letter to a friend - sunday monday

8/10/2019 Letter to a Friend - Sunday Monday

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SUNDAY MONDAY

Peter Ote

Dear Friend

A letter I have not written for perhaps years, that is not counting all the bodgie

letters of application for positions I almost always did not want yet invariably felt a strange

disappointment when those which were answered really were a refusal. Also I do not count those

two brief messages to my parents. I mean a Real Letter, such as the ones I used to write to my

brother. Perhaps I shall write another one one day, perhaps never. So let this be the one, the last

one.

I have nothing to say to you since you already know it all. Of course I could write on

particulars, such as my current personal situation. I could elaborate on my present immediate

position, sitting once again at my red-green-and-yellow tablecloth covered desk. About the calling

voices and my waiting. I could tell you at length about my daily activities and my overall objectives.

The methods I use (illustrated by individual anecdotes) to achieve my goals or just to uphold some

kind of ethics in my existence. I could tell you how unpleasant it was when I decided not to ask for

any more money after I did an extra small job for a guy after he paid me for the finished oneand

he gave me no tip.

So whatever I shall tell you is going to be a subjective revelation, whichever way I

present it. The ups and downs which are so hard to level out, the repeated failures to follow out my

decisions without compromise. The little discoveries I made after years of struggle discoveries

which manifested themselves to me yet I still fail to grasp much of their significance or even apply

them to my advantage.

One of these discoveries is the presence of a peculiar rhythmicity in the behaviour of

people around me. This at any rate consumes the greater part of the total attentions which I pay to

my environment. Living, being alive, is also a political process. A process of judgemental relating to

my fellow humans, and to everything else around me. Am I biased? Yes, incurably so in favour of

finding out essential truths.

Yet the possibility of being wrong always exists. I remember the expressions on thefaces of some troops photographed during a break in fighting in World War I. They were crowding

around a couple of smiley enemy women, one of which had a toddler in her arms. The men looked

good! Kind, proud, serene. Friendly. I detected no sign of malice or brutality in the face of any of the

several soldiers photographed. I know another man who lives in my area. He has a chilling grey look

in his eye, a sort of fierce mercilessness. But from our interactions I experience him essentially to be

a just and fair man.

****


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Why do I look so good to me

When I gaze at my

Own reflection in the bathroom mirror?

As if the horror of what I saw

Yesterday afternoon in the passenger

Seats rear vision mirror had

Been forgotten . The menacing thin

Capillaries showing through the pink

Thin skin on the tip of my nose.

Will this disease that keeps

Returning to gnaw at my entrails

Ever leave me for good never

To return or is it to

Stay with me as some kind ofSurrogate lover for ever?

Shall I go or should I remain?

And how on earth and where?

Am I hearing the cow again? No, this is an aeroplane. It is the sound of a high flying

jet, up up somewhere up in the night sky. Above the roof, the roof of my house. There, it is gone. But

the darkness out there lingers on.

I is past eight oclock in the evening and before I forget yes, I did hear a cow just

then. Once, and once more . Again, and again. And on and on the rain keeps falling, dribdrumming

above my head. Its monotony is surrounding me and has a somewhat soothing effect on me too,

when I come to consider it. But I really want to say more about the cow and the mooing. Actually

there are two bovine beasts in the paddock right now. Throughout the day I have been distracted by

them. One of them might be a bull, a bully muscular, not at all a mean looking creature. And (I am

surprised at finding that out about cattle for myself) somewhat truly dumb. No, he has not been

usurping his bovine mates, at least not when I looked.

So why all this complaining boomooing? I thought of possible causes, but how does

one go about being analytical and not ending up with a diagnosis of a situation . Anyway, the bully

(I believe it is) sounds to me really pissed off about something, and being very loud about it. The girl

he liked might have been suddenly taken away from him when he was brought here, and now he is

raging in his new-found aloneness. He may be also upset by finding himself in unfamiliar

surroundings, perhaps he even misses his mother, despite having a company of his own kind.

However none of them cattle is trying to escape, to get away from here before it is too late for them.

Only yesterday one of them did get out of the fenced-in paddock. A big fat-bellied

heifer. She found herself in my yard, and then on the road. Did she like being out at last, out of the

narrow confines of her almost certain destiny? I hoped for a moment she did. Nonetheless, all the

evidence I gathered from observing her behaviour pointed out to me she hated in distress being out


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of her board-and-lodging concentration camp, the place of her insurmountable family attachments,

and was forevcer looking for a way to come back.

No, I dont want my writing to be like the appearance of modern motorcars of the

millennium frontier: to my first look stunning, slick, smoothly hoo-whooshing on the road, but

whenever I caught a glimpse of the driver something froze inside me of shock and something felt

elated with knowing. With their commonplace glitter and smug the superpersonal disguises of these

vehicles conceal in their hollowness irredeemably shallow satisfaction.

I had done enough of plagiarising and now at last I am gathering sufficient resolve to

be an iconoclast. A breaker particularly of all that I have been keeping at every moment as given and

accepted norms and formats for all manner of transactions with my world. The automatic piloting by

my behavioural blueprint consists of a sort of self-perpetuating circular system of referencing, whose

main features, I must admit, have been conceit and complacency.

My mother no longer exists within the boundaries of my easily reachable proximity.Yet I have come to realise her actual existence here with me is not necessary in order that I keep on

functioning in a manner effectively initiated by her in me since the moment of my conception. I had

acquired, by some way of bodily induction, all of her knowledge before I was born. And now this

same knowledge remains to be a contributing factor to making up the veil covering all the events of

day and night. It was somewhere in my far past when thoughts and feelings vibrated every cell of

her body and kept enveloping me with no hope of respite for nine long months. At the end of them I

too was buzzing with the same, very similar frequency. My given, induced state was so

overwhelming, so utterly convincing and irrefutable - I was engulfed by it like a moth in the glare of a

light globe.

****

Today I was once again interrogated. I dread being interrogated. I dread mainly on

behalf of the other person, the interrogator. I dread of having to be subtly rude, of having to play the

diplomatic game and act as if I did not comprehend what is being asked of me. Saying enough in

response to personal questions and yet saying nothing, not giving myself away. After all, had I not

given enough? Hadnt I been personally present for the eternity of a sunny day that now I should be

subjected to this demeaning torture of my sole existence?

Are you married, Peter? (The dreadful moment is here. It almost paralyses me and

brings me on the verge of fury.) What on earth will she benefit from knowing either way? The

irrelevance of her asking clawed me raw. She is so utterly inappropriate to the situation.

Are you married, Peter!?

She really wants to know what she to me does not need to. I detest such

personalities. My judgement is they want to get hold of a piece of personal information and pin me

down to it. Perhaps she just wants me to become more tangible to her, so that then she could haveme down to what counts, the nitty-gritties of her real life.


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I circumvent the questions and instead of answering her directly talked to myself,

semi-aloud, but at the same time appearing as if giving an answer. Yet I was saying truthful things,

things that were pertinent in a roundabout way, though apparently schizoid.

Me-e? Now the worry is: I can hardly spot thinking that. Can think of what I should

be saying .

For the time being I snatched myself from her confining queries. Too late did I

realize she had a trump card and kept it for the moment when I least expected a comeback. It was

her man, her husband, an individual and her partner in sexual energy investments. He asked me

identical questions, and this time I felt obliged to supply pertinent answers. I gave him my answers

freely, in a noncommittal manner. Yes, yes, no, no. Has mess, foes tow. I hold a shadowy suspicion.

I darkly suspect the woman of deliberately getting the man involved, of directly instructing him: Go

and ask him. I could not get a clear word out of him. She probablywhispered it to him during a

moment of my brief absence. I fancy that for an instant she even became animated with the

gnawing desire of a genuine assassin.

Or were both of them equally interested in my peter actions? The way he walked me

out when I was leaving there was something deliberate and surreptitious, something of a stalking

manoeuvre about it. But now, enough of these concerns. I used to chew over a topic time after there

was nothing left of it, not a bone. And as I entered deeper into that minus space of narration the

substance of my story would become so dilute, the core of it so withered, that it eventually fizzled

out to a haze of nothingness.

Of how much value has acting out the wee-dough been to me, anyway? On daily

basis, I probably never let a single such opportunity slip by without mentally attending to it;habitually I keep reacting by being emotional one way or another. My body does not and cannot

hide the evidence of the after-effects. My reason cherishes being lazy and agnostic.

When I get to the core of being rationally unable to account for feeling so spastic

today I know that some elusive but undeniable part of me had lost its density and tautness, with

much of my internal lustre gone. Neither ticks nor denial for the do-her wee-dough has brought me

peace of mind.

I am still baffled, long time after I put down last Wednesdays edition of the local

newspaper. This one was considerably smaller, thinner than what the papers normally are. It was

something about the overall content that affected me and made me feel stumped. The faces of the

people in black and white photos? Yes, they all seemed content, smiley, as if their owners had truly

achieved something worthwhile. But I should not forget the other faces the faces, half and full

bodies of prostitutes, numerous women and one man. All still appearing young and in the possession

of sufficient energy to project out to me a promise of sensuous melodrama.

I also remember the balding heads of older men and the impressive hairdos of old

women. An advertisement for male sexual potency tablets offering satisfaction for life. With that,

embarrassment and sorriness set claws into my entrails. So, that they have all had! Perhaps they are

having it even now. And I fool have missed out by miles! These must be the last echoes of my dying


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regrets. My boat has been leaking, yet it still floats. So long as I am capable of moving Ill keep

tossing out bucket after bucket, and stay under sail.

Nails of a new human being,

Ridgecapping exposed to the cold.

You rarely find

School upon a hill.

Outstanding good food

A lonely place in wilderness.

So easy to succumb to sleepiness.

But Tanya did cross my path

On three pages

Of outer suburbs.

****

Now I get to a very important point for any storyteller and receiver alike the hero

of my letter. He was not ever a hero in the sense of a somebody who accomplished extraordinary

deeds in the eyes of his fellows. If anything, his daring was looked upon as foolery. Still, at least one

of his associates derived inspiration from him, the memory of which will live on in him for the rest of

his days. That inspired person was I.

During the course of our association Hans gave accounts, often at my request, of his

invariably thrilling exploits. At that time those accounts did not seem exaggerations to me. Only

considerably later in my life did I come to fully appreciate my tendency to be gullible. Nonetheless I

still consider my friend a man of extraordinary character and someone not altogether bound by the

conventions of others. After many years of separate ways I remember his stories as tales of

persecution and escape.

One autumn day I saw him running in the distance and waved to him to attract his

attention. I was in an area away from houses, among grassy fields and clumps of trees. It was out of

a large forest area nearby that I first saw my friend emerge. He noticed me too, looked over his

shoulder and turned, heading in my direction. It was mid-afternoon, the air was clear, but the

evening chill had not arrived yet. Soon he stood panting in front of me. He took his bag off his

shoulders and let it drop to his feet.

I felt amused at the sight of my fellow guy, standing here so out of breath, visibly

frightened, but with no one else around, as far as I could see. The closest possible place of

concealment for any would-be pursuer was perhaps four hundred metres away, in the forested area.

Whats happening?


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Looking in his face, the expression I was confronted with took me aback. I saw the

eyes of a hunted animal, but these ones were not desperate or pleading for release. My friend kind

of sniggered and giggled all at once.

We took a detour on our way home, which was a much longer walk than I would

normally go if I were on my own. We moved stealthily, often stopping and listening. A couple of

times we stepped into the bushes beside the track and from there looked out, while remaining

hidden from the view of any chance passer-by or anyone who might be pursuing us. But we met no

one and it seemed nobody was following us either. We got to my place at twilight and Hans stayed

on. There was cold bacon my mother bought that day and we ate plenty of it with hot mustard and

real dark rye bread. I always liked the fat but my mother believed it was not good for my health! This

time she just plainly came up to the table where Hans and I were sitting and eating and took away

from the pile of bacon, and even from my plate, all those lovely fat strips. No objections of mine

could stop her, my timid mother.

Why were you running like mad out there, Hans?

There was apparently a group of young men and women, five or six of them in all,

who have been following him for some time. He said he first noticed them at least a year back. At

times some of them got very close to him, but more often one or more just watched him or looked

at from the distance. Or he noticed them first. None of them stood out in an obvious manner,

seemingly being neither hostile nor friendly. But this autumn day Hans found himself with all of

them on a crowded bus, and now he was about to narrate the event to me.

On my way to the bus stop a guy stopped me and asked for light. He did not have a

cigarette in his hand or in his mouth. Since I had none, I pointed out to him the nearby store wherehe could get what he wanted. He admitted he had no money, so I gave him some small change. I

wanted to keep going, I was already late and remembered that the bus leaves on time. Instead of

letting me go on account of my obvious hurry the citizen now asked for directions. I felt obliged to

give them but I did so no good. I did not know the streets or their names well enough. But he

definitely did not seem to mind receiving such ambiguous directions, as if the real issue for him was

that I was forced to spend time with him talking. Although his face had much familiarity about it, I

am certain I have never seen that man before. I left trotting for the bus stop.

The bus was quite full, and the driver had the engine running. As I mounted the

steps a female passenger in front of me appeared to be loosing her balance. She swayed a bit andthen stepped back down one tread in trying to regain her balance. She leaned backwards and

towards me so close that I could not get on board. But the woman ignored that behind her there

was me wanting to get on.

Them two, I commented, the man who asked you for light and the swaying

woman, they were in unison preventing you to catch the bus!

Hans looked at me and made a face which seemed to say, in an amusing way: Were

they?


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But why, w-w-w-what for? I stuttered out. I felt strangely unsettled. Yet another

typical Hans story, I thought. Not quite an other-worldly one, just lacking a sense of logic which can

be read into most other stories. In fact, it later turned out to be a mini time warp.

The bus was nearly chock-a-block, Hans continued. Several passengers stood in

the aisle holding onto overhead or seat supports. There was still one vacant seat, close to where I

stood. No one seemed about to take it, so I moved closer. The school kid who sat at the window next

to it was sprawled out, with one of his legs on the vacant seat. I hesitated and at that moment the

boy straightened up to look out of the window, taking his leg off the seat. I could see the dirt

covering its Indian-red vinyl upholstery.

Wont you sit down?, said someone beside me. I stood by thefilthy seat. The bus

had been moving for a while now. More passengers got on board and a few got off. A woman in

front of me turned her profile to me and with her free hand made a cleaning gesture towards me. It

looked as though she was motioning me to go, clean the seat, and sit down.

How did you end up running out there where I saw you before? I interjected.

Hans continued to explain. The guy behind him who spoke to him before and the

profiled woman in front of him somehow seemed in a bizarre way determined to make him take the

seat. The man leaned forward and brushed all the dirt off it with his rolled-up newspaper, then

stood back without sitting himself down. The woman now stood so close to Hans she was practically

upon him. To get out of her way he was forced to somewhat edge into the vacant seat space and

then, against himself wishing to, with an unexpected bus manoeuvre, he felt being impelled into the

seat.

Was he being put on or was this a genuinely uncanny coincidence? He became

bemused, remaining alert for consequential developments. Everybody else, including the two Hans

considered the culprits of his current situation, appeared to be at ease and altogether oblivious to

him. To them everything was normal. Hans considered his position and decided to get off the bus

before his usual stop and to walk the rest of the way.

He started to move towards the exit. The man with the rolled-up newspaper and his

male companion seemed all of a sudden to become alarmed. They made gestures. They turned their

heads one way and then the other. They fretted, moved their eyes and blinked them, and scratched

themselves repeatedly. For a brief moment Hanss attention became blued to their curious

behaviour. The woman moved sideways as if to make passing room for him but then as he walked

past her she stuck one foot out behind her which made him stumble over it. To stop himself from

falling among the passengers he reached out, grasped onto somebodys dress and managed to

regain his balance.

By then he felt so awkward that he pulled the bell and quickly jumped off. To his

surprise and bewilderment the four people he interacted with on the bus the two women and the

two men swiftly followed suit and got off the bus as well. He saw them coming towards him;

without loosing a moment he turned and set off running. He moved away with speed and kept going

for perhaps twenty minutes till he came upon me.


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You got scared of something and ran like a dog! But are you saying that those

people are after you? I asked half in jest.

I really dont think that, Hans replied. But everything looked as though they were

doing just that. Thats why I did not waste my time on further speculations and got out of there

presto.

They could have been there planted on purpose, perhaps to stop you, or to help

you? Well, they successfully deviated you from your course, and yet managed to get out of it

themselves looking thoroughly innocent. How could you possibly not suspect any of them of

deliberate scheming? The timing and execution of what they did was so flawless, as if guided by

some unfailing computer program. You just walked into it and there it was, all ready and made to

fit perfectly.

Yet despite of all that appearance, they had no idea of anything, I am pretty certain

of that, Hans replied, going for a brief moment into deeper thought. I am convinced I now knowwhat really transpired with my friend on that crisp autumn day. He happened to get himself into the

transacts of uncommon small-time social forces and for some time remained and moved through

such a succession.

****

Well dear friend, now I must also tell you the story of a modern day Cuauhtemocand a modern-day Cortes.

The roar of a 6-cylinder diesel has reached my ears, realized Cuauhtemoc with an

unpleasant feeling. He stood by the window of a well-lit room, outside it was already night. Cortes

is coming! Almost involuntarily he lifted up the lower edge of the window curtain. And quickly let

his hand pull it back down, not wanting the approaching adversary to notice his presence. After all,

I am an Indian, and he a stupid whitie, with a tinge of satisfaction he mused to himself. It was a

short-lived feeling of victory. He saw the clear outline of the shadow of his own head projected on

the white linen of the curtain. Owe know, I fumbled once again! he lamented and had to exert

himself considerably in order not to fall prey to the creepy despair, ever present in some darkenedcorner of his mind.

Hilarious. The pettiness of Cuauhtemocs discomfort seems immense and the

terrible annoyance it gave rise to what a bloat! But Cortes pressed on, seemingly unaware of the

emotional drama his mere presence engendered in the soul of Cuauhtemoc. He passed by the house

in his Dodge, checked his horses, and left again into the night, headlights on. But does Cortes know

that money hasnt got the power to take away his misery? That all it can do is distract him for a while

from paying attention to the course of his unyielding fate?


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He probably senses it just as Cuauhtemoc senses something more about this same

spot at other times when he doesnt feel so pinned down. Something which belongs to the realm of

poetry.

The truest view of this kitchen

And out of the window.

I had looked around here before

But never remember the light

Of the evening sky glowing so.

Pale and unnotable western horizon

Closer than I ever knew.

Breeze swaying slender eucalyptus branches.

A fly landed on a window pane

And flew off again.

This is a wild country.

Its a slow go.

Theres plenty of heat

Lots of snow

And moss-covered boulders

In the rivers flow.

Despite the picturesqueness of scenery I used to fancy the country around here to

be oozing with gloom. To me an invisible yet sensible presence that was not people-made, butrather generic to the area, pervaded it. All that has changed, the dismal feelings no longer claim

prominence.

To the west and running parallel to the ocean shore there is a chain of low hills

covered by large with native trees: tall spotted gums, ironbarks, turpentines and she-oaks. From the

sea-side the closest are within a couple of hours walk through suburban build -up. There are no

corner store, only the occasional block of mixed shops and services, with vehicle parking next to it.

The majority of homes look very neat. Their lawns mowed regularly, well-kept flower beds,

decorative shrubs and letterboxes of various designs and colours.

The dogs are ubiquitous here. At time I see one or more on the street but more

often I hear them barking behind a gate or fence. The ones on the run dont seem to bother with the

passer-by as often or as much as those restrained. These sooner or later invariably bark or yelp.

Many are either frighteningly savage or plainly annoying. I have met indifferent dogs, however a

friendly dog I come across very rarely. A dogs behaviour suggests to me the kind of treatment it

receives if it renders to its master such a telling service.

As for me, here at last come my parting words to you:

Soggy bread today.

Tonight I tear it away

From what remains


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Of millions of grains

Thousands of them.

No longer alive

They keep me alive.

Regards,

Peter

****

Reflection on Truth and Self-delusion

I finished this letter at the beginning of 2001 and sent copies to a number of literary journals with

the hope of getting it published. However I received no offers and eventually gave up on the idea. In

stead, my interests at that time became focussed on continuing to research and learn from the work

of Carlos Castaneda. Four and half years later, in September 2005, I was surprised at receiving in my

mail a returned copy of my submission to Mooltan Press, advising me the journal Australian Short

Stories was no longer published. This also incidentally became the only copy of the letter that had

survived the passage of time. It puzzled me in a marvellous way. I kept it and did not know what to

do with it. I felt tossing it was wrong as was trying to rework it or approach other publishers. It wasnot until the end of 2014 that the solution came to me to publish it online. So thirteen years later

the identity of this undertaking is finally established with me and released. Incidently, I left the area

where the letter was written in my thirteenth year of residency.

I am here concerned with the truth of the letters content. The feelings it describes and generates

are true. There are also many literal truths but their arrangement does not necessarily reflect their

chronological sequence. So in that respect I have deluded myself by constructing perhaps not a fully

fictional but nonetheless a virtual reality. The danger of such endeavours is they reflect back to us

with the potential of controlling us in such a way that we may end up believing them more than the

factual reality of how things really happened.

While I find this realisation disquieting I also make it the reason for this afterword, because I dont

want to fool myself into reconstructing my experiences in a self-deluding way. Yet it seems that

telling literal truths would not be as effective in conveying the essence of my experiences as is

treating them slightly allegorically. So while the letter is not an outright lie, it is a fabrication.

I would not write about the same issues todays in exactly the same fashion as I did thirteen years

ago. So what has changed? I think that back then I took myself and my self-image much more

seriously. Presenting myself as a somebody mattered. This letter then bears testimony to this fact

and I am putting it on record. But as a result of this publication process I have also become conscious


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of a secret motto of mine - mystery, humour and good company. I conclude with attaching some

semi-logically and non-linearly relevant images.


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THE END

letter to a friend - sunday monday

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