I am a Camera.
I started I am a Camera in 1999, naming it after a newspaper headline (although I didn't know it at the time, it is also the name of a Christopher Isherwood play, and many other things, even a single by The Buggles). The sentence inspired me because it seemed a good description of what I have always tried to do in my writing, highlight details, as if they were a photograph being scrutinised.
am a Camera #7 - About familiar places changing, and memories of places. Scratches the surface of the Olympia Milk Bar mystery and eulogises the Camperdown Velodrome, World's Finest Chocolate Factory, and houses from my past. Explains the joy of investigating abandoned buildings, and delves into the sadness of old playground equipment being removed.
The Olympia Milk Bar
The first thing I had noticed was the landslide of empty chocolate boxes in the window display. It was surprisingly shambolic, the boxes were faded, and the cracks in the glass that encased them had been patched up with various scraps of tape and offcuts of timber. Looking through the dirt spotted window I found my face uncomfortably close to that of an ageing man with grey tinged skin and maniacally sprouting black eyebrows. He had a severe, judgmental look, and I moved away, unnerved. He didn't look as if my scrutiny of his chocolate boxes pleased him one bit.
His store is often open until surprisingly late at night, and even after it shuts, a light can be seen in the back room, as the proprietor shuffles with almost imperceptible movements behind the counter. "If I had to nominate a candidate for vampirism, although I think the idea is nonsense, I would nominate this man," was how I introduced my early descriptions of the Olympia milk bar. I would mention the chocolate boxes, then move on to the cavernous interior. The high ceilings are made of rusting pressed metal panels, and weak lights puddle down from it, exposing startling original features. Dealers in retro fixtures must be waiting for this man to cark it, I think sadly when I look at the pale blue laminex tables with matching chairs, the long curved art deco mirror, the faded signs politely suggesting milkshake flavours. Over these signs long shelves have been erected, on which is arranged an extensive array of chocolate bars. This seems to be the only stock, although the now defunct neon sign at the back of the store outlines 'Late Suppers, Steak sandwiches...' I went on a mission to observe this man in action. His store has lodged itself so firmly in my imagination that I felt nervous entering, as if I was about to meet some influential famous person I had dreamed of meeting for years. Not feeling like a chocolate bar, I asked what drinks he sold. The man pointed to five unrefridgerated bottles of water on a grimy shelf behind the counter. "Do you have tea?" I asked, half turning to the charming wooden sign in the doorway that chirpily exhorts passers by to 'Come in Now for Tea'. He nodded, and moved towards the back of the shop, whilst I waited at one of the tables. He lifted a flap of limp, creased plastic, underneath which was a row of aluminium teapots. Another flap uncovered sets of pink and white cups and saucers. After five minutes he shuffled towards me, lifted a hatch in the counter, and arranged the tea things on the table. "If you want it strong, wait a few minutes," he said, in a quiet, accented voice that was almost a whisper.
I am a Camera #6 - A return to the fascinating subject of myself, after some time spent in fiction land. Read about mania, finding people's letters in the trash, children selling lemonade, and the type of people who talk to me on the bus. People who are dead, and being jealous of them. The stories are interspersed with photos of myself dressed up as different characters. The covers are linoprinted, a result of a short lived interest in community college courses.
Roy and Joan
The table was covered by impossible amounts of cake. There were sponges and slices, biscuits and cupcakes and pastries, set out on platters and paper plates. I stared out across this table full of cake, thinking of all the raw ingredients of it, the bags of sugar and slabs of butter and mounds of eggs. Thinking about it that way made it seem most unappetising.
I was sitting next to a woman called Mrs Shirmer. She had stiffly set brown hair and cat eye glasses, and was wearing a decorous woollen suit. She was obviously trying to hide the fact she had no idea who I was, or why I had come to celebrate Roy and Joan's 50th wedding anniversary. I was confused about this too. The table was surrounded by groups of old women, wearing dresses in sensible colours; cream, brown, salmon or green. They all knew one another and had a lot to say about very little.
Joan has some kind of degenerative disease which makes her unable to remain still. She walks as if she is waltzing, she swoops from side to side, and her arms sweep out without warning. Her speech is interrupted by constant twitching. People deftly moved plates of cakes and vases out of the way as she approached, and when she left the room they spoke in low tones about how she had degenerated since they last saw her.
It was painful having to remain still and smile politely, so I stood up to inspect the cakes. I was given a paper plate with a Christmas design crawling around the rim and obediently loaded it with a slice of cake, a marshmallow biscuit and a caramel slice. I ate the white iced cake as I walked outside, then set the plate down on a table, where the slice and marshmallow immediately began to melt in the sun. I could not consume any more sugar.
The garden was set up with lawn chairs and umbrellas, and I walked to the shed at the back, to pat the dog tied up there. It was a dark coloured Pomeranian, with a small, crushable skull and goggle eyes and an unpleasant smelling mouth that housed a lick-eager tongue. It had looped its lead around the wheel of the truck parked nearby. When I sat cross legged the wheel was the same height as me, and I felt wonderfully safe and reprieved hiding behind it. The dog pawed and panted at my side, frustrated by its inability to untangle the rope. When I tired of patting it I stood up and slipped out the back gate.
The street behind had no traffic, I looked both ways, towards the roundabout on one side and treetops did not move, the corrugated iron fence oozed hazy heat into the air. I wanted to sit against the fence until another hour passed and it was time to go. I could picture the scene in the kitchen well, dominated by the old ladies. I tried to remember some of their names: Agnes (don't tell her anything too specific, she's a gossip), Mary (lives next door, likes to bet on the horses, used to work on the telephone exchange in Albury, stays up late), Beryl (one of those small, neat old ladies who wear tailored pantsuits and move swiftly around kitchens). I could have made trading cards out of them, they were such an obvious set . When I had left the room Mrs Shirmer had been discussing the boarders she had taken into her house after her husband died. I could imagine how the conversation would have progressed, rolling along at a sedate pace, requiring nods and clucks of feigned interest.
I am a Camera #5 - The issue in which I explain the behind the scenes working of a crematorium, in a review of the Rookwood Cemetary and Crematorium open day. I also review a spaghetti eating competition. Fiction includes a story about a taxidermy obsessed auntie, a failed bushwalk and a young man having a moment of indecision in a late night car park. I called this issue the 'unpleasant realities' issue because it was all rather ghoulish in nature. (Sample - spaghetti eating competition)
The stage was set up with two tables, on which were plates of sauce-red spaghetti. The contestants were shrouded in white aprons and instructed on the rules of the competition. They were to eat, without the use of their hands, the entire plate of spaghetti. Their were six contestants in all, two large men from local businesses, a young fellow in surf shorts, the two comedians from the previous skit and an old lady who was hoisted up from the crowd amongst great gusts of cheering, and who, upon reaching the stage, grabbed the microphone from Channel Ten newsreader Tim Bailey and delivered an exuberant spiel in Italian which I gathered was something to do with how great people from Sicily are. With them all aproned up and informed of the rules, the competition began. All six had their faces firmly wedged into their plates, and when they came up for air, their noses and mouths were coated in a layer of tomato sauce. The crowd was cheering out encouragement for this display of gluttony, Tim Bailey assisted the Sicilian lady, who was struggling, by lifting up the plate and inclining it into her mouth. I wondered if she wore false teeth, and if they would fall out with all the excitement and quick chewing. I was surprised when she was announced as the winner, however one of the judges (someone like the Mayor of Leichhardt, in one of his more official duties) pointed out she had in fact tipped most of the pasta onto the ground underneath the table. He pointed out a pile of pasta near one of the table legs and the crowd hissed and tut-tutted. The other contestants, when they realised they were still in with a chance, began eating again with great gusto. After a few more minutes of guzzling, one of the comedians was announced as a winner, and received a 20kg sack of pasta as first prize. Wacko!
am a Camera #4 - A long story called 'Why are bugs attracted to light?', one of those annoying titles that seems to bear no relevance to the actual content. The mystery of why bugs are attracted to light is nevertheless explained, as is my period of self imposed captivity. Various stories, including one set at an exhibition of shoebox houses. This issue is quite spare looking, it is decorated with copies of small objects which I have carried around with me for years, the type that fill up a little tin, and give you all sorts of memories when you tip them out.
For two weeks or months, an inconsequential window of time, I spent most of my time in here, pretending to be in captivity.
A number of years ago I read a news story, sensationally presented in the not so intellectual newspaper of the two we have for this city, about a man in Japan who had, nine years before, kidnapped a girl. He kept her in his house, locked up that whole time, until he was discovered. The thing was, she was quite comfortable in there, he didn't try to have his manly way with her or anything like that, which you would expect, he just kept her in there and would give her food and she would watch videos.
I thought it didn't sound too bad. To be quite comfortable and provided for, but just not able to go outside. I have this habit of standing against the balcony door, forehead pressed to the glass in an oily skin smudge, looking out at the men repairing fridges and sawing metal across the alleyway, and further on to the main road, which I can see through a gap between buildings, right into the centre of an intersection, the line of cars waiting, then all moving slowly to the left or right to join the traffic on the bigger road. I stare out at this sight as if I am in captivity, and that is the only view I have of the outside world, the only clue I have to what is happening out there. This doesn't make me frightened, in fact it seems far too appealing. I think of how unpredictable it is even to walk five minutes to the shops, there are children riding metal twigs (scooters) to trip you up, Italian men in cars yelling "guapa!" at you sleazily, dogs hidden behind fences barking savagely at you, people who don't return your smiles. Up here, on the floor above street level, in my domestic palace, the most unpredictable things that could happen are things like my computer exploding, and the oven being left on, the windowsill dropping off, or things I do myself, falling out of bed, stubbing my toes.
With the Japanese girl in mind, and how she must have made the best of her limited world, I very quickly developed a strong aversion to the outside world, and could only go outside if I was escorted by another. The raid. I managed to work myself up into a perfect state of agoraphobia, merely because I wanted to imagine my life if I was held captive here, one that I totally believed in, and reacted to in a physical way. Hooray for the powers of my mind, put to their best use.
Staying in, you have to use the outside world in as far as it provides symbols. As a twee example, I could look outside and spy a rainbow bending right over McDonalds family restaurant, Stanmore, and be inspired. I could, but I preferred, during my time on the inside, to heed other, more unlikely symbols.
I am a Camera #3 - The issue for which I took photographs of letterboxes. For each page number there is a corresponding letterbox. This mission was time consuming - it could not be just any letterbox, it had to have something about it which made it a little different from the others. As well as the letterboxes, there is a story about a girl breaking into the house she used to live in to see what the new people had done to it. There are exerpts from my diaries which cover all sorts of things; going to the opera, abortion protestors, watching people eat, and my tendency to collect omens from the world around me. People stealing balloons - good. Prawn heads in the gutter - bad.
Upon opening the front door the air felt two degrees colder than she had expected and the pale hair on her arms prickled to attention. The street was as quiet as usual, a cul-de-sac road you could lie right in the centre of and not be in danger of getting squished by a car, so occasional was the traffic. Julie closed the door softly and began her journey over the front lawn, stepping over the guttering and onto the sleeping gravel of the road, up over the facing line of paler guttering concrete and into the driveway of her old house. Big nervous wheels turned in her stomach and her hands tingled sweatily as she climbed the three steps to the front door. Although she was tempted she didn't trusting that all the other people in the street were at work, or busy and not outside and watching.
The key still fit the door, and the twist that undid the lock felt smooth and familiar under her hand. The door swung open in response to her push and there she was, standing in her old house, transformed with the furniture of another family, a different coloured light diffusing through the pink curtains, the smell of toast still slightly lingering from breakfast, staling slowly in the air. The front door shut with a click that made her shudder. She suppose she should've pressed the doorbell button first before entering, in case of a houseguest or a secret, hidden child or relative, deformed and concealed in the house all day. But she seemed to be lucky, the air was dead still around her as she looked, staring at a room once so well-known. A half stitched tapestry of birds lay on the couch, a pair of lace up shoes sat felled on their side underneath the big lounge chair. The child had left a Winnie the Pooh mug half full of orange juice next to the television, waiting to be kicked over later. Julie giggled as she paced, imagining herself looking for clues and dusting for fingerprints. The second bedroom was piled up with still unpacked boxes tamped down with thick tape and words such as 'Jerry's book' scrawled on them. Walking the hall Julie could still imagine the house was hers, until it ended in a floral covered dining table, further covered in papers. They weren't very interesting, mostly to do with sports supplies, pamphlets about hockey sticks. Julie ate the half eaten Anzac biscuit that lay on top of an invoice book, crunching down on its slightly soft half moon shape. The sugar sweetness sunk down through her teeth and crawled to her blood as she tiptoed into what had been her parent's bedroom and was now their bedroom, a different set of parents.
I am a Camera #2 - Decorated with photos taken in mirrors. As with the letterboxes, any old mirrors would not do, there are snippets of 70s wallpaper, elaborate floral displays, and my knickers. Stories of frustrated desire, stealing a persimmon, store detectives, and being mistaken for someone else (and wishing you were them, for a moment). Tense moments in the supermarket, a slug in the shape of a question mark.
Everybody Hurts
I had my hands gripped around the handle of the shopping trolley, the plastic tube you hold onto to push it along. And I was pushing slowly up an aisle that started off dark pink potatoes and ended with pears, wrapped up in individual mesh sheaths to prevent bruising. 'Everybody Hurts' was playing over the radio and I realised I was walking at the same tempo as the drums in the song, like a little metronome.
"Don't let yourself go-o-o-o," he sang in that reedy voice, obviously out to solicit tears and procure assurances from friends, of the 'you're not alone' ilk.
"Soppy shit," I thought, so slowly that I almost spelt it out to myself, mentally tasting each syllable. I could feel its sentiments and simple minor key piano lines pushing at the more delicate sections of my psyche but refused to yield to them.
"Meat and potatoes sadness," I thought, "nothing original or beautiful about it whatsoever. Telemovie sadness."
Wherever I go, or you go, or any person in this city goes, there is no way to be totally in charge of the secret chamber of your thoughts. There's always some radio on in the background, or if not that peoples' conversations all stuck together in a huge clattering mess to distract you. Its lying in bed with your eyes closed you can finally, properly, think.
The fruit and vegetables in the store were lined up cheerily, their bright colours slutting for attention. I felt tired looking at them arranged in their various sections. Cluttered and confusing. It seemed to tiresome, just at that point in to select items to consume, especially seeing as sooner or later I would end up in the same place with an empty trolley again. I had to remember what I liked, what I cold cook, what I could afford and what I could carry home. All this, simply to keep my body working.
I am a Camera #1 - Features a story that crawls through a block of apartments, spying on the inhabitants. Diary entries, some of the first stories I ever wrote, using names stolen from gravestones, inspired by letters found in car parks. I have not read over what I wrote in this zine for a long time, I am rarely brave enough to reread old writing. It is not that I'm afraid it will be bad, although I naturally correct them to make them sound like something I would write now. This was the first serious zine I made, at the time I was scared I would not get away with it.
Tuesday 7th March, this year - I walked back to the bus stop along Cleveland and Regent streets, it had just stopped raining, the roads were clogged with groaning traffic, pedestrians walked along, fast, their paths lit by strong streetlights. Just in the last few days I have had clear feelings about Sydney, how the city is being built and polished into a mass of tall clean featureless structures that rise up above the dirt and clutter and rush of the streets. The gutters and sidewalks are always clogged, the dirt pushed to the side, hidden down drains and in corners. It is a city of secrets, unmarked office buildings rising tall with anonymous workings, systems of tunnels worming under the city, the grids of streets between the busy main roads confusing and twisted and dangerous unless familiar. Sydney twists its way over the map. I looked from the broad back window of the bus at the night-lighted silhouette of the city buildings, which rose in a different position to what I had expected, on a different point of the compass. I was seated quietly in the back left corner of the long seat, silently watching with my long coat and pointy umbrella.
It is best to be an observer, a listener, in such a city. The be slowed down to try and find the meaning of all the bother and noise, rather than rushing along in the mass creating it. In the Central station tunnel I shut my eyes to hear the sound of the footsteps echoing. They were built up into a haphazard rhythm that was organically glorious, like a waterfall or a thunderclap.