Watching the Seahorses Dance

A little while ago I decided, as I frequently do, to look up something of vague interest on Wikipedia. In this case, the subject was seahorses. I was aware, having learned it in that strange osmosis fashion by which I pick up a lot of my quasi-knowledge, that male seahorses were the ones who became pregnant, but I didn't really know how. And it occurred to me that, for animals if not humans, the carrying of children is pretty much the definition of being female. If a male can become pregnant, in what sense is it a male?

Well, I found out the answer to this question (it turns out the male impregnates the female, and then she passes the job of gestation onto him, in what you could quite appropriately call a biological egg-and-spoon type transfer). But whilst satisfying this little morsel of curisoity, I discovered something else that I found rather more interesting. This is what the article has to say about seahorse courtship:

"When two parties discover a mutual interest at the beginning of breeding season, they court for several days, even while others try to interfere. During this time they have been known to change color, swim side by side holding tails or grip the same strand of sea grass with their tails and wheel around in unison in what is known as their “pre-dawn dance”. They eventually engage in their “true courtship dance” lasting about 8 hours".

It then goes into the mechanics of the process, as mentioned above, and after that continues:

"Throughout the male’s pregnancy, his mate visits him daily for “morning greetings”. The female seahorse swims over for about 6 minutes of interaction reminiscent of courtship. “They change color, wheel around sea grass fronds, and finally promenade, holding each other’s tails.” "

(The internal quote comes from an article titled 'Pregnant-and Still Macho - seahorses', by Susan Milius, in Science News, March 11, 2000. By the way.)

Now because I'm an old softy, I did find the idea of these strange-looking creatures dancing with each other as they go through the experience of child-rearing quite touching. It's an undeniably beautiful image, and one for all the romantics out there. But, because I'm also an old logic-y, it didn't take long for my more sensible side to weigh in. The seahorses aren't dancing together because they're romantic; they don't even have the choice. They're following instinct, a pre-programmed biological operating system that has presumably come about due to some kind of evolutionary advantage. Or even, considering how fickle nature is, something that doesn't have all that much to do with helping the species but isn't harmful anough to be evolved out yet.

Being logical can be a real bastard sometimes.

But as well as being a romantic, and a realist, I also just can't let things go. I kept thinking about the seahorses. And I'm also (I like to think) an optimist. This doesn't mean, as some people think, naively hoping for things to turn out well. An optimist is someone who simply looks for a positive aspect to things. And that's what I got from learning about seahorses. Yes, I acknowledge that, to the creatures themselves, the dancing is meaningless. But it doesn't have to be that way for me.

I got something from learning about it, something that made me happy. If the world doesn't provide meaning on its own, then it is up to us to find it. Many of us do, and we can be criticised for it; we get called things like naive, childish, unrealistic, romantic (some people use this word like it's an insult). But it really is nothing to be ashamed of. Whether it's finding four-leaf clovers, climbing mountains that happen to be higher than other mountains, or watching the seahorses dance, we can make this world special. If and when we choose to.

Matt Berninger Hero-Worship.

As Dave McCormack once screamed over crashing guitars in a uniquely nonsensical climax, the words are important! the words are important!*

Despite many recommendations over several years, I have only just now become obsessed with The National.

Substitute the name 'Karen' for Berninger's real-life girlfriend Corinne - who apparently looked over and corrected the lyrics before the finished product was released - and try not to be softened to a quivering paste by this:

Karen won't you take me to the nearest famous city middle, where they hang the lights, where it's random and it's common versus common? I've got five hundred in twenties, and I've got a ton of good ideas, I'm really worked up. I'm on a good mixture, I don't want to waste it. I want to go gator around the warm beds of beginners...

And then:

Parking your car you said 'I'm overwhelmed,' you were thinking out loud you said, 'I'm overwhelmed.' You said, 'I think I'm like Tennessee Williams, I wait for the click, I wait but it doesn't kick in.' I have weird memories of you.

Even though I have no right to understand, I think I do. I feel my whole life has been lived as a mere incident in Berninger's conception of humanity.

And now I too wait for the click.



* Custard, Nice Bird - This world divides into people who think there's two kinds of folks, and those who don't. Trey's got the Feathers and a 12-guage shotgun, Volkswagons from the Reich! I've got a nice bird, I've got a nice bird. There's a stretch of road out past The Gap, where they are taking some snaps, stick to the music champ, the words are important! THE WORDS ARE IMPORTANT!

That First Accidental Meeting.

I remember this weather,
The dank scent of late May,
The rain closing in, the cold far away.
I remember this weather.

I remember this building,
Your friends saw our first new hello,
A quick glance and then time to go,
I remember this building.

I remember that book sale,
All of those posters I covered in tape,
Only in turn they were all drenched in rain,
I remember that book sale.

All other words don't belong any more,
I put up a poster, you pass through the door.

I remember that party,
When strangers asked how long we had been placed aside,
And we told them how long it had been 'til tonight,
I remember that party.

I remember that evening,
When years of strained anger convinced me to flee,
To new beds to sleep in and new cities,
To new morning coffees and newfound unease,
To new innocence and new casualties,
I remember that evening.

They never believed us, they thought there'd be more,
I put up a poster, you passed through the door.

Brave?

MGMT - The Youth
(Yes, this post has a soundtrack.)

Tonight I walked to the supermarket, just me and my calico bags, in the dark, in the rain. And, again, I felt brave.

Bravery is a prized human commodity, and it's easy to see why. In almost every situation, somebody needs to be brave. Sometimes we even need a hero. Sometimes somebody needs to pull the trigger, crash the landing, make the jump, the climb, the step. But most of the time, there's no burning building, no trapped children, no screams for help. Most of the time, we meet bravery with ignorant silence.

Yet we certainly still need as much bravery as we can muster. Somebody needs to drive the ambulance, wear the uniform, take the blow. Somebody needs say the right thing (however unpopular). We're not talking climbing Everest here. At some point, we will all need to be brave. Hell, sometimes to even be alive is bravery enough.

As I walked through the rain, I thought of all of my years of cowardice. But in those dark, wet streets I could have been anywhere: the archipelago of Slussen, the street stalls of Rynek Glówny, places where I have walked on my own through the night with nothing but a passport and sense of adventure. Only, that didn't feel brave at all. And sure, this is home, but everywhere is home to someone. Sometimes even to be home is bravery enough.

You know what? I am starting to change. I'm starting to change, and I don't have any idea what I'm doing. It frightens me. Most of the time I feel like huddling in a corner with my hands over my eyes. But maybe, right now I'm the bravest I've ever been.

The Intoxicated Adelaidean White Boys' Choir

(Companion to Ben's 'Binge'.)

Just recently, myself and two close and long-standing friends decided we'd take a break from the freakishly large small town that is Adelaide and spend a long weekend in Melbourne. For two of us, it'd be our first opportunity to see a city where stuff, not to put too fine a point on it, happens. For the third, it'd be a chance to show off his love for a now familiar place to two trusting and eager tourists. The plans were enticingly basic: soak up some atmosphere, forget about our respective jobs and troubles, and drink heroic amounts of alcohol.

As well as doing a pretty good job on these, we had a bunch of other entertaining encounters, most of which we could never have predicted. I could tell any number of stories: the girls we found in our double-booked room the first night (who, of course, were not only from our home town but also attended the same school as Ben and I), the joys of retro clothes shopping, a set of experiences in each airport that frankly made me despair for the entire human race. But there is one incident that, for me, is a shining beacon of delight in an already deeply satisfying trip. It happens on a Saturday night, somewhere around Northcote.

We've just left a concert, aglow with musical appreciation and a modest amount of alcohol, and we're looking for a place to continue drinking and, hopefully, start dancing. We come across a small, unassuming bar. The lights are low and the people look like our sort. There's no dancing, but it certainly seems worth a drink or two. And the music, provided by a rather handsome black lady on decks, switches almost supernaturally from hip-hop to Lennon as we get our beverages - two G&Ts, one beer - and sit down.

We won't be there very long. The bar closes at 2.00 am, an hour fast approaching. The lack of dancing aside, we've enjoyed ourselves. We've been very happy with the choices of our DJ, which include songs like 'Young American', 'Golden Brown' and 'My Baby Just Cares for Me'. At ten-to-two, the DJ gets ready to play the last song. She turns to us, practically the only people left in the place, and says, "Sorry guys, but I gotta play some Etta James to finish." We assure her, with drunken amiability, that this is fine.

A moment later, a familiar orchestral swell plays. We bide our time, and then all together lauch enthusiastically into the first line: "At laaast, my love has come along..." And no sooner have we begun then our mistress of the decks bursts into immediate, uncontrollable laughter.

I wonder what exactly makes her laugh. Is it that we three are obviously very, very tipsy? Is it that our singing can at best be described as loud, and at worst would not be described at all for decency's sake? Is it simply the way we have boisterously defied her preceeding apology? Or maybe it's just that we are conspicuously a trio of white boys? Whatever the cause, it doesn't really matter. Because it wasn't a mocking laugh; it was one of pure, appreciative joy. I have rarely seen someone so delighted by something that, to us, would be practically unthinkable not to do.

We never found out the lady's name; I don't think we even knew the name of the bar, if indeed it had one. At the time I vaguely considered trying to get a photo with her, but I realise now that this would have imposed a certain artificiality on the moment. It was a sudden, spontaneous delight. And it means something special to me. Because, though I have been known to make people laugh with a witty aside, an absurd non-sequitur, or sometimes - to my slight shame - a scathing put-down, it is a rare and beautiful thing to cause pure happiness just by being who you are. The reward is as good for the bringer of the joy as for the recipient, maybe more so. It's a priceless treasure. And - let's face it - I don't often get the chance to look that funky.

Binge.

Impressions from a weekend in a bigger city.

It pays to be nice, even in mid-air. But clearly we didn't pay enough, because all of these people are awful. Their ineloquent voice-overs dictate our movements, and tell us that we'll be late. Quite late. And I pity the poor boy whose machine was still whirring as he wandered through. Sure, it might be dangerous, but a quick request would surely have been preferable to a ten-minute diatribe on just how he might have killed us all.

And it really was quite late. So late, in fact, that once we found our room we were unable to get out. We couldn't be given keys, let alone eat dinner. So it was that we sat by a table of drunks, the smell of spilling beer hovering through the open window, with a packet of biscuits and an empty Vergina.



I had forgotten the rain. This isn't the steady flow of home, not at all. From empty skies come a terrible flood, causing passers-by to evacuate to the nearest entrances. It was the library's painted archways which saved us from the terrible torrent. By the time we'd seen all the ancient manuscripts, winter had retreated and these bloody Autumn leaves came to greet me once again.



Soup from a stall in a laneway, poured from a ladle in a large wooden crate. Seating upstairs, they say. May we? Why, certainly, that's what it's there for.

Only, it's empty. Vide. Barren, save for the layers of dirty plates, souvenirs of the many who had come before. And the sign reading 'Home Made Ice Cream'. Yet no sign of Ice Cream, and thankfully, no sign of Home. A fully stocked bar, with a door wide open. Galliano, Bombay Sapphire, and the quiet hum of the fridge below. And there is nobody around. Not a staff member in sight, and it seems like nobody has cleaned up here for a while. Do you think we - think we could? I mean, couldn't we?



This is not just hospitality. This is war. Each restaurant a competitor, facing one another in a deadly game of conquest. Each hungry pedestrian a target in this pavement battle. Our first challengers seemed to come from the developing world, quietly mumbling to us in a language we could not understand. A plea, but never a bargain. But suddenly, we are arrested. We are held still by flowing words, laced with a magic not one of us could refuse. We huddle, like a football team before the last play of the third quarter. Our decision is made in an instant. We accept.

Two free bottles of wine. Score.



Oh, shut up. This is a supermarket, you can't go here. Go piss in the alleyway.



This place is full of bars. Not pubs, and certainly not clubs - bars. Where the lights are dim, and the clients wear coats and hats. And gloves. And the beers all arrived by sea from the continent, and the vodka came from beyond the Iron Curtain (cellared since before the Iron Curtain's demise. I can see this history in their eyes). I guess we'll stick to gin, hey? Gin it is. I shouldn't have drunk so much wine. But it was rather nice. Oh, this chair is comfortable. Seems to have come from the Victorian era, too, all wooden and padded and embellished with curves and edges. So comfortable, so...

... how long was I out for? You took photos? Fuckers.

Yes, bouncer, I slept well. Thanks for asking. Taxi.



I've been here before. Its blackened walls close in on me as I draw nearer. It is full of space - luscious, carefree space. Inside, glass jars reveal an unfamiliar face. Why this face? Why photocopied onto sheets of paper and placed inside glass jars? And why this tarantula light-fitting, without even a single light? And why all this space, for so few items of clothing? Why $250 for a black cotton t-shirt? Why?



Why does home seem so barren, when here is a playground of imagination? A satchel made entirely from the canvas material rescued from the roof of an impounded convertible. Score.



He's the singer in the band. I know him well. His voice echoes through the room, searching as always for notes which seem beyond reach. The voice is the same, but the songs are unfamiliar. And when I look at it, so is he.

He used to be so handsome. I once took a ladyfriend to see him, only to have her spend the hour relating just how much she desired him. I've seen him on the dancefloor, stumbling in circles, the remnants of a night's drinking carrying with each step, and yet still he left on the arm of a girl he hadn't even wanted. Now he's all blocked hair and porn-star moustache. Like he's trying his hardest to keep chaste.

She, however, is beautiful. And every one of us would marry her, without saying another word.



The question came suddenly, a soft voice from behind the locked door of the unisex toilet cubicle. Her name was Anna, but I never saw her face. I may forget her, but her wisdom will remain forever.

"What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?"



At last, my love has come along. My lonely days are gone.

Don't laugh. Just because we're three white guys drinking German beer and gin don't mean we got no soul.



This was her city, and even now I can only see it through her eyes. These markets, these stalls, this coffee, were all hers to share. But that's all over now. All that she owed me has now, finally, been returned. She might not even know I'm here. And so I can reclaim this, this city, this life. I can take what I've been offered. Her shops, her clothes, her memories. Even vegetarian dumplings, though not the same ones. And it's not just the dumplings, either. It's the company. I'm sitting here, with her friends. Only, apparently they're now my friends. She might not even know that they're here with me. They are such lovely people, and the fears and tragedies that tumble through me never get in the way when we talk.

And we talk, although we don't mention her at all. That, at least, is all over now. Now it's about spaces, and times, and opportunities. We talk of things we can share, and ways we can hide. How can we circumvent the world, to do exactly what we want despite everyone else's expectations? It might be difficult, but it is possible.

And where have they taken me? This museum is quite odd, a collection of video games, just a history of my generation's wasted time.

And I think again, despite everybody else's expectations. Not hers, and not even my own. This is my city now. And I don't even live here.



This is my life now, too. If I can reclaim that city, I can reclaim myself. I'm not just passing through. I'm here, I'm home, and right now I have things to do.

And I have someone whom I want to see. And she even wants to see me.



So...

... what if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?