No Night Sweats N o  N i g h t  S w e a t s No Night Sweats
Sydney's Post-Punk Bands
I Like Music
Slapp Happy are Terrific
A List of CDs
Text is What I Write
Crime Fiction is Silly
[ Wounds ]
 
I remember the cold mornings after Dad had left for work with Mum boiling water and my brother Wal waiting so patiently. I'm fairly certain he didn't eat anything for breakfast but, if that little bit of life is stored anywhere in my brain, I'm unaware of it anymore. Mum would finally bring the steaming, stinking bowl and clean face cloth over to the table and the delicate procedure would begin. Wal had injured himself somehow and, unlike the breaky option I've just mentioned, I never knew how or why. It left him with a wound, gash or puncture on the forearm that needed draining every day or else, no doubt, he'd go mad, bad or just plain off. Luckily Mum was up to this task of pressing and purging and cleansing - she's a bit of a stoic in that area, as many Mums of her generation are. When it was finished, Mum would hold open the back gate as Wal drove off to work. 

I remember the hot Summer afternoon as I walked home along Park Rd (and, after all these years - where the hell was that Park, anyway?). An almost empty bottle of Coke was clutched lazily in my left hand, probably just by the fingertips, and I was dreaming as usual about a different life. No doubt, the lazy wind was wafting my wavy shoulder length hair this way and that in a graphic example of London style chic (but I digress, surely). The bottle slips from my grasp as surely as my mind slips from reality and, naturally, smashes on the pavement. Now, this was your classic glass Coca-Cola shape and weight and it broke jaggedly and frighteningly in front of me. Being somewhat civic minded I instantly decided to clean it up by moving the sharp, glinting pieces into the gutter. Unfortunately I hadn't heard of Blundstones at that stage of my life. In those days I was more of a thong man and I also stupidly chose to move the harshest most cutting edge piece with my left foot. The piece of Coke bottle loved this idea so much that it sliced a huge flap of skin from my big toe in no time flat. I looked at this adhoc surgical procedure in pure amazement and them limped off the last 150 yards towards stoic Mum, sometimes holding the bloodied extremity and sometimes giving up. 

I hope that Wal and my younger self had better healing powers that I seem to have these days.  I've still got a pale brown circular mark on my leg from a small altercation with some jagged metal that happened over a year ago. In fact I've got many of these small scars, left overs one and all, defining those ancient altercations with unbending fabrications and bits of biting glass. Maybe I just need some Vitamin E.
 
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