Welcome to the Circus

 

1.16am Canberra

Some are afflicted more than others.  By weather patterns, atmospheric pressure, sunlight, full moons. I’m writhing in surplus electricity waiting for rain relief.

8th-century Palladianism was a dominant, restrained architectural style in Britain, Ireland, and America, revivalist in nature and based on the symmetrical, classical principles of 16th-century Italian architect Andrea Palladio. It prioritized balanced proportions, temple-front porticos, and rusticated bases.

A short piece …

I’d accepted sight unseen. It was only temporary while I was waiting for my home to be built. The entrance was a long, straight, pale driveway off a wide tree-lined street. 

The driveway opened out on both sides into a wide concourse skirting a big, white building. Separated into two wings by a central entrance and the staircase to the upper floor. 

Every dwelling had a balcony and windows overlooking the smooth pale apron of concrete. The lights were never off, there were no dark corners on the stage. 

Ragged shadecloths; lengths of knotted ropes and cords; macrame pot holders stained with mildew; dead creepers and faded towels fused to the railings festooned the front of the building. Entrails for everyone to read.

…

The building was old enough to qualify for a program to retrofit better quality insulation, to reduce energy use and to cut down on noise pollution for occupants. I was on the ground floor.

The building inspector asked, "Can you hear much in here?" She pointed to the ceiling in a general sweep. She had a clipboard.

I said, "I can tell if the man above me has an erection in the morning by the sound of him urinating."

…

The man above me dealt psychedelics and had an interest in potions. He had dinner parties and cooked everything including the bread. I declined every offer of edible anything but we did have some things in common. There was something he took about every six weeks or so, and his eyes changed colour. He got there with potions, I met him there with meditation, mostly.

He would fall into my courtyard from above. Or he’d climb over the fence, and fall into the shrubbery. We’d talk for hours. I can’t recall any of the conversations, but I remember the other nights when we had fights. We’d always make up. He had the colouring of a Botticelli angel and was similar in appearance to Sandro Botticelli’s Self-portrait as a young man.

He had the same eyes, calmly distant, gently unfocused.  I’ve wondered if the artist captured the best image he could get of his own eyes mirrored in polished metal.  I called him Braveheart.

The other wing was dominated by an ice addict. He walked in the rain, his long black hair half up and down, streaming water. He was Shakespearan in bearing , with a relentless pace in wet, wild weather. His voice carried to the back of the theatre. Perfect diction and pitch. He was always on the phone, if his voice was heard. Otherwise, he never spoke.

Both men were about the same age, private school manners even under extreme influence. Their physical beauty transcended them. They both had perfect teeth. Their parents covered everything. The best they could hope for is to inherit the family house, because their siblings, no one, wanted to live with them.

Braveheart’s story of resistance to norms and not wanting to fit in anyway, he said he was the blacksheep because he was the only one in the family without a Phd. Fair.

Blackheart raged on his phone day and night, eviscerating the listener for their evilness and the hell that awaited such a wreck of a person. He’d go into a lot of detail. Some nights he’d sit outside my fence on a brick wall and talk for hours in technocolour.

The constant foot traffic, bikes, skateboards, scooters gliding in and out of the stage was a sight to see safely from our private balconies. People screamed, swayed, swore and on leaving, some couldn’t work out how to get back down the driveway. Rubbish was everywhere: a human nest of syringes, stolen property and clothes and bedding grew in the underground carpark. 

I was fine. I was clearly a zero tolerance kind of person and no-one came near me in malice. Also, nine of out ten junkies and microdosers couldn’t manage to open my unlocked courtyard gate even in broad daylight.

Reasons I stayed for the duration:

1. Flexible lease, I could get out anytime.

2. I loved it there. Full moons were the best.

Siv Parker

House of Abundant Peace

2016