut by busking, the last remaining form of work he had before he actually begged for coins. I could only respect the man for making some attempt to survive purely by dint of musical ability. Unfortunately, not everyone seemed to share my sentiments. 

“It’s hard. I’m trying my best and I’m lucky if I walk away with enough cash for a meal”. At this point, I’ve heard enough to dip into my pockets and extract my last remaining five dollar note after I’d just pissed the other fifteen away. Five dollars isn’t much, but it’s almost what a day’s work has amounted to for him. I can only wish him luck as I say goodbye to him, wondering how he’s managed to keep it up since eight in the morning. Personally, I wouldn’t last an hour dancing around and blowing on the harmonica non-stop, least of all for an absolute pittance. I doubt few others would either.

Thursday 30/1 Bourke St Mall

Once again, my friend Blackfoot is walking up and down Bourke St beside me, just as filthy as he was yesterday and with the same unrelenting, unblinking stare that hints at a mind long gone and a life in free fall. Though I’m probably easily fascinated, I can’t help but be fixate on the idea of him doing the same thing again and again, day in and day out. I wonder if their mind has mapped the city streets and they view it like it’s a maze. If you put them out in the open, I can’t help but suspect they’d lose the plot. The city grid is the only thing they have, and traversing it is the closest and most tangible thing connecting them to our reality. Otherwise, they simply wouldn’t be here on our plane of existence. Hence, the city maps itself onto their consciousness as a means of keeping them alive. Once you’re truly mad, you don’t eat, don’t wash, don’t do anything. You’re gone. After seeing him eat trash in front of me, I can only suspect that he is only half a step away from reaching that point.

I’m ten minutes into my set and I get a verbal tap on the shoulder. Turns out there’s been a stuff up with the running order on Bourke St. We’re meant to alternate every half hour, so as to prevent the mall from descending into outright cacophony, and there’s been a problem determining the order. So, I’m informed by my busker pal that I’ve got to wrap up earlier than what I’d anticipated. I don’t really care, but I’m kind of spewing that I was getting a decent crowd at that very moment and had to stop. I hate doing that. You feel like you’re letting everyone down, and you literally have to cut the adrenaline as your peaking. Believe it or not, that has a really bizarre physical effect and it’s like coming down to Earth only after being pushed off a building unexpectedly.

I love that rush, and there’s no greater rush than what I get at the end of the day. Compared to yesterday, I’m of a far more sanguine disposition and it affirms my observation that the better your mood, the better you do. There’s a little Asian girl and her family has been watching for quite some time. I’m not sure if they’ve heard me do my signature Beethoven piece, so I play a few bars and ask if they’d heard that one. To my delight, they haven’t, and I’m off. I finally get that crowd I’d been hoping for all day and I’m riding it like nothing is going on. Suddenly, my concentration is broken.

There is a woman before, she’s maybe in her late thirties, early forties. Wearing typical business attire and holding a briefcase, she stands before me in the middle of the footpath with her eyes closed. I’ve had people throw around the terms ‘aura’ and ‘glow’ and ‘energy’, and frankly, I’ve always thought it was a crock of shit. This was bizarre, however. People stopped and stared at her, though probably because they wondered what she was doing that for. For me, it was different. It was like she wasn’t here and was completely above whatever limitations the day had imposed on her. She resembled a portrait of the Madonna or something else positively seraphic. Her white face was more bright than pale, almost iridescent. My concentration broke, I completed the sonata with a few more bum notes than I would’ve liked, though the bit of salmon she gives me and the resounding applause indicated to me that it didn’t really matter.

It’s funny. As soon as she handed me the note and looked me in the eye, she was back to earth. She was a mere mortal again. I sort of wonder if some people have some sort of spirit or presence within them, or some sort of angel. Or demon. My pop used to call me ‘Il Diablo’ when I was a kid, so I’ve probably got the latter. I’m sure he said it with affection though. I think… I hope!

Speaking of such people, a fellow from the subcontinent with gray flecks through his black hair approaches me. Without really looking at me directly, he tells me that he is a philosopher. Immediately, I’m intrigued, as you rarely come across someone who could be adequately described as such, let alone someone who goes around introducing themselves with that occupation. Very rarely do those who commit themselves solely to the art of reason and study of knowledge in it’s most distilled form occupy realms beyond the confines of tertiary education, or caves in the middle of isolated and long unexplored forests.

So, I’ve met one in the Bourke St Mall, and I’m particularly interested in this fellow since I’ve taken to reading about all things to do with esoteric religions and philosophies, which is a perhaps less confronting way of describing the occult.

‘I am focussed on dreams’, he explains to me. ‘Astral projection’.

Now I’m really interested. I’d come across a lecture one of my favourite authors, William S. Burroughs did where he described the ‘occult power of dreams’.

‘What sort of dreams do you have recently?’, he asks me in slightly less than perfect English.

I describe two very similar dreams I had recently. ‘I’m just doing stuff, it’s like an everyday thing. I can’t even remember what I’m doing, but it seems totally real. Then all of a sudden, it fades to this sort of light purple colour. Everything fades to it and it’s all I can see. It happened again, except the second time it was a pale pink colour. I don’t really get it, nor do I understand what it means’.

He’s still looking away from me and I look down the street to ascertain whether something has caught his attention. I guess it’s just his way, or possibly a cultural thing. He doesn’t really tell me anything.

‘Uh. I guess I’ve had it happen before, while I was awake. But, uh… I wasn’t of sound mind’, I say, alluding to past misadventures.

Still nothing. Say something, oh wise one. I’ve got a friend to meet and a tram to catch.

‘I don’t want you to think I’m gay or anything, or anything gay like that’.

What? That came out of nowhere. What the hell is he bringing this up for? Maybe it’s unusual for a man to randomly approach another man and start talking in India or Sri Lanka or wherever he’s from, though I really do doubt it. Please tell me this isn’t going to lead to an awkward situation I could really do without.

‘What are you talking about?’, I ask.

He’s not saying anything. Okay, I think there’s more to this.

‘Um… are you talking about tantra, or sex magic or stuff like that? Because I’m not going to be freaked out if you’re going to talk about that’.

‘Are you a bisexual?’

Okay, I think I know where this is headed.

‘Man, I think I know what you’re getting at… I’m not sure I’m interested’. Considering my aversion to what he is probably going to propose, I’m pretty civil and more polite that I probably need to be.

He looks away, sorely disappointed. If I’m not mistaken, I would swear there’s a faint look of anger and frustration on his face. I continue packing up my gear and disregard him. Then he says something I can’t ignore.

‘Look, it’s nothing gay. I just need something from you’.

Oh this could be anything…

‘I need some of your sperm. I need it right now’.

And, I’m getting the hell out of here. Seriously. I mean. Come on? Really? Why mine? This isn’t the time and place! And what the hell does he want it for? Besides, I could lose my permit for that!

‘Uh…  now isn’t the time for this. I need to go home’.

Now he looks really disappointed. Really frustrated. I don’t like where this is headed. I particularly don’t like the way he has barely looked me in the eye the entire time.

I don’t bother to ask him why he needed something he could’ve gotten himself, not why he asked me in particular and why it had to be right at that very moment. Nonetheless, I don’t know whether to flattered or frightened.

Besides, he didn’t even give me any coins. Sorry buddy, but nothing’s for free!

Wednesday 29/1/14

Bourke St Mall

I shouldn’t be busking today. I’ve been lower than I’ve been in as many weeks. It’s one of those days where no amount of praise or even the promise of a good day’s takings is an incentive to make a go of things. I know it sounds weak and utterly neurotic, but simply put, I don’t feel great.

However, staying home and moping really didn’t solve anything. It rarely does. It would have served me well to go for a run. Instead, I’m at the weekly busking meeting at the Town Hall and booking my spots for the week ahead. I’m busking today in Bourke St for this reason and given the difficulty in getting preferred spots since it’s determined by ballot, it would be wasteful to cancel today for no other reason than the fact I feel like hell.

Let me describe the feeling to you. You can’t concentrate to save yourself. Though you’re easily wired to distractions, you thoughts feel like they’re trapped in a fog. It’s almost like ‘feeling’ overwhelms ‘thought’ and it’s virtually impossible to articulate. People can tell something is up, but you can’t really describe it. You’re either agitated or flat as a result, and it takes a lot of self control to refrain from lapsing into the former. The latter is just as likely to invoke a response from anyone you come into contact with, since logically they must know what is wrong if they are going to be of any help.

Yet, you’re at a loss to tell them what’s wrong. If you can, it’s often something pretty serious or a build up of stupid little existential crises and neuroses that have decided to start kicking your brain about on this day. You don’t anticipate that they could relate, nor do you expect them to. You just sit there and keep to yourself.

Good luck doing that busking! So that’s what I do. I walk to where I’m setting up and remind myself that I’m not doing a job I hate. I’m not coming home to a family that doesn’t give me five minutes to myself. I’m not facing any deadlines or working with a boss I hate breathing down my neck. I have nothing to complain about. I’m just in a shitty mood, but when I’m in one, I’m in a helluva one. Don’t get me wrong, I can totally acknowledge my place in the world and how much freedom I have, but I’m not going to deny the way I feel. I’ll just have to be on my best behaviour.

Some situations, can be rather trying, however.

Test number one; I’m sitting there playing Mozart’s Sonata in C. A nice, charming little piece that brings to mind images of meadows with gently flowing brooks and birds chirping and crazy old men running around saying ‘SHIT MOZART SHIT MOZART SHIT MOZART’ over and over again, before eventually glaring at you and screaming ‘YOU DON’T NEED THE MONEY, YOU DON’T THE MONEY’ and ‘THIS IS SHIT THIS IS SHIT THIS IS SHIT’.

He’s definitely not in command of his faculties. Believe it or not, I’m serious when I’m telling you that I’m down in the dumps and I don’t even feel angry about this. For five minutes, he wanders up and down the pavement, repeating his harsh mantra to himself, my audience and me.

You can’t respond. You can’t retaliate. It’s all part of busking. You seriously have to rise above it, as goes that stupid cliché which is often the last thing I want to hear after someone puts my nose out of joint. Though the public’s impression of me is a good reason not to say or do anything, he’s clearly mentally enfeebled and a wretched shell of what a man his age should be, thus I would find little pleasure in retaliation. I’m nowhere near adrenalised enough to really care about the whole display, which is more bizarre and pitiful than it is offensive.

Really, the more I think about it, it’s pretty funny. Actually, I’m starting to think that guy’s pretty awesome. It almost makes me look forward to that age where I can say the cruellest and spiteful things with the most outrageous and flagrant disregard for anyone’s perceptions of me, and it comes across as cute, funny or just ‘Uncle Dan being Uncle Dan’.

Why would I want to do that? Because it’s funny, and funnier still when you know most of the little shits that grew up to raise even bigger little shits are after your inheritance and have to withstand your bullshit until you either kick the bucket, or wisely decide to blow their inheritance on coke and hookers, and send them the video just to rub it in.

I hope my grandkids read this one day and at least know what they’re in for.

Anyway, the crazies are out in force today. There is a man who’s state of being elicits only one word; appalling. I’m not saying this to denigrate him, but it’s truly horrible. He actually doesn’t look all that much older than me. At most he’d probably have ten years on me and that’s would be about it. Bearded and shirtless with a jumper tied around his neck, the walking indictment of our piss poor mental health system lies face down on the bench before me. The soles of his feet face me and have a dull pitch black sheen distinctly typical of unwash. However, this is grime even the dustiest of utes to shame. I would estimate that it would likely be months since he’s come into contact with fresh water. Such is the filth coating virtually his entire body that you can barely make out the tattoo that creeps down his right arm. His sagging pants reveal a paler shade of skin, though this isn’t on account of exposure to the sun. Instead, it’s a thinner layer of grime that the tattered remains of his trousers have prevented from accumulating further.

Out of all the homeless people I’ve seen in over a year of busking in Melbourne, he is the most tragic and far gone. His state of mind is punctuated when he briefly breaks from his constant walking up and down the street with a thousand yard state focused on nothing in particular, but unnerving to all who are around him. He’s spotted something on the ground and looks at it with a curiosity akin to an animal which has identified its prey and instinctively pounces. I can only watch with a combination of surprise and revulsion as he places the dirty piece of paper in his mouth and starts chewing. I don’t allow for my concentration to be broken and I stare, waiting to see if he spits the piece of paper out.

He doesn’t.

A man walks past and he looks familiar. I’m certain I know this guy. It’s Pineapple Man, and he’s dressed in a similarly coloured shirt and bandanna.

‘Hey, are you the guy that gave me all that money on the steps of the GPO the other day?’, I ask as he strolls past.

He reluctantly says yes, even though I know I have my man. I get up from my stool and shake his hand. ‘Thank you so much for that’. He can only nod and smile as he walks on by, though I can tell he wasn’t perhaps prepared for me to do that. I couldn’t help myself. That day when he came down my way with all those notes was one of the most generous things anyone has ever done, and I got sore on myself that I didn’t perhaps react as I should have since I was stunned at receiving that amount of money.

Test number two: the Jazz Singer is in the city and has found me. Though familiarity means I feel comfortable with airing my frustrations and coming across agitated as a result, I’m actually glad she’s there. We chat for a bit and she can totally empathise. During the conversation, she said something strange. She’s leaving Australia for good in a few days and she promised me her piano sheet music, but hadn’t given it to me. ‘I had a dream you weren’t going to be here when I got back’. I’m not quite sure how to take this, but she seems to be convinced I will be overseas. It could mean that I’m dead. Five minutes after she leaves, I spot Grazianna across the street. I’ve dodged a massive bullet. Had they crossed paths, I certainly wouldn’t have been relaxed since I had been in relationships with both of them and they knew each other through me. It could’ve been really messy. With Grazianna, I’m even less capable of reigning in my emotions and she becomes concerned.

‘Darling’, as she often precedes sentences with her husky Italian drawl, ‘what is wrong? Are you okay?’

I can’t speak. What the hell is going on? One minute, I’m feeling flat as a pancake. Then I’m laughing to myself. Then I’m feeling sorrow for someone I don’t know. Then I can’t help but smile when I see a man I barely know. Then I’m agitated again.

All within the space of a few hours. I feel like my head’s a blender and every emotion has been thrown in.

I can’t articulate it to her and mumble a bunch of vague sentences, but I tell her not to worry about me as she leaves. ‘No, darling’, she says with a cheeky grin. ‘I won’t!’

Damn. She’s always nailing me like that. Language is no barrier for a sharp wit.

After she’s gone, I sit and think about seeing the two of them. When I hugged them, I noticed their fragrance and it hit me like a sad memory. I don’t quite understand it, but that feeling of remembering someone’s smell or the sound of the voice is sort of like seeing a ghost. When they are there in the flesh, it hits even harder and you wonder if you made the right call about ending it with them. Then you wonder if you’ve been making the right call about anything. I guess with every decision made, there’s going to be opportunity cost, but having it confront you is sort of like leaving finding the pantry is empty and visiting the market only to find it’s closed.

Forget about it. They’re gone, and they’re going onto better things, at the very least for today.

My set’s drawing to a close and I’ve finally got a bit of an audience watching, though it isn’t one of the biggest. Big crowds have been few and far between today and I suspect there’s something in my countenance which indicates what’s going through my head and perhaps has made people less than willing to engage with me. I mean, think about it, would you stop and watch and throw coins at a guy who doesn’t look like he wants to be there? It’s not that I didn’t want to be there, if anything, I’m glad I’ve hung around and played for as long as I have, but the Jazz Singer did say to me that my face is one that seems to be holding a lot of stories and that it was hard to tell what was going through my head sometimes. My parents put it more simply and were constantly reminding me to quit scowling as a child.

Test number three; I finish one of my pieces and acknowledge my mistakes by punctuating the piece with a flippant ‘yeah, something like that’. Turns out I’m in the presence of a music critic.

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s not bad for an amateur’.

Oh Jesus, thanks for reminding me. Before I know it, she’s asking for Chopin. I’m sort of put on the spot. One sentence is coming out after the other. She shoots words at me like rapid machine gun blasts and it’s hard to keep up.

I try to play the first movement of the Second Sonata, but I can’t. It’s a complete mess and my nerves have gotten the better of me, even though I’d overcome them for the tricky passages of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor earlier today under the unrelenting gaze of more than just a few aficionados (there seemed to be just as many people wise to obscure classical music as crazy people walking the streets, though the verdict’s out as to whether they actually go hand in hand).

When I finish, she comes over and continues speaking to me and sentences fly in and out of my ears like bullet trains. I can’t keep up with her and though I’m still buzzing from the nerves, my mind is still a fog. In literally a couple of minutes, we’ve gone from talking about photography, to physics, to religion, to music, to heavy metal. Pointing my shirt out, she remarks she’s surprised that I would be interested in classical music.

‘Can I give you a bit of constructive criticism?’

I’m not hesitant, and partly because I want to prove the Jazz Singer wrong when she mentioned earlier that I couldn’t handle criticism. Besides, she’d already ranked my playing as amateur, so what could be worse?

‘Look, I think the heavy metal thing… I’m not sure that it’s affecting your playing, but I’m not surprised because the way you play is so aggressive. There’s this anger to it, I don’t know what it is. But there’s a lot of anger and it’s coming out in the playing. With Chopin, a lot of it is about subtlety and expression those small parts, rather than hitting them really hard’.

Though I genuinely couldn’t see myself and didn’t feel that way while I was playing, I can’t disagree with her. I actually do appreciate what she has to say and take it more as an observation than a criticism in any sense. Sometimes, whether we like it or not, what seems like a conscious action is truly at the mercy of the subconscious and some people can read that better than others.

With the day over, tonight’s going to be about taking a chill pill in the form of listening to music, writing and watching something funny that doesn’t require deep thought. Come to think of it, it really wasn’t that bad of a day. For all the ‘tests’ and unwanted distractions or criticism, it was pretty entertaining. Perhaps it wasn’t a case of it being a bad day, but more about having a bad attitude. Ultimately, I was out of sorts and sitting in the streets of Melbourne playing classical music is as good a cure-all as any.

Monday 15/7/14, Bourke St Mall

A thick blanket of darkened dirty grey cloaks the skies above Melbourne, the drudgery of another Monday morning looking likely to rain upon any busker willing to take a gamble in the mall.

I’m keen since I’ve not busked in the past few days and I start early thanks to the world cup final. There’s scant trace of the jubilation that followed Germany’s extra time victory over the less favoured Argentinians. With the Socceroo’s efforts an increasingly distant memory, Aussie Rules regalia dominates the footpaths as it generally would. Hopefully, it’ll be the last time for a while that find myself awake between midnight and dawn, since I simply don’t adjust well to those hours. Though some take me for a night person given my penchant for black clothes, heavy metal and all things morbid, the nocturnal life simply isn’t for me.

The cold doesn’t suit me either, for similarly practical reasons. During the first couple of hours, I struggle through the lightning fast arpeggios of the Moonlight Sonata’s third movement. To the occasional passerby who stops to inspect the CD’s I’m trying to shill, I jokingly insist the album version is faster. Most of them are unamused and don’t give the CD so much as a second glace, save for one Asian student who begs to differ and compliments my efforts before leaving.

Funnily enough, I wouldn’t be surprised if the bitter winter chill was working in my favour as I’ve often looked back at footage of myself playing and noticed the way I exaggerate the pace. The thought of that is cold comfort, as the wind ensures the cold finds its way past four layers of clothing. It would seem there’s no escaping it.

I’d gotten in touch with someone who had come my way in Centre Place roughly ten months ago. She’d left her card with me, but I’d managed to misplace it and for the hell of it I gave her a call when I found it recently. In working on the book and going through my old diary entries, I was struck by the realisation that everything I knew about myself or what I’d seen was effectively a construct. If it weren’t for committing these events to paper, they would have likely evolved and changed over time. For all I knew, they probably did change during the liminal between the day’s events and the act of committing them to writing. So, I gave the girl a call and asked if she could remember much of that day. To my pleasant surprise, her version of events was roughly in line with what I’d written down. We talked a little more and I let her know I was playing in the Bourke St Mall today. Although I had no recollection of what she looked like, she told me that I could expect to see her around lunch time.

As anticipated, she arrives with a friend. I immediately know it’s her by the way she smiles and mouths a familiar ‘hello’. Predictably, I get nervous and fumble my way through Bach’s Toccata in D minor but she doesn’t seem to notice. That placates my nerves somewhat and I’m able to play a little more fluently in the knowledge she has a self prescribed tin ear, though she is perhaps being kind. Her friend eventually leaves and we spend most of my break introducing ourselves, filling each other in on the trivial details of our lives. That isn’t to say it’s uninteresting and I’m quietly hoping that’s not the case for her either, even if I do give away more of myself than I’d like to in an initial meeting with someone.

“So, what’s this book you’re working on?” is the question I half-expect to hear. I’ve told that many people about it, that the effect has been to corner myself into finishing this task which seems to be getting more imposing by the day.

“Just a bunch of diary entries about all the stuff that happened when I was busking”, is the less than exciting answer.

I haven’t really said enough, so she naturally presses for a little more detail. “So, what’s the point you’re trying to get across?” If I’m going to try to see a publisher about getting this thing out there, I really have to sell it better than I am at the moment.

“Well, it’s more about the people of Melbourne. You meet all sorts and I find everyone else infinitely more interesting than me, or what I’m doing. So I guess I don’t really want it to be about me, although sometimes you’ve got to write about yourself because things happened directly to me. I mean, it’s not every time you have a bottle held to your face like you’re about to get smashed with it”. That last sentence is a memory that isn’t a big deal to me, but once again, it leads her to asking for a little more information.  Without going into too much detail, I relate the tale of the time I had a comeback to an insult I would have been better served by keeping to myself.

“What did you do when you had that bottle held up to your face?” she asks with a faintly worried expression. I can tell she believes me since she clearly doesn’t find the story all that pleasant.

“Well, I just stared back and didn’t look away. That’s all you can do, because the minute you look away, they know you’re weak and they’ll hit you thinking you won’t do anything. Nobody like that takes pity on anyone. If you stare them down, you’ve gotta hope they’ll back off since they figure you mean business, but there’s just as much of a chance of them lashing out. I was pretty lucky not to cop it, in hindsight”.

“Something’s always happening. It might happen today”, I observe punctuating my recounting of that day at Clifton Hill Station. Silence lingers in the space between that sentence and her response, prompting me to reflect fleetingly on the truth of that statement. Whether I’m going to have a good day or a bad day, I had never experienced uncertainty like that found on the streets. Until I started busking, life was all about exams and pay checks. If you worked hard, you got good grades and good pay. As for busking, you just didn’t know what you were in for, however it helped if you could afford not to care about the uncertainty.

By contrast, she has the certainty of knowing her hour long lunch break is nearly up. While I sense we could both probably keep talking a little longer, she’s gotta work and I’ve gotta play. Going by first impressions, I liked her and was flattered she actually came by during lunch to fill me in on some of the details about the day she’d first seen me. Heading into my half hour set with those kinds of good vibes isn’t enough to counteract hindrance that is the chilly breeze and I’m once again bluffing my way through Bach and Beethoven’s arpeggiated passages. As I go along, I’m finding the slowly increasing crowds and the ensuing rush of excitement to my skin’s surface makes the cold a null factor and technique prevails.

I’m onto my third break for the day and my second salad roll. To give my back and neck a break, I always stand and potter about. Today, it’s a good thing that I do. Before I hear any shouts or noises, I can sense activity down toward the Elizabeth St end of the mall and a grey blur moves rapidly and distinct from the rest of the ambling crowd.

“SOMEBODY STOP THAT KID!”, screams out one of my fellow buskers plying his trade out the front of Forever New. I see a kid a good half a foot shorter than me sprinting towards me in a grey hoodie. I’ve seen shoplifters make a run for it and while the temptation to do the right thing and thwart them is there, I figure it’s best not to get involved. If I worked there, I wouldn’t bother unless I was in the mood for excitement.  A fifty dollar pair of runners made in some sweatshop by a half-starved orphan isn’t going to mean squat to Nike or Myer or whatever big company is being affected. Besides, I doubt that one would be even be liable to receive so much as a gift voucher for their efforts, given the how morally bankrupt big business tends to be.

In this case, I scroll through the possibilities in my head within seconds and decide to get involved, since it was a fellow busker who cried out for that kid’s head. One of the other buskers managed to get his hat full of the day’s work pinched a couple of weeks ago and my guess is either that’s happened, or the kid’s snatched an old girl’s handbag. As the kid sprints towards me, the look on his face is that of horrified anticipation for the worst. He hasn’t played enough footy to successfully dummy my tackle and it’s not until I’ve grabbed the kid that I realise how small he actually is. Straight away, I take care not to hurt him or even grab him firmly since he’s clearly terrified and shaking.

I can’t help but feel sorry for him. “Don’t worry about it dude, we’ll just sort this out. Can’t let you go ‘til it is, though”. The shop attendant who was in pursuit of the kid finally makes it to the two of us. For a skinny guy, he was remarkably slow in his pursuit. Between exasperated puffs and pants, he demands that the kid show his pockets. The kid doesn’t look any older than fifteen. If it weren’t for his age, I wonder if he’d be as intimidated as he were, as the shop attendant didn’t exactly cut an imposing figure.

Instead of showing his pockets, the kid insists he didn’t steal anything. The clerk repeats his demand, but eventually rummages through the pockets of the grey hoodie and finds nothing. Lifting the hoodie in the hopes of finding a stolen t-shirt, again there is nothing. Both the attendant and I stare at the kid in bafflement. “I swear I didn’t take anything”, the kid insists. There’s something disingenuous about that sentence and I’m guessing he’s stuffed whatever he’s taken down his jocks. I don’t bother sharing my suspicions, since I couldn’t care less about whether or not he’s stolen from the store. Being partially responsible for the humiliation that would come with getting searched like that didn’t reside well within my decision making.

“Well, why the hell did you run?”, the attendant demands to know.

“You were all just staring at me and I couldn’t figure out why. Then I left and you’ve followed me and I just ran because I didn’t know why”. I shake my head at the kid’s inability to stop himself from panicking, but I can understand why he did it. I’d had the exact same thing happen to me when I was roughly his age when I left a supermarket. I hadn’t pinched a thing, but that didn’t stop the clerk from thinking I looked suspicious and following me outside. Although I wanted to, I didn’t bother to run since I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong and had to put up with being patted down. Part of me suspected there was a chance the guy might have done that to get his jollies.

The attendant explains to the kid why he had his eye on him. “Well, you looked really suss, the way you were going back and forth and looking at everyone”. He’s not certain that the kid has anything on him, but he’s equally doubtful as to whether the kid is genuinely telling the truth. By this point, I’ve let go of the kid and apologised.

“Sorry dude, one of the buskers had his money pinched from him. I heard a busker yell out and thought you might have pinched something from him”, I explain. The kid remains silent, more out of fear than an indignant rejection of my apology. With that, there’s little else for any of us to do or say and the kid’s on his way. In the meantime, all eyes within the mall have been fixated on the three of us and I’m hoping I didn’t look the part of the villain for my efforts even if I was gentle on the kid.

“Thanks so much for that, mate”, the attendant acknowledges shaking my hand. “I’m sorry you got dragged into it, but I was certain he’d pinched something”.

I’m somewhat annoyed and can’t help but tell the guy that he’d want to be certain next time. “I know, I know, but it’s hard, people do it all the time and you’ve got to get onto it the minute you see something”, he acknowledges whilst simultaneously excusing himself.

With that small slice of drama settled, I’m able to finish my salad roll and prepare for the next half hour bracket of music. Unfortunately, I didn’t get anywhere near enough time to settle myself and would have been served well by a few minutes spent zoning out. However, with the performance brackets running like clockwork in the mall, time literally is money. Today, the money is running far lower than normal thanks to the cold leaving people less than inclined to stand and observe. People are in a hurry to seek whatever shelter it is they’ve been promised from the cold, whether it’s the office or the shops. As I finish my set, I man with Italian features and swarthy skin lined by years spent in the sun approaches me. With cigarette hanging precariously out of his mouth, dropping ash black and grey like his hair on my case, he stares at me as though about to speak but doesn’t.

I stare back at him. There’s an unnerving look in his eyes that screams ‘unhinged’. “It’s cold!”, I remark.

His face contorts into a look of disgust and I realise that I’ve found trouble. I should have just ignored him. “You know, you think you’re sick, you think you’re in pain? Well, I tell you something”, he spits at me with words that are almost shouted.

“You don’t know pain when you’re sick. You have headache? You should enjoy it and say ‘oh, thankyou God for this headache I am having’. You don’t know any pain, you shouldn’t complain!”, his Italian accent making the words sound all the more harsh. Taking the safe option, I choose not to say a word and let him continue. Where I had told the girl from earlier today about the need to stare down any kind of danger, I found my theory unexpectedly being put to the test.

“I have suffered, I have pain, but I don’t let it defeat me!” and with that comment he points to the air whilst fixing his gaze on me with histrionic fervour. “I have triumphed from the pain and you will know this!”, he proclaims in a hushed tone that adds to the drama. Finally he leaves and I’m thankful to be rid of him. I’m every more thankful that he didn’t completely teeter over the edge and lose it. Alas, it seems the fruitloops are out in force today and there’s a man from the subcontinent clutching three tailor mades in his hand telling nobody in particular about his black demons. Eventually, he does single somebody out and I’m kind of unsurprised that it’s a pretty blonde girl. He begins to follow her and starts shouting at her. Instantly, a palpable look of distress washes over her face and since no one intervenes, I find myself once again getting involved.

Like I did with the kid in the grey hoodie, I play it calm since I don’t know what the guy’s capable of and it would serve me well not to get him on the defensive. “Hey, take it easy dude, leave her alone and cut it out”. Calm as my tone is, I make sure my expression is one of seriousness. To my surprise, he instantly panics and acquiesces. “Okay, okay, I’m going away, I’m going away, leave me alone”, he pleads whilst stooping meekly. In his defence, he’s definitely got a few loose screws in his head but that didn’t make his reaction any less pitiful and I breathe a sigh of relief. After everything that’s happened today, I’m amazed I haven’t been slapped, punched or knifed and I can’t help but wonder if there was any way I could have avoided the confrontations. The only realistic way to have done would to have been to have ignored what I saw and in effect behave as a coward would.

I can’t help but think of an incident in the city a few years ago. A couple of men with similar intentions found themselves defending a girl on the wrong end of her boyfriend’s fists and ended up shot for their efforts. One died and left a family behind, whilst the other had lifelong injuries. To some and certainly me, that incident proved that failing to help was a forgivable sin given the risks associated. Funnily enough, it was easier said than done to take the cowardly option when confronted with the situation.

I’m hoping that’s it for today, but within minutes my hopes are dashed when the old bloke with the cigarette approaches me. He strides towards me and is more agitated that he was before. “Can I have a minute of your time, just a minute?!” It’s less a request than a demand and I’d be wise to accede. Once again, he shakes his index finger stained rusted with tobacco stains in my face and dictates his point to me.

“I have defeated pain! I have defeated suffering and pain. I have no problems with it, I have defeated pain”. The tone and volume of his voice quickly escalates to a bellow.

“Do not accept any love that is like a piece of paper with a black dot on it! You need to know this, I have defeated the pain of that love! That love with the black dot on it, do you understand?” His eyeballs burn through mine with a fury that suggests he could lash out any minute. All the while he’s doing this, I’m contemplating whether to run away whilst assessing the critical points in his torso that’ll see him dispatched with. All I can do is remain fixed within his unforgiving gaze and his aren’t the only eyes concentrated on me. For the second time today, all eyes in the mall are fixed on me for reasons that have nothing to do with tinkling the ivories.

Suddenly, his face crumples like an imploding building and tears rush forth. “I defeated the pain, I defeated the pain!” he shrieks less out of anger than desperation. As the tears stream down his cheeks, he begins to double over, barely maintaining his grip on his cigarette. I am utterly gobsmacked. I feel terrible for the guy, since he’s clearly not the full bag of Twisties. I feel strangely uncomfortable and can’t help but feel like I should do something, even if I’ve done enough for today.

“Um… do you want a hug?” I meekly offer.

“YES PLEASE!” he sobs in such a dramatically childlike fashion that it’s almost comical. Here I am in the middle of the Bourke St Mall hugging a crying middle aged man who has spent the last five minutes screaming in my face. This feels beyond surreal.

As instantly as he’d begun crying, he composes himself and in the calmest of voices he asks if he can sit down. When speaking calmly, his accent and mannerisms whilst smoking remind me of my mother’s father. I tell him that he can do whatever he wants to do as long as it makes him feel better. Directly in front of my keyboard, he sits cross legged puffing on his cigarette when, without warning, he springs to his feet. The contemptuous and hateful look has returned to his face and I’m once again being eyeballed. What I am seeing here well and truly is the definition of insanity.

“I HAVE DEFEATED THE PAIN AND THE SUFFERING! I HAVE DEFEATED IT ALL! YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS TODAY, EVERYONE WILL KNOW THIS! I HAVE DEFEATED THE BLACK SPOT OF LOVE FROM MY ENTIRE LIFE!”

He bellows and roars those words so that even the faintest echo that trails down the mail has a thunderous effect. All movement around us stops and I would swear the hairs on my head move with every word befouled by the smell of tobacco. Before I can say anything, brings his hand to his forehead and anguished expression washes over him. “Oh no, I have a headache now, I feel terrible and I need to sit down”. Sitting cross legged once again, he asks where he can get some Panadol. I point to the 7-11 down the street across from us, but he changes his mind and decides he’s fine once again.

“Okay, I have to go now, but thank you for your time, see you later”.

The worst part of that sentence is not knowing whether or not I should take ‘see you later’ as hint of more delightful conversations with my new pal. Walking into the distance, he begins waving at random people with a cheerful grin on his face. It’s as though nothing just happened and I’m staggered by the rapidity and intensity of his mood swings. I’ve never quite seen anything like it in my life. Eventually, he draws enough attention to himself to see six police officers both male and female surround him. Behaving in much the same manner as he did with me, he’s eventually escorted by the police but not arrested. My guess is they would have instantly worked out he was completely batshit loco insane and that a jail cell was no place for him, though I couldn’t entirely be sure from afar.

Like I said before, something’s always happening.

Monday 20/1 1.30-5.30 Bourke St Mall

Streetsweepers, you are the the bane of my existence. I know they’re committed to civic duties, however I hope for a day when technology grants these machines a volume conducive to busking!

Towards the end of the day, an American girl is watching and she’s joined by a French girl. I take the foot off the gas and play a bit of Satie, knowing it’s likely to appeal to the latter. I take a break and we all talk for a bit. The American is a few weeks away from heading home to Maryland and the French girl has come to Australia to join her fiancé and look for work. She’s had no luck, so she’s headed home soon to be joined by him a few months later. Although she’s self critical about her ability to speak English, but she’s actually quite good for someone who didn’t speak a word of it until a year ago. The American is a polyglot, proficient in Spanish and Italian and working toward French. I’m as impressed by her Italian as I am ashamed of the fact she speaks it with such ease compared to myself.

Soon, the French girl has to leave and the American stays around for a while. I tell her I’m finishing up soon. Suddenly, a thought crosses my head. I’ve cooked a massive pot of pasta and was going to enjoy it alone that evening. She had mentioned she hadn’t had dinner, and I figure a bit of company wouldn’t be a bad thing. I ask her if she wants to come over for dinner, but she walks away.

Great, I’ve scared her off. Then I notice she’s left her bag behind and it’s not long before she’s back.

I’m vaguely apologetic as I explain to her I spoke without thinking when I asked her over for dinner.

‘Oh, you did? I thought you said something, but I didn’t hear you. Well…’

She thinks about it for me a minute. Before she can answer, I interject and can feel my face burning. ‘Look, don’t worry about it. I was stupid. I cooked a bunch of food, you were hungry and I figured why not?’

To my surprise, she agrees to come over for dinner. ‘If it’s okay, I’ll come with you’.

Then she adds, ‘I really gotta pee though. Is it alright if I use your bathroom?’

What sort of person would say no? I figure she hated public toilets. She gets first dibs, though I’m dying for a piss as well.

‘You spend all day doing that without a break?’

‘Yup!’, I respond with a small sense of pride. ‘No breaks! And, I forgot my water, so I’m pretty parched in case you couldn’t tell from my voice. Croaked. But I get lost in it, so you forget about those things, you really do, unless it’s really bad. F’rinstance, I forgot about lunch…’

Rummaging in my bag, I pull out a roll and start scoffing it. ‘I haven’t eaten all day either, but I only just remembered. You forget these things when playing, you can’t let anything else matter’.

Her frown draws attention to my lack of social grace. She’d said she was hungry and I’m scoffing a roll in front of her. ‘Are you sure you’re going to want to eat now? I mean, you don’t have to cook for me if you’re not eating’

I can only joke about it. ‘Well, it’s already cooked. And I’ll definitely be eating, don’t worry about that. Don’t you know what Italian children are like? We never grow out of overeating! Besides, that means more pasta for you’.

With that, we’re on our way and the next two hours is surreal. We’ve only just met, but there’s a strong feeling of familiarity. Though it’s in my nature, I don’t allow myself to be disconcerted by it and just enjoy the evening for what it is. It’s a pleasant evening and I always prefer sharing a meal to eating alone. We’re both aware of the risks, but fixating on them would only ruin things and she only brings them up at the end of the night. She’s effectively a stranger in my home and I could be any sort of maniac. As I farewell her at the tram stop after dinner, she thanks me for dinner, and for not chopping her into little pieces.

I wasn’t quite expecting her to say that, but I laugh anyway. ‘That’s alright’, I reply. ‘Besides, that’s too much effort and too messy’.

Sunday 19/1 2-5.30 GPO Bourke St

I look at the few people sitting on the grey steps in front of me that would appear daunting to a child’s eye. Or, to an overly self conscious performer’s mind. Around the time I was finishing up a year of being a brickie’s labourer and preparing to be a fulltime busker, I remember seeing a young guitarist by the name of Tom Ward playing at the GPO while I passed on the tram. He had the GPO steps completely packed out and looked like a vessel of tranquillity, a oneness between man and instrument emanating from every note he plucked. As I gazed at him wistfully, I wondered if I would ever have the nerve to sit there and perform in front of an audience that large in public with such composure. The goal was to someday reach attain that level of calmness.

One person stands out. He’s African and the bandanna he’s wearing hides his eyes in a way that gives him an almost spectral aura. Though he studies me intently, he’s not a threat. I suddenly look up and he has three pineapples in his hand.

I take them immediately without registering. My mind fills in the gaps. He’s just given me what I would have earned in a day lifting bricks and cement as a labourer and I’ve not even been playing for five minutes. My jaw is literally hanging, but I’m quick to put them in my pockets before too many people notice. With sleepy eyes, he flashes me one of the warmest smiles I’ve been given on the streets in a while, though that would’ve alone been payment enough.

A little while later, I pull out one of the bills to inspect it a little closer and briefly hold it to the sun. They’re legit and I remain all the more staggered. I’d received a fake fifty dollar bill once, but that was an obvious joke store counterfeit. I still can’t quite believe the man’s generosity as I recommence playing.

Looking down at my case, I see someone’s also left a punnet of strawberries and they’re still fresh. Turns out the benefactor only just gave them to me and she walks back toward me apologising for having no coins to spare. I’m not sure she knows how much I appreciate fresh fruit, but I let her know.

I resume playing and it’s fast and assertive. I’m feeling more confident than ever. I finish Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata Third Movement and look up to be met by the sight of the GPO steps completely packed out with onlookers and I’m met by massive applause. This is one of the most amazing feelings I have ever had. I finally got there and I didn’t realise it. I’m beaming as I thank everyone for watching and don’t let the attention get to me, so I’m on to the next song.

Later, a woman walks up to me. ‘My boyfriend and I were watching from the cafe’. I glance over to the cafe at my right, but can’t work out where he is. ‘It was amazing. You had no idea anyone was watching, and then you look up and that instant we saw what was going on hit you was amazing. You were absolutely beaming’.

It’s very humbling and I can only reply with a thankyou. Finally, I’ve overcome the hurdle and I didn’t realise I was doing it. I didn’t even think it was going to happen today. It just did. So I guess one thing’s been learnt. Sometimes not focussing on the goal, not being aware and just doing is will yield some kind of surprise within which the goal has actually been achieved. I guess it’s like running the race and crossing the finish line without realising that you have. Then you never really stop running.

Flinders St underpass, 7.30-9.30am

That heatwave I anticipated has arrived and is one of the worst ones to have scorched our hipster infested city. So I figure I’ll busk early in the morning before the weekly lottery draw at the Melbourne Town Hall to determine who gets the best spots in Bourke St. The morning rush to work renders the Flinders St underpass the best place to go before the heat makes everyone too irritable to spare a few coins.

It’s pretty quiet, but I can’t complain. Things pick up around the 8.30am mark and remain pretty consistent from thereon. A man is eyeballing me. Days of unwash form a thin sheen over his face and his neglected teeth are indicative of a life spent living rough. He’s really staring at me and I’m not sure why. This is one of the few occasions where I begin to get a little concerned, even if there is an array of metal bars separating me from him (for those not in the know, the Flinders St station underpass is partitioned into two sections separated by bars all the way through, lending it the ambience of your typical turn of the century penitentiary).

There’s no malice, it turns out. He stops to listen and skilfully throws coins across the walkway through the bars and into my case. ‘It’s nice to finally hear something that isn’t just another guy with a guitar, even I can do that stuff! Some real music for once is nice for a change!’ Okay, so I’ve judged a book by its cover and mistaken appreciation for menace. However, I’ve busked long enough now to know the value of vigilance. Out of the corners of my eyes, I’m always aware of things people may not expect me to be aware of.

A shriek reverberates through the viaduct and I see a shirtless man having convulsions as he scrambles for the icepack that has slid off his neck. He’s lashing out at the commuters around him, with flailing arms and abuse hurled at nobody in particular. His grimy appearance and behaviour imply hopeless drug addiction and I’m hoping not to gain his attention, so I try my best to remain focussed and continue playing. To my horror, he not only jumps the ticket barrier after three failed attempts that nearly render him prone on the ground, but he comes toward me and stands right next to me. I can almost feel his breath on my neck. After what I’ve just witnessed, I’m profoundly aware of the danger, but I can’t stop playing. If I do, I’m going to possibly draw attention to his presence and invoke some sort of paranoid response from him. The only thing to do is continue playing unaffected.

He goes from standing next to me to right in front of me and speaks to me with a maniacal grin and squinted eyes.

‘I really, really want to hang around and talk, but I really gotta go somewhere!’

He then sprints off and though my apprehensions were again not realised, they weren’t entirely unfounded. Ultimately, he’s probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else.

I’m close to finishing when a familiar face appears. It’s a friend of mine and though we’re glad to see each other initially, something that’s mentioned in the conversation irritates me and I let her know about it.  Eventually, it ends with her apologising and saying ‘I think I’m about to cry’ as she walks away hurriedly.

Great. First thing in the morning, and this is the effect I’ve had on someone while they’re on their way to work. I feel ashamed; nothing more, nothing less. What I was irritated about was so petty that in hindsight, I would have much preferred to have made an issue of anything and left it at a pleasant exchange. If I was ever going to bring up the issue, there were better ways to do it and if anything, I did it in a way that was totally irrational. Sure, I didn’t yell or say anything insulting, but an intense tone of voice and countenance can have an equally negative impact. I feel too disgusted with myself to feel worthy of anyone’s money. I pack up my gear and take it up the steps out of the viaduct.

The vagrant who sits at the foot of the stairs making psychedelic chalk drawings and ultra detailed and precise geometric patterns greets me and I pop a few coins in his ‘salary cap’. In response, he offers to help me take my gear up the stairs, but I decline.

I’m not worthy of anyone’s help, frankly.

The least I can do is call my friend, though I wait a couple of hours.  

‘Look, I’m really sorry about this morning. It was unfair to bring that up so early in the morning’.

She’s gracious enough to assure me everything’s okay.

‘Did you cry?’

Though she denies it, I can tell that she probably has. Way to go, Dan. She was apologising about the issue I’d brought up, but it’s irrelevant in light of my piggish behaviour. I can only apologise yet again, and before long we’re just repeating ourselves, forming a small whirlpool of remorse that’s pointless after the first ‘sorry’.

Bourke St, in front of the Telstra building

Today, it’s even hotter and I think Melbourne is on the brink of a long overdue heatwave. Or, perhaps it’s technically not overdue. Over the years, I’ve noticed weather that was typical of December-February shift to February-April, with winter getting shorter every year. Still, when Melbourne is cold, it’s bloody cold and it’s amusing when friends from Sydney or Brisbane come down to stay and they’re unaccustomed to the sudden shift in the mercury.

As soon as I start playing, two young skater dudes walking by stop and watch. Before I know it, they’re both sitting cross legged before me and a crowd is growing partly thanks to them. I wasn’t even playing anything that strenuous or out of control and started with a Debussy prelude, ‘the Girl with the Flaxen Hair’. That fascinated me, since I thought it would have been the last thing to make them stop and watch, but it did. Not only that, they gave coins and bit of a salmon to show their appreciation.

While they were sitting in front of me, a strange man wearing a worker’s uniform loitered around my keyboard and was looking at him. The more I watched him, I eventually realised he was disabled. Even though he has a disability, there was something really sinister in the way he watched people. I couldn’t explain it, but there looked to be a lot of anger in his eyes. Suddenly, he bent down and started helping himself to my money.

I thought about it for a few seconds. It was curious, because he wasn’t troubling people for money, though the way he lingered around random people made sense. Maybe he wanted to ask for money but couldn’t communicate his request clearly, even though he could talk. I take a five dollar note back from him and tell him that he shouldn’t really do that. Still, I let him have a few dollars out of pity and may as well have let him keep the note since it was roughly the same amount. He sat at the bench next to me for a while and eventually left.

I can’t decide if I did the wrong thing. On the street, you’ve got to step up when that sort of thing happens. Otherwise, it doesn’t stop. You literally can’t afford to be a pushover. However, this guy had problems. Then again, is it not discriminatory to assume he’s incapable of understanding what you should and shouldn’t do? Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t get it and needs to be told. Well, I still gave him something anyway. As if I was going to tell him to give everything back and send him on his way.

The metalheads are out in force today. Black tshirts, long hair and beards pass me by constantly. This was on account of tonight being the concert for Norweigian black metal band, Mayhem. They’re my favourite band and given my proximity to the venue, I imagine the possibility of the band walking past and giving them renditions of their songs I’d worked out on piano during my teenage years. Shaking my head, I can only dismiss the thought as immature folly and focus on my pieces instead.

Today, lot of friends walked past. The day prior, I’d bumped into Bonnie and today, it’s Daniel, Kieran and the The Jazz Singer. She’s kind enough to bring me a Slurpee whilst I’m battling relentless winged irritants that attempt to enter every orifice on my face during Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Eventually, the distraction becomes a bit too overwhelming and I abandon the piece in favour of sitting with The Jazz Singer and talking for a bit. My time’s up anyway, so I’m not too disappointed about cutting my set short.

A young, long haired blonde guy comes up to me and introduces himself. I thought for a second he may have been another metalhead, but I’m mistaken. I get talking to the guy and he’s from Poland. He throws a bunch of requests at me which I can’t deliver and though he’s disappointed, he’s not judgemental. He makes the curious announcement that once he returns to Poland, he’s going to retire. A curious statement, since I could have sworn he told me he was twenty one, and he confirms this. I laugh and ask him what the motivation is. He can only tell me that it’s a decision motivated by ‘childhood disturbance’. I honestly don’t know what to say to this, other than telling him that it’s best he not be idle for too long since he’ll likely find himself thinking too much and getting restless.

It’s then that his tone turns sarcastic and that I’m accused of being a Christian.

I can’t help myself.

‘No… I’m a Satanist’

This statement causes him to throw his head back in disbelief. His tone becomes even more accusatory.

‘You know, believing in the devil is just as bad as believing in God. Why do you believe in the devil? What is the point? I’m sorry, but I can’t believe in the devil, it’s pointless’

‘Well, I don’t believe in the devil, Satan, Baphomet, Beherit, or whatever you call it. But I do believe in being responsible for yourself and the power of the will. You’ll find certain lines of thinking emphasise that. If there’s anything I believe in, it’s perhaps our place within nature and how we relate to it’

‘But the devil, surely not?’, he protests

‘Okay, I’ll admit; I said that to you for shock value. And it worked!’

At least he has a sense of humour, and he’s laughing, though I admittedly risked insulting him.

‘But, I’ll say this much. Spend enough time alone, and you’ll find knowledge within. Be careful, though. You might not like what you see. I don’t really believe in God or anything, but I believe in what I believe in. Some things require that, some things don’t. You just make up your mind as to what it is you need’

It’s time to cut the conversation short. The Jazz Singer has been patient and I want to talk with her. I sit next to her and I can’t help but explain my obvious mistakes to her.

Sipping my slurpee, I utter ‘remember what I was telling you the other night, about how easy it was to get distracted?’, in reference to a conversation we’d had earlier. She had told me dealing with distractions would be an issue for her with busking.

‘Yeah?’

‘Those flies were killing me…’, I smile.

Before she can respond, I see a familiar face walking down the road, but it’s not someone I’ve met before. I know who it is. He’s just walked past. It’s Necrobutcher. Necrobutcher, the bassist of Mayhem.

NECROBUTCHER. THE BASSIST. OF MAYHEM.

Do I get up and play and try and rip through ‘Life Eternal’, or ‘The Freezing Moon’? Oh, that would seem so lame and desperate. Oh God. He’s going. He’s going. He’s gone. Shit.

SHIT.

That would have been the coolest thing ever. And I missed out. Oh, I feel terrible. This is the crappiest, worst feeling ever. I haven’t felt that sort of childish disappointment in a long time. You know the sort? Where you’re just about to beat a video game and you blow it after all those hours spent glued to a TV screen? Yeah, the kind of justified, but ultimately trivial, disappointment.

The Jazz Singer feels bad. She shouldn’t. She got me a drink and kept me company. I love that, but I can’t hide my disappointment. As she sagely put it, ‘it just wasn’t meant to be’.

As the tram rolls in and I depart, I turn to her and pull the most exaggerated hangdog expression I can and wipe invisible tears from my eyes. In the stupidest voice I can muster, I let her know that ‘I just wanted to pway the piano for the necwobutcher!’

Bourke St/Swanston St Telstra Building