Some Kind Of Gypsy Boy–


I took a group of Japanese engineers on a tour of our fair city this afternoon–
Not as I’d like to, but as I’d been told to.

I lead them
fast and ready
through the city–

They quip,
“So many different… how you say… cultures here… so many Chinese.”

I laugh loudly
because
I know
how much the Japanese loathe the Chinese.

I say, “You’re racist, learn to be honest about it… You are. So are we. So what? Tell me why? Have you thought about it?”

I think about my Japanese language capabilities–

They pale, in comparison to what I know about their psyche–
Most things do, if I’m honest– But Japanese, fuck, it’s a difficult language, and I was alright once– I’m not now– I’m a mess. So shy. So coy. And it’s not such a long flight. I lose a lot when I’m away– A lot.

I probe further, about Sydney, about the Chinese, about their experiences here– some 75 contact hours at the language school I work at–

They gesticulate, they nod, they say little– this is how you agree in Japan.

I adore these boys. In their own ways. Why not? I know what they’re thinking. And, as it turns out– so do they– They get it. They see it. That’s what being vulnerable does to your pineal gland–

It opens you up–
wide
wide
wide–

And then–

Once you’re all open like
there is room…

For movement.
For chance.
For an exchange.
A corroborree of sorts–

A lark.

A turn.

I laugh some more.

They really are racist.

I remind them of their homogeonity–

They are one.

That’s why they tolerate such tedium,

That’s why they walk the line.

It’s also why I don’t have to.

But these guys are serious– They’re young and they’re rich– and we’re daggy here– and big time cats that work 100 Japanese hours/week can sniff that shit a mile away–

The tour is dull.

Our stories are ill informed.

The city, average, in loads of ways–

We talk too fast and care too little–

English really is a hard language to learn.

So why bother?

Why try?

Why come here?

Why begin?

They’re exhausted.

Plus it’s winter here– and summer there–

I tell them why I never come to Circular Quay.

So full of tourists and predictable experiences–

Plus it’s cold by the harbor.

It’s winter, for fuck sake.

I cab it home, unwind, undress– roll over and imagine capitulating to someone else’s ultimatum–
Buying into that structure.
Working those hours.
Being here.
Seeing here.

sans play– you know? Where’s the play?

No ones playing…

I breath deeply.
I think softly.
I’m kind to myself.
I sleep well.

I sleep really well actually.

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