What We Speak Becomes the House We Live In

Dear Andréa, 

I have long wondered why I cannot write a poem of this landscape, of the interior of my homeland and I realised it is because I am no countries flag bearer, a symbol of ownership, of conquered kingdom come. I am a stranger in this landscape like many. There is an unanswered question of sovereignty that looms on each street corner, hanging on each street name.

The people of this land had no flags, no gun powder and no uniform or brass regalia. They had their language born of the landscape, the trees, the wood and the wind, attuned to this ancient land. They had their song, their dance, their dreaming. What restorative gesture can undo what is tantamount to cultural genocide? Once those who came from the shipyards and prisons of England struggled to survive in this hostile foreign savage landscape and now the tables have turned their songs silent.

Those who set anchor conquered with their words, laid claim to the untruth of an uninhabited landscape. Although generations later born and bred they are immigrants themselves like me, they are strangers set in this landscape. They have built a nation state on their acts formed on dispossession. There are a few growing swollen off the red dust. They have created this seemingly endless nadascape of autosuburban realities, a skyline forged on banalities. They have given foreign names to the ears of this dispossessed landscape. Collectively sing the song “que será, sera.”

The Persian mystic poet Hafiz wrote, 'What we speak becomes the house we live in'. Seemingly a young sunburnt country. Yet this land is old, it is ancient but dressed in their clothes not of animal skin and painted ochre but of bitumen, concrete and red brick.

The language belongs to the land born of the people by the sea, the Gadigal. This land has not heard its elders speak the language of the Eora Nation for so long. The Gadigal people and their words born of the earth, the rocks and the water, the country and lands of the Boree, Garungal, Car-rang-gel, Cooroowal, Wulworrá-jeung, Turranburra, Woggan-ma-gule, Cookaroo, Yarrandabby Ku-bung hárrá, Kubungarra. Let the voices of the poetry of this dispossessed people's land ring out over the tiled pitched red rooftops. Let them reclaim this lands song, this lands poetry. Let it echo over the tree tops in harmony with the bird song, lost so long ago.

Yours Faithfully

Fayroze

Last Day of the Year

Bonjour Mon Amant—Salaam Mon Douceur,

Ooh Mon Driss,

Mon poulet d’amour, it was hot today with a bright blue sky, the sun hanging high way up the there. I have nothing left to keep me here. I have not readjusted to Sydney. I am home but do not feel at home here in my city. This may be my last summer here—I am tired of these hideous streets. One thing I recall from my university days is that aesthetics are ethics. Architectural form and settlement patterns are physically built modes of that society. If all that is true, this city is morally bankrupt and devoid of any ethical integrity. There is little value put on beauty, so it is left out of the equation altogether. I am upset; my job is at stake. I am burnt out from the office. I was in a sombre-indigo mood and now I am brooding—seething like the smoke from the stem of my cigarette.

FUCK this postcard town! I don’t know what I am doing here anymore or what I am holding on to. You are not here, always far…far from my gaze…far from my embrace…far from my bed. My mother is just a voice on the telephone. I am tired of life here more than anything. I can hear the buzz of cicadas and I know summer is here. But I do not know what the future holds for us. I have waited so long for you to be by my side under an Australian summer sun. I have hope…that is what I tell myself.

The world does not feel like it is opening up but closing in on me. I am thirty-one. I never imagined or planned past the age of thirty. I do not know what more there is…hoping to see you here…I dream of Tangiers, a city dressed in white. Sipping Rosé from Provence or French Champagne, a café Arabica, smoking le Marquise Menthol. The waiter dressed in a white shirt and black vest lighting my cigarette. Sitting at an art déco café—colonialist of course—typing away, brooding, sweating…wondering where you are in that city of white…with a refreshing breeze from Gibraltar cooling the air…ghosts of Jack Kerouac and Paul Bowles haunting every corner of those colonialist haunts—the cafés, bars and restaurants. I imagine they still remain intact down to the table and chairs from that WWII époque.

Where would we call home? What would fill my days? Would I write relentlessly back home? Then again, from where? My heart has no home…my homeland is by your side, à ton côté, à côte de toi, somewhere, nowhere, nulpart. Maybe Paris, trapped in the misery of a bankrupt middle class…or left to turn mad ‘folle’ with my Middle-Eastern sisters…or pay the high rents of Sydney, to catch a glimpse of water and spit from the coat hanger (Harbour Bridge). To be at the mercy of the buses and sip fine soy cappuccinos at bar Milazzo… prepared by my dear Italian friend Claudio or spray-venom-politique with the other expat paysano, Andréa or Giovanni.

Most likely, I extract myself from this place and start anew in Melbourne. Drinking small beers measured in pots, not midis—a Sydney term. Where there are no steep rigid inclines to climb, all the seasons in one day, no hard surf because the beaches are in a bay. Buzz around Fitzroy searching for old things in vintage shops, eating lentils at the Vegie Bar, buying flowers and putting my shopping in the front of my bicycle. Smoking clove cigarettes with arts students and to see my mother, an anchor for me in Melbourne. I am truly her daughter, of the same blood. Rent an old apartment above a federation style shop that has the original stained-glass windows. I would live near the station and welcome the ringing of the bells that the train was coming and the railway crossing closed. I can wait for you as I have now because I know how much I love you. I love you like my typewriter, an object I value more than others prize their diamond wedding ring.                

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....................................................Typing from here to eternity..............................................

...................................................Typing from her to Morocco..............................................

......................................................Typing from here to Paris................................................

.............................................Typing from here to be by your side..........................................

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 The French waiter poured me a Rosé at The Spot. I am not sure what to make of drinking alone. I think it may be ill advised… my mind is still cloudy from last night’s cocktails and champagne. I cling to this shrewd, miserable, tired, broken city, crawling with the nouveau riche. Like a city wearing an expensive suit but making it look cheap; it is evident in this city that money cannot buy you taste. The women may be beautiful—I rarely notice as the 1970s backdrop renders everything ugly like a city bathed in blonde brick, concrete and bitumen sweating from the urban heat-island effect, sweltering bitumen underfoot. I miss you in the misère de Paris. Oh la misère de Paris. Colonialist-Imperialists: when they have been privileged for so long, there is a sense of entitlement and with “rien dans la caisse,” they are in the midst of a cold dark winter.

I want to be by your side, inside or out of any given city. Haiti if you prefer, or en Espagne with la pauvreté, we can start a samba line in the unemployment queue.

I am sweating. It is hot, stinking hot. My rusty metal fan hums in the background, the muffled tones of people talking on the radio. I am not here. I never arrived here back home in Sydney since last I saw you in Paris. My body is here but my thoughts are there with you in Casablanca. Will you ever leave? Come home to me and reunite my body with my soul and your body next to me, on me in an embrace. Not sure if you can cross the Pacific as you never have before. I darken with all the broken promises, with all your broken promises. FUCK I LOVE YOU! Tu le sais. Tu m’aimes? Je ne sais plus. Je ne sais pas si je peux continuer de t’attendre. I get so tired of an unanswered telephone. I get down. I live all the miserable jazz love songs I listen to on the radio. It makes this summer dark without you. I am still smoking, sorry to say… I am so healthy fighting fit when I leave for Paris and I return with my body devastated. I do not think I may see you again until I see you here in Australia. It breaks my heart to type those words.

J’ai dormie hier soir dans un rêve d’attente…I slept last night in a dream of waiting…I woke up doped out, breaking through to real life and reality comes flooding back to me first in sharp flashes and then I regain consciousness…I lie there listless…a cup of coffee…a dismal cigarette…I open up the sash window above the sink to let some light into the apartment…let in some air…I turn on the radio and it buzzes away without me, not caring about my dark mood…I look up at my wooden clock on the wall. It says it is 10.45am, but I know it is actually midday…The wind blows loudly, shaking my flat and I think to you maybe in Paris or Casablanca, trapped with your other compatriots. The metal fan turns. I know I have to rush. Someone is waiting for me somewhere in this city. I have to lift my mood…there is only some coffee left in the saucer now…

Long days of this wretched summer without you…I cannot escape the memory of you; I’m trapped inside it. Your words on the telephone, “envie de me voire,” the tears well up in my eyes. I think to that great Anglophonic leader, Winston Churchill. He called these his black dog days. I am in freefall. Falling off the edge of a building, hoping you are waiting at the end to catch me in your embrace.

If only you could make an escape route, a plan to my heart. I sat at a bar looking up the sails of the Opera House; a rare object of beauty in this far flung city. I was there at dusk, the sun setting, the buildings dark, only illuminated by the lights within. I hold on to that, trying not to think of your unanswered telephone…

I get so down…way down…down low now. In these shady days of summer, I hope you will return to my embrace. I do not think you will reach these distant shores…too far…too long…too distant…to see me. It is late now and my fingertips sound like hammers on the keys in the late hours. Long nights of summer. Alone. When I came home tonight, as I came down the stairs, I hoped to find you waiting at the bottom of the staircase. A secret wish…An empty dream. These days do not hold much promise. The clock’s tic-tok…The day truly over…nearing ever closer to the last day of the year. I smoke a secret wish to die…ever so slowly. I breathe out and smoke escapes…maybe blissful indifference?

At the beach today, I watched the seagulls dance and soar above the sunbathers, gliding on the breeze. I watched them against the cobalt blue, which turned that island paradise turquoise at the shore. I watched a man swimming against the break waters…Pine trees line the beach…I know this is an Australian beach, a Sydney one to be exact. Women, foreigners dressed in bikinis in all colours, red, blue, pink and polka dot. A naked white breast, burnt flesh and I am golden. The quiet hum of people dialled down by the easing wash and crash of waves. Even the sound of children’s laughter is rendered pleasant. The squeak and squall of the seagulls is high pitched. I still wonder where you are. Will you come find me in this city of five million? Find me sitting alone somewhere? The day gets hotter, the water calls like a spiritual ablution before I lay down in prayer once again on the sand.

I have vague ideas, ambiguous sentiments and thoughts of you. I feel like I burnt a cigarette hole through my heart. The lit end I put near my skin and I feel the heat of the glowing ember approaching, too cowardly to press it against my naked hand. Burn through skin, meat & veins—no brilliant flash of red. So instead I smoke continuously and endlessly to kill myself in a slow calculated death.

I’m not sure if I will ever see you again. To look upon you, your dark brown eyes, one with a tâche. Your coiffeur of swirling crinkled hair with flecks of grey. Your nose dignified and your lips, those two jewels, the bottom one sweet from your coffee. Je t’aime sans cesse, without falter. These long hot days of summer without you…to share my Australian summer with you, seulemente une rêve. I’m not sure where you are these long days, these long nights or what hours you keep.

I believe you will never see an Australian summer…too far…trop chér…trop de decalage. You will never set foot on my country’s soil, never set foot in my apartment. Never feel the scorching sun on your face turning your caramel skin bronze, then to dip into the strong surf in the icy cool waters and welcome the chill on your burnt back.

You will never step foot in my bedroom and lay down next to me on my queen sized bed. We will never make the bed bend and creak with our loud love making. Make love on every surface of my apartment; bless each surface with our naked passion. I sleep alone like yesterday, like today, like tomorrow and I am left alone with my dark thoughts turning wretched. I wished to spend the last day of the year alone. My friends will rescue me, armed with Champagne and Rosé. It may be ill advised for me to spend too much time alone. I can curl up in my misery, nurture it and stroke it. You may not know this about me…

I do not know if I have the strength or means to see you again in Paris. I know I will gather the force of spirit as I have done before somehow. I feel you are slipping away from me now. I may go somewhere; you will not be able to find me, but what difference would that make now? It gets me; down it makes me tired. I will fall asleep on the keys tonight, wondering where you are like yesterday, like before, like always.

I scowl…I skulk…I cry…Maybe you would prefer a women whose smile never cracks, whose eyes are always dry, mascara never running down her face. A woman that is not so maladroit who never breaks glasses or wishes to throw them crashing against the walls of the apartment. You would lift me out of this darkness, you could hold my shining soul up high, just with the ease of your calming voice. Deep, baritone & virile—the way I like. You call out while making love, or tell me to quieten myself whilst in the act, or lay down par terre, mouille, more, harder just for you. A well placed slap with your long fine fingers comme l'artiste. Your voice while I wax lyrical of beauty; your deriding sarcasm, then my laugh.

Lift me high into the scorching blue sky. Let my feet never touch the ground, wrapped up in your love. Dreaming of a time I no longer need to write you to be by your side, but by your side, typing to everyone else, longing for friends and my mother’s gaze. Take me far from here. Place me next to you. On top of you. Breathing you in…

Lost in love’s long embrace…

Je t’embrasse bien forte (I kiss you very hard)

Fayroze

La Dame de Fer (Lady of Fire)

Allez-Roxy bébé,

Like a fucking tourist I was mesmerised by the view of the Eiffel Tower from the apartment. I believe it’s because I don’t have to walk the filthy-rotten streets or catch the stinking Metro hot with human-humidity to go see the beautiful lady. When I do venture out on the Metro I douse myself in parfum, GUCCI Flora to be exact, to protect me from catching some air-born Parisien virus.

From the seventh-floor balcony I can see La Dame de Fer—the Eiffel Tower—and La Meringue on the other side (Sacre Cœur). I feel like the two monuments are a tale of a woman’s l’histoire d’amour. It begins at the church, le Sacre Cœur; the wedding day is here and she is dressed all in white, towering high in her big hooped meringue. Then of course night descends and she is set ablaze by passion on her wedding night. She finds her man unfaithful and sets herself and her dress alight. She is burning, quite a spectacle to behold. Like her bridal waltz all alone, she is dancing—spinning around, drunk and dizzy. She lights up the night sky with her golden flames; for all of Paris to see the rage of her tortured memory each night.

The few times I’ve been to the Trocadéro, once with my lover Driss on his moto, we stood underneath at the foot of the big-skirted girl and I felt like a pervert standing there between her legs looking up at her cunt between her thick thighs. However, the first time I saw her I was with Renaud, an old lover, now a friend. I still recall what we argued about that night all those years ago. He made the point firmly that I was mistaken and that the old lady was in fact a man, who was lying back with his crowning glory, a big-phat-cut-cock with a long-hard-erect-triumphant-metallic shaft and adorned with a crowning glorious head. The nightly display a shower of golden sparkling champagne, like ejaculate all over itself, revelling in its own ecstasy.

I thought maybe now in these austere dark days autumn in Paris, the lady is a junkie. The form is no longer a dress but a heroin needle injecting, giving her a nightly show of exhibitionism, like the Moulin Rouge. Vegas-lights-rock-light. Each and every night there is spectral, a display of exultation from her cocaine high.

I am tired of these beautiful-old-decaying-rotten-dirty-wretched streets and then I think of St Germain. It feels like another world, another life. Set apart, yet now contained within the ever-encompassing open slums of austerity that has crept in from the outskirts of town, la banlieue. The heroin addict has scaled the beige city’s walls. Not only les portes de Paris proper, but all of Europe. So the lady is a stripper, she does her nightly dance and at the end of her act, she burns her dress. She is left naked and in her short, mind-obliterating junkie high she trembles with the champagne-shower-ejaculate all over her body. Coming down hard from her drug addled heights, she has the banlieue bleues.

Walking up rue Marcadet to my apartment from the Metro Guy Môquet (my first mistake!), I asked the barkeep at the brasserie Christophe Colomb “if I could use the bathroom”. He asked directly “if I would be buying a drink?” I answered “non.” Then he replied directly, “NON!” How could a man deny a woman the use of a toilet? The French are fucking special, that is why Napoleon never had his victory march through the Arc de Triomphe and all that remains is just a cauchemar of a roundabout.

L’amour toujours dur… FUCKING L’AMOUR! What the fuck do I know about this emotion? Less than zero! Natta! Nix! Rien! Diddley-Squat! Zip! Zilch! I slept alone last night, yet again. There is always a reason, always an excuse: a motorcycle accident, sick siblings, a razor, a clean shirt, midnight meetings, or just plain old hustling. Me, I will sleep alone tonight like the two nights before. The wind blows, the rain falls, then darkness descends and I am left alone. Perhaps I too have the banlieue bleues?

It is morning here and dinner time in Sydney… Je vais chercher un croissant… Last night’s candles snuffed out, empty wine glasses, his umbrella leaning against the bureau. I think to the Roman goddess Aurora; goddess of the dawn, she heralds a new day, carrying the flame to light the sun. She had a mortal lover as we all do, hers the Prince of Troy.

I would shake the colour off my skin for him and then for some reason I hope that he loves me always, down to my heart-beating soul. Oh, how I hope for la grasse matinée every morning together. He is here now in front of me and we will make love loudly, his heart-beating-pounding-body-and-soul on top of me, giving me what I waited for all night long in the lonesome sounded-out hours of the night before.

What to make of these moments of ecstasy, my happiness always fleeting, never permanent. Then it is my turn to leave and I no longer wait for him; I spend the days and nights without him.

Oh, how time marches on…

Keep well my, dear young friend Roxanne,

Bisous ton amie,

Fayroze!