“Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock, Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core; Leave more than the painter’s or poet’s snail-bright trail on a friable leaf; Can build their chrysalis round them; stand in their sculpture’s belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.”
I know that people who come into the shop are a little more concerned than usual, and that if they weren’t before, they will be now. There have been conflicts and difficulties in the past, and I have had to intervene. But things have changed. The biggest change is that it is so easy to get things wrong, especially in a small shop where everyone can hear everyone else.This means I have to intervene more often.
Now I have something that can help a little. When there was angst about the government, I used it. Once, during an argument about Bob Hawke, I used it. Once, after an enraged threat, ‘Well, I’ll fucking tell you something’, I soothed the participant with it. Once some travellers from Victoria in my shop were told sharply that they had no right (to something). I fired the accuser with a new issue, and luckily it worked. A man leaned over me angrily about vaccinations, (‘it’s all about profit’), and I moved him on gently to a greater issue.
This is because there are common issues. We can bend our anger and hatred upon these, and they deserve it.
The greatest of these is phone updates.
I ask, ‘Do you like your phone?’
We mostly don’t. People bend over their phone screens for me, trying to find the words for something that, while vital, provokes endless rage. If necessary, I probe the wound:
‘Do you do the updates?’ No argument can survive this question. Everyone takes out their phone and looks at it, looking for the update still sitting there like an arsehole.
‘God, updates. With this phone, I can’t update anything. Look at this.’ And they show me the source of all evil, previous argument gone.
‘Fucking hate this phone. Don’t get an Android.’
‘Samsung. Useless. Apple is better. But…’
I ask, ‘Should I do this update?’ This provokes intense anxiety (except in young people, who will fearlessly update anything) in case I am mis-advised.
‘Don’t do it mate.”
‘Na, fuck that.’
‘Do all of ‘em. Else you’ll be hacked the shit out of.’
There are other things. Printers. All people hate their printers. This includes me. They always work for the first eighteen pages… ‘
So, what printer do you recommend?’
‘God, I hate Canon. So shit. And Epsom. They’re wankers.’
“God. Don’t ask me. I got this one at home that….’
Australia Post. People look stern and severe.
‘You tell me why it takes ten days for a pack to get from here to Woodside. I mean, what are they doing with the stuff!’
‘You know what they charge? You ever been in there? You have to queue from here to the river. That’s because they’re all dickheads with fancy watches. Actually they’re ok here. But they’re shit in Mt Barker.
‘Well, they lost my stuff. Everyone knows they smash the parcels to bits and reckon they didn’t. No compensation for me.’
I only use this for emergencies. Because after this one, everybody is family, and nobody will go home.
“Because when I read, I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.”
This is an old blog from January 2019 that I’m reposting because it was funny and it reminds me of summer:
I made a window display after Christmas and lined up the books in an amusing way by accident. Many people stopped to comment. Some leaned back and then leaned in and read the titles out loud. Some people took photos. One boy said to his friends: ‘Omg, look at this: British Tits or something. Is that what it says?’ But his friends have walked by.
One lady said: ‘Oh well, that’s a funny old set of books.’
One man stopped and pointed, he tapped the glass over and over with his laugh spilling slowly. But his friends, too had moved on.
One lady rode her bike across the road and stopped at the window to take a photo of the display.
Some teenagers stopped and stared at the books. One boy said that his tits had thrush, and his friends looked at him politely.
One man parked his motorbike and took ages to stow his helmet, fold his jacket, haul out his bag, find his wallet. He stood packing things in and out and regarded the display impassively. Then he went to the bakery.
A child said: ‘Look at the cat.’
On man said: ‘British Tits to his wife, twice, and she looked at him and didn’t smile.’
Two old ladies together read out the titles and looked at each other and laughed like anything. One of them said: ‘What’s wrong with Australian tits.’ Her friend leaned back and laughed about sixty years of life easily up into the sky. They walked away arm in.
Some high school students, two boys and a girl walked past and one boy read out the titles. He read them again, but the other boy didn’t hear and the girl raised her shoulder against his joke.
One man roared out: ‘British Tits’ to nobody and nobody responded, and he continued on to the bakery.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m on a houseboat. And life gently gulps past the window, removing and returning, on and on, and never really stopping, not even for British tits.
Two men came into the shop today together, and I thought they were brothers. This is because they worked shoulder to shoulder. First they had to check in.
‘Did you get it?’
‘No not yet.’
‘Come inside. There’s another one in here. Try it. Might work better.’ They found my app printed and hung up in a different place.
‘That one out there must be on a shadow or something, generally I get it, don’t I.
The other man instructed him.
‘Come back a bit. Come back a bit.’
‘It’s been working beautiful till now.’
‘Yeah, I know mate. Come back a bit, you have to get the whole thing in.’
‘I’ve got it.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘Ok, I’ll have to sign the thingo. Don’t know why that is, it worked beautiful in the bakery, sorry to be a nuisance.’ He looked at me apologetically. I said, ‘Not to worry.’
I rewarded them with Melody Gardot through the speaker. They swayed.
I watched them move. Gentlemen, with hands in pockets. Silence. Leaning over the books with courtesy and interest. One men went into Art. The other man swayed, listening. They passed each other twice in the same narrow space. ‘You right?’
‘I am, mate.’
Hats on, black, coats on, blue, shoes stout helping with winter. Silence and breathing.
Suddenly their wivesentered, signing in efficiently. There are three of them. Who is the third?
‘Come on, girls.’ The see their men.
‘Oh, ello stranger, fancy meeting you here.’
One of the men responds, ‘Do I know you?’
Why are you in the children’s books?’ They don’t answer.
‘Come on Sue, let’s get Nora Roberts.’
Sue, in a beautiful red coat moves gently and slowly. ‘Did you sign the thing?’
‘We did.’ They move off, Sue with a walking stick. They ask each other.
‘How much is this?’
‘Is there a section for crime?’
‘I know what author I’m going for.’
‘Here, watch your step.’
Meanwhile, the husbands are still in art, shoulder to shoulder. They are examining their wallets. I listen to them when they pay for the art book.
‘Hans Heysen, not a bad bloke.’
‘He didn’t do too bad, did he?’
‘Now that I’ve retired I should put my finger back into the apple pie.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what…’
Then they left, alone, and without their ladies. Outside in the cold, I could hear them still talking, still bent over the book he had open and was holding out under the afternoon cold.
‘Have they gone? Where are they?’
‘The men have left us behind, Sue.’
‘They’ve all gone, have they?’
‘They’re probably looking for us.’
‘Well, we can get back to the car. Don’t need them.’
Then they left, but I can still hear them outside the door.
‘I’ll just look round the corner.’
They moved slowly out and on and past the window. I can still here their voices…
‘…well that’s their fault for just sitting at home…’
A big old straggling family come into the shop. Lots of them and stretched across a few generations. It was raining outside, the wind blowing it against the door. All of them had rain on their shoulders. One man was wiping if off his glasses. A girl texted on her phone with the rain misted all over it. They were lively and unorganized, so I gave them Dave Brubeck’s Unsquare Dance (on my Boombox speaker hidden away behind a pile of Dickens).
‘Oh my God, remember this song? Remember this movie?’ A young man elbowed an older man, an uncle maybe, who didn’t respond; he was looking at a biography of Mao.
The young man moved into a small private dance.
The family began to disperse. Some back outside, some into Classics, some into their phones. The dancing man continued on next to me. He used just two soft square feet of carpet, eyes closed, one hand still holding a copy of Treasure Island, the volume he had picked up just as Brubeck began his idea.
The family talked in small groups. Rotated and change their gestures. Head to head; an argument about tall ships, chin and eyes showing authority. There is whispering, hissing, and then pushing. Family member are on phones, on knees. The dancing man still scratching the beat in the air. An old lady, a grandmother maybe, looked at him over the top of her glasses. She has a copy of Wolf Hall. Later she puts it back. The music ends, and the young man straightens up unconcerned and moves into the front room. My playlist moves to Pavlov Stelar’s Hit me Like a Drum. The old lady suddenly becomes mobile and warm and strong. She dances three steps, one after the other. Then she stops and looks at me sternly. She moves into another room.
I play Alexis Ffrench’s At Last, and a lady in Gardening sighs and puts her head on one side. Who is she? Is she with them?
There’s another argument. What’s the capital of Romania? ‘You wouldn’t know, Graham.’
‘Look, mum, it’s a bunch of breeds of cats. You don’t want that, mum. Look at this. Get it. Get it for your shelf.’ Mum shakes her head.
Someone reads out loud three times, ‘The Cats of Dipping Dell’.
‘Found anything of interest, Margaret?’
A boy buys a bookmark for his sister. He says, ‘Quick, before she comes back.’
The all stream out, and on the way Papa purchases a copy of Pinocchio for Lilly, who says, ‘Yes, I’ll read it. Stop asking me that all the time.’
The boy who bought the bookmark is last. He looks back at me. His face is a lit lamp.
“Even as he turned the little handle round and round , the room remained under the tenuous authority of sleep. As yet unchallenged, somnolence continued to cast its shadow over sights and sensations, over forms and formulations, over what has been said and what must be done, lending each the insubstantiality of its domain. But when the Count opened the small wooden drawer of the grinder, the world and all it contained were transformed by that envy of the alchemists – the aroma of freshly ground coffee. In that instant, darkness was separated from light, the waters from woods rustled with the movement of birds and beasts and all manner of creeping things. While closer at hand, a patient pigeon scuffed its feet on the sill.”
A little girl wearing a bike helmet is at the door. She’s still outside looking in; her helmet is knocking against the glass; she can’t get her eyes close enough to actually see anything. She jams the helmet against the glass, and this is when I look up and see here. Her eyes pierce the inside of my shop. Beams streaming in as though from a torch. As though from a lighthouse that won’t compromise. Her eyes rest on me. She makes no compromise; she won’t smile.
In she comes. Wearing pink and grey. The bike helmet still on, the straps swinging softly around her stern chin. She looks at me and does not smile. There are no adults with here. Is it Pippi Longstocking? I sit back and regard her with respect.
She goes in amongst the books. I go back to Amor Towles.
When I look up she is crouched over Horrible Histories. Then she moves to historical. Then she moves to a shelf and looks at a copy of Inkheart. Then she’s out of my sight; must in sci fi.
Suddenly she’s passing me again. Silent and stern and the straps of her helmet swinging softly, respecting her chin.
She took ages closing the door. She stood in the gap, doing up the straps of the pink bike helmet and looking at me. She stood there for ages doing this. Then she was gone.
I’m not even inside the shop yet, and there’s plenty to see. As I walk from the car to the door of my shop, there is:
– a man holding his dog up and moving it’s huge paw up and down to make it wave at someone through the bakery window.
– a collision at the bin between two older couples who say, ‘Oh goodness, sorry, ‘ to each other.
-three young tradesmen running across the road toward a four door ute, and one takes the driver’s seat and flips the bird at the other two. They look at her, and then get into the back seat and look at each other.
-there’s a little black dog in a parked car barking hysterically at the dog who is still waving through the bakery window.
– a lady has put up the flag for the art gallery, and is now standing talking to two other ladies, and they all have their arms folded and are nodding.
– someone keeps calling hoky doky – it goes on and on. I go outside to put up my open signs. I can see the hoky doky person. It’s a man in a cherry coloured jumper and forest green work jeans, now walking toward me pushing a wheelbarrow loaded up with a rake and a three pots. He calls back to a waving lady, ‘Hoky doky, I’ll get it.’
– a lady in black jeans and orange boots walks past fast. She passes the wheelbarrow, walking while looking at her phone. She has another two phones, one in each back pocket.
– two men are now standing at the window deciding. ‘Rudyard Kipling or James Joyce…’ One man says into his phone, ‘He’s still looking.’ The man looking has a black beanie and a spectacular pair of purple glasses.
-two ladies walking side by side pass them, and one says, ‘I’d like to see the sun today.’
Is hanging on the door. There’s five scattered about, so nobody can miss them. I don’t like them.
Everybody uses them. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t. But then I jump up and scan into my own shop. Don’t want anyone Checking the Data to think that nobody came.
Visitors are generous and careful. They stand outside in the rain and the cold, patiently fiddling.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Try again.’ They lean over the phone, glasses on the end of cold noses.
‘It says Bunnings.’
‘That’s we were.’
‘By God. What’s this shop then?’
Young people scan the code carelessly, without looking, still talking. They text a long reply to someone as they walk in. The text takes 1.5 seconds.
Some people sign in with a pen. They fill out every piece of information carefully for me.
Some people forget. Then they come back to the counter and sign in. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
‘Better do this then, hadn’t I!’
‘Better add my name.’
‘What’s the time David?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The time. The clock. Don’t worry about it.’
David turns in a circle, confused, with two Jeffrey Deavers in his hand. His wife signs them both in. He tells me that Jeffrey Deaver has gone down in quality.
Some people show me their scanned in status. I say, ‘Great, thanks.’ And I mean it. Glad they can just do it and not get mad with me. Glad they’ll still come in and keep me going. Glad they still want to talk about To Kill a Mockingbird and Agatha Christie even though the world seems a little weird right now. Glad they still argue that they should have gone to the bakery first.
Image of an actual door at Salah Eidin Citadel, Cairo, Egypt