20 | Snippets

I was sitting at my desk, writing, when through my window I saw movement in my neighbours tree, the one just on the other side of our driveway fence. The branches jostled slightly, once, then twice, with a light weight, enough to get my attention. A small figure, not dissimilar in size and shading to a leaf, scurried quickly from one branch to the next until it made it to my neighbours tiled roof. It disappeared into the gutter, then reappeared a moment later, head up, ears back, whiskers twitching. The rat stayed that way on the edge of the guttering for a minute or so, thinking his little rat thoughts. And then it was off, quick as a fish through water, moving sleekly across the tree top before disappearing into the foliage.

I waited for him to return, eyes searching for the telltale movement, writing forgotten.

There he was! Bounding through branches, a small something in his mouth. He leapt back up to the rooftop and deposited the new find with his previous one and once more turned to stand on the edge of the guttering, looking like a tiny furred Batman brooding over Gotham's rooftops. I loved him.

I pulled out my phone and through the distance and my window, wondering how long it had been since I last cleaned them, took a photo. It was blurry and overexposed; the rat in shadow, the bright afternoon light behind him. I stood and hurried to another room but that photo was even worse than the first one. The only way to get closer would be to creep out my front door, take a few sneaky steps down my driveway, and hope that he wouldn’t be skittish enough to run off before I could snap a pic.

As soon as I opened the door, he was off.

Rats, in my opinion, get a bad rap. It’s not entirely undeserved given the whole plague thing, but they are not the hideous slavering beasts with evil red eyes and snarling fangs I once thought them to be.

For an increasingly brief moment in my twenties, I worked in medical research. This was my first up close and personal meeting with a rat. These were your standard lab rats. Sleek white fur, bodies about the length of your palm, and, admittedly, red eyes due to being albino. There was a good reason for that. Sprague-Dawley rats, which these were, are commonly used in biomedical research due to their calm nature and “genetic reliability”, meaning they’re a kind of purebred. The genome of any offspring is all but guaranteed to be the exact same as its predecessors, excepting any change bred for by the researchers. Standard procedure to ensure as much control over all the variables.

The variable for these rats was that they were diabetic, which didn’t differentiate them too greatly from the control rats except for their need for insulin and the fact that they pissed a lot. They were very sweet. Curious and docile, happy to be handled, noses constantly up and sniffing.

The first time I held one, I was terrified.

There’s a comic strip called Footrot Flats, which also had an animated movie, about a New Zealand farmer and his dog, called dog, by Murray Ball. Despite not being a New Zealand farmer, or even a grown man, I loved these comic strips as a kid. The artwork was rich and detailed, creating the lush and often muddy landscape of the farm so wonderfully. The country caricatures were so full of life and personality that I have no doubt most were modelled off real people. Then, there were the rats.

The rats Murray Ball likely came across on his farm were almost certainly more vicious than the humble little sweeties I met in the labs that day, but even still, rats are in reality small compared to our size, and foragers more than hunters. Not so in the world of Footrot Flats. It was the movie that really villanised them for me. They were almost equal in size to Dog who was supposed to be a border collie, with angry squinting eyes, fangs like long pointed knives that dripped with a sickly green saliva, and a tail like a thick fleshy rope. They were played as horrid and insane dog-hungry monsters likely rife with infection and absolutely succeeded on this front. It was them I was thinking of when I first met a rat.

Of course, my lab rat was nothing like this. Neither was the one foraging for fruit that I was trying and failing to photograph.

After he had run as soon as I stepped foot outside my front door, I realised I needed to up my game. I retrieved a clamp tripod from my drawer, went back outside, and affixed it to my fence. I put my phone in the cradle, the camera pointed toward the edge of the gutter where my rat liked to look out and contemplate. I went back inside and waited.

Earlier this year, I purchased a pixel watch. I have mixed feelings about it. I mostly like that it works as a kind of dumb phone, notifying me of any messages or calls without me needing to actually look at my phone and fall into the well of distraction it offers. Outside of that, it needs to be charged daily, which is a pain, but can be used for touch-and-go payments and as a remote for my phone’s camera.

Because of this, I sat at my desk, laptop now literally pushed away as I stared at my little watch screen. On it was a patch of blue sky ringed by branches, a slice of gutter protruding out at the bottom, awaiting a rat. I waited, finger poised, ready to click the small shutter button as soon as that furry four footed friend appeared on my screen. I waited. And waited. And…

Look, I’ll cut to the chase. He never came. I’m not sure if I had scared him off by clamping my phone to the fence or if my smell still lingered, warning him off. Either way, I waited for around forty five minutes before finally admitting defeat. At that point, I went back outside, retrieved my phone, and went back to work.

“Cool” can be a hard commodity to define. Part of the reason for this is that it’s constantly in flux and dependent on more variables than the genome of an albino rat. Add to this that it also has an inbuilt irony that in trying to define, contain, or portray “cool”, you immediately became “uncool”. There’s no way around it. True cool is always rooted in not trying to be cool.

The cafe/bar was cool.

Firstly, it was underground. I don’t just mean secret and out of the mainstream, but literally underground. Holly and I entered by walking down a descending alleyway between tall buildings, disappearing into the dark open mouth of a cornered passageway feeling like we were infiltrating the very bowels of the city itself.

‘Hello!’ The friendly chef called out. We turned, surprised to see on our right a slit in the wall through which we could see a working kitchen. ‘Hello,’ we returned, timid in our shock. We continued forward and down, past pipes and doorways onto a short ramp that led into the cafe/bar proper. It was long and dimly lit. The word “grunge” comes to mind at the memory of it. Just the right amount, of course. Yet another variable for the impossible to define “cool”. Posters and graffiti lined the brick painted walls. The concrete ceiling was low, heavy pipes running the length of it, a reminder of the underground nature. Picture the staff of a quote unquote “cool underground bar” and what you’re imagining is likely correct. Twenties, laidback, tattooed, with just the right amount of dishevelment to the appearance, one equal to the levels of grunge. We took a seat and looked at the menu.

Standard breakfast fare, but not cheap. It turned out if you wanted to be cool by proxy, you had to pay for it. We did. The opening hours suggested this place was rarely closed. Open at six in the morning for its cafe patrons, changing to a bar in the after hours, and open to the ambiguous and, of course, cool, demarcation of “late”.

I approached the counter to place our order. Taps of craft beer, all unknown to me, all the more desirable because of that, lined one end of the bar. At the other was the register. Behind the counter, a couple of the staff, two girls and a guy, chatted easily, somehow looking like they were lounging even while standing. The guy saw me, nodded, and approached to take my order.

The food was good and the atmosphere was a chill one, almost enough to make us want to return at the end of the day to sample some of the beers even despite the hefty prices. We chatted about the location, hypothesising on the clientele and its place in the local scene, people watching the customers as we did so, all of whom seemed to be trying hard to match the cool of the bar.

Then we saw Joan. The baddest bitch in there.

Joan was dressed in a long tan raincoat, approximately seventy years old, short and stooped over the shopping trolley she was wheeling in front of her. I know she was called Joan because I heard each of the staff use her name in the space of a minute or so. This was due to Joan slowly making her way down the counter as she gave a sunny farewell by name to each of the employees, all of whom returned the wave and goodbye, each using her name as they did so.

Here was someone who was cool. Clearly beloved by the workers, clearly unintimidated by the space, being unapologetically herself and with a positive attitude to match. If being cool is rooted in not trying to be cool, Joan had it. It was the perfect reminder that for all the grunge, and tattoos, and laid back attitudes, there’s little as admirable as someone who knows and loves themselves and expects the same from others around them, no matter who they might be.

Cool is a hard commodity to define. Joan defied definition.

We were in Brisbane. We were in an apartment building in Brisbane. We were on the roof of an apartment building in Brisbane. We were in a pool on the roof of an apartment building in Brisbane and the water was cold.

It’s winter, so it wasn’t the water's fault for being cold. We were also sixteen floors up, which no doubt added something to the temperature. And besides, we were the ones who had decided to go for a swim. The reason we had done so was two fold. 1) Winter in Brisbane, I had learned, was still somewhat balmy. Most days I was dressed in a tee, at most having to put a jumper over the top toward the end of the day, but never a jacket. And 2) It was a fairly luxurious rooftop pool and one we were unlikely to have the opportunity to visit again.

I was in Brisbane for a bit of a working holiday. I had managed to secure a house sit, not the rooftop apartment, rather a much more sedate but comfortable place fifteen minutes by bus from the city where I also enjoyed the company of two cats, one brassy and bold and a little queen, the other timid and shy but an absolute sweetheart, and I was there for just over two weeks. I loved it. The city itself was warm (literally and metaphorically) and welcoming, helped by having two friends and their two boys to visit just about daily who were in reality doing the bulk of the welcoming. They were the ones staying in the apartment building with a pool on its roof. Holly came up for part of the time and it is her I’m referring to when I say “we” were in a pool.

It was just the two of us and technically it was just me in the water. Holly was on the edge, feet in, trying to psych herself up to adding the rest of her body. We weren’t alone for long. A man, jolly and dark skinned with a lovely accent and trying just that little bit too hard to be cool which of course dulled the effect (he was no Joan) accompanied by another guy, clearly a friend, who seemed happy but tired, his physic a dictionary definition of dad bod, and his two kids, likely the cause of his tiredness. The four of them circled the pool, as the jolly man showed off all the amenities of the rooftop, which were impressive and with a view of the city to match. The tired man was taking it all in with wonder. The two kids, a boy and a girl, were bouncing around with eyes only for the pool. Holly still had yet to get in.

I am a lifelong pool incher. Of course, it doesn’t have to be a pool. It can be a lake, a river, the ocean, give me any body of water and I will slowly and painfully inch my way in one millimeter at a time. It comes from being a coward. For anyone who knows me, I wear that moniker somewhat with pride, co-hosting a podcast about cowards watching horror movies. And while having a healthy level of fear to things that are designed to incite fear is nothing to be ashamed of, I do have less pride when it comes to a simple fear of discomfort.

Discomfort is a part of life. In truth, it should be almost a daily thing that we experience but in our lush and decadent modern era it’s so much easier to avoid. Except, I can’t help but think that we shouldn’t. Growth exists in discomfort. Literally. Do a google of those two words and you’ll see a list of psychology essays and corporate articles all preaching the same thing. But even on a smaller scale it’s all but provable.

I hate the discomfort of having to go for a run. Of putting on my cold polyester clothes, stretching a previously comfortable and now grumbling body, and, especially at this time of the year, heading out into weather I am pointedly underdressed for; and then, of all things, running. But I love having gone for a run. I love the feel of warmth and tiredness and growth afterwards. I love the way, if I stay consistent and persistent, I can measure that growth by further or faster runs over time. I even have a mantra now that helps me push aside my body’s reflexive protests and pleas that spring up whenever I check the clock and see it’s time to get my body moving, which is; You never regret a run. And, so far, it’s true. I don’t. On my short walk back home afterwards I am always pleased, both physically and mentally, that I overcame my fear of discomfort and went for a run.

And yet, I’m a lifelong pool incher. Or at least I have been, I’m trying to take the same philosophy to running and discomfort and apply it to the pool, and there is no greater test of overcoming our fear of discomfort than having to psych yourself up to physically leap into a cool and wet pool of discomfort. But in reality, the inching is worse. It takes that initial shock of cold and stretches it out over minutes to hours depending on just how dedicated of an incher you are. Whereas if you took the leap and started moving, you’d acclimatise in minutes, discomfort faced, growth gained.

Easier said than done, I know.

Holly also has a mantra, hers for this exact situation. It has seen her swim in glacial lakes in Germany, and freezing pools in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and yet was failing her on this tepid rooftop in Brisbane. Hers goes like this: Don’t be a wuss. It’s surprisingly effective, especially when she yells it out right before jumping.

The two kids had finally been led to the entrance of the pool, and had overheard our conversation about the water's temperature and witnessed Holly’s reluctance to enter. The jolly man who clearly lived in the building was surprised by this revelation, stating that it should be solar heated.

The kids, not afraid of discomfort or just immune to it in the face of swimming in a pool, didn’t hesitate, they jumped in. We, the adults, continued chatting about the water and its temperature, as the two kids got out ready to jump in again.

‘I don’t think it’s cold,’ the girl declared from the edge of the pool, her teeth chattering.

‘Yeah!’ her little brother added, skin freckled with goosebumps. ‘I think it’s hot!’

Grandiose statements delivered they threw themselves into the water again.

Holly soon followed.

I had my laptop in hand as I entered the church. It was located in the middle of the city, protruding out from the pavement between the skyscrapers, its pointed pitched roofs, a counter to the tall rectangular buildings around it.

I entered via a small door, moved through into the dark cavernous space, and was suffused by the smell of pancakes. Vaulted ceilings rose above me, timbre beams, timbre tables, timber chairs, and timbre chandeliers all worked to offset the red brick walls. All around me was a dim warm light and people eating.

I surveyed the space, sized up the seating options, and hoped to get one of the booths that ran along the far wall. The hostess approached me and asked, ‘table for one?’ I confirmed and she led me not to a booth, but to a small table near the middle of the single massive room. She too must have gone through the same considerations I had taken just a moment before, as she hesitated as she looked at the table, paused, mumbled something to herself, and changed direction, heading now for a booth. The lord works in mysterious ways.

Let’s quickly clarify something I’m guessing you’ve already put together. This church was no longer a place of worship, and instead had been converted into a restaurant, one called The Pancake Manor. Praise be.

During my childhood, up until I was about fourteen or fifteen, visiting church was a weekly occurrence. I can’t say I ever enjoyed it. I doubt any kid does. Mostly it was a boring and uncomfortable hour, broken up by standing, kneeling, sitting, taking communion, and breaking into stifled giggles simply from looking at my twin brother, before being scolded and separated. As an adult, I can appreciate the feel of a church, the intrinsic calm these buildings can contain, and how they are some of the few structures we have built purely for introspection and thought. But that’s me being generous because I can admit to some rather negative opinions when it comes to organised religion. I won’t go into detail lest I begin to rant but suffice to say I much prefer a pancake manor to an actual church.

I took my seat in the booth and happily surveyed the space once more. I will admit to finding churches beautiful, even more so when they have been refurbished for an alternative purpose. It was a Tuesday morning, coming on to midday, and the place was maybe only about half full. From my vantage, I could see a long table full of what I’m guessing were Japanese tourists. A mix of young and old, all seeming to enjoy their food and each other's company; the younger in the group huddled around one of the teenagers phones, the elders talking loudly across the table.

I ordered some food and coffee, opened up my laptop and began to work.

By the time my plate was empty – pancakes, bacon, and hashbrowns, in case you were wondering – and my coffee cup mostly so, a new group were being seated at the table closest to me, instantly recognisable as a work outing.

It’s hard to put a finger on what it was exactly about the group that announced this. Maybe it was the slight awkwardness between the parties signifying they were familiar with each other's company but not in this setting? Or perhaps it was the mix of ages, genders, and nationalities, suggesting that the unifying reason for their gathering had to be something inclusive and broad and everyday. Or maybe it was the matching lanyards. Either way, there was one in the group that immediately caught my eye, mostly because he was doing everything he could to catch everyone’s eyes. We had found the office jokester.

He was a large guy, tall and round, with a mop of curly hair, a white striped shirt, sleeves rolled up, and basic slacks. His mouth never stopped moving. I was just far enough away not to be able to hear his commentary but from the animated expression on his face it was clear he was delivering punchline after punchline. They were landing with mostly middling effect as they all took their seats. Some began quiet conversations with the people seated next to them, others picked up the overly large menus and began to peruse the options. The jokester attempted to keep talking. Then, finally, without much of an audience, he stopped.

It was easy at that moment to picture this guy as a kid. Chubby and clownish, buying his social coin through entertainment. I saw him as a favourite in the classroom, a counter to the seriousness of learning. A performer who had found his stage and loved it. Then time did what it does. It passed. The kids around him grew up, becoming adults, learning to match the seriousness of learning with that of the workplace, and slowly over time his antics and jokes became less appreciated, less valued. But, they were also all he knew.

I watched as he studied the menu, made his order along with everyone else, and for a moment, sat quietly as those around him talked. The conversations at the table slowly merged, becoming one. Still, he mostly listened. Then someone delivered some information, or evoked a thought, or gave an opinion, or recounted a detail. What it was, I don’t know, I’ll never know, but it triggered in our jokester that old reflex. He said something, a line of some kind, his face now more hopeful than performative. A pause, and then a wave of laughter rolled around the group. He lit up.

This, more than whatever he actually did at his computer all day, more than the incomprehensible job title his old friends could never remember or understand, more than the hours his payslip claimed to pay him for, was his life’s true purpose. In another life he was on a stage performing his solid five, with an audience that was there to laugh. But he was in this life, and this was the best stage he had, and he had just crushed it. I had a suspicion he’d keep chasing this feeling long after the laughter had stopped.

Writing these snippets, I realised something, they were all about someone else. Of course, I snuck in there with my thoughts and opinions and memories, unavoidable, really, given that everything here is filtered through the lens of Damian. My whole perception, my entire existence, runs through that same lens, just as yours does through yours. But still, it was a welcome reminder: I am not the main character.

Because of that lens, it can often feel like I am. That my experience of the world is the world. That every interaction I have, any occurrence I observe, is there purely for me. All delivered up to provide some kind of lesson or meaning to my day. And while that in itself is no bad thing, these Stray Thoughts are basically that idea distilled, it’s also nice to take a step back and be a witness to someone else’s world. To play not even a side character, but a background character. A blurry, out-of-focus shape the audience won’t even notice.

Because the idea that I am the main character is only true to exactly one person, and recognising that can be liberating. It’s a weight off. It can help me to stop thinking and planning and learning and trying for a moment and just watch the many worlds and all their main characters passing me by.

I think, occasionally, I like that better.

Because, I am not the main character. They are a middle aged man desperate to make a joke at an office lunch, or some kids blatantly lying about the temperature of a swimming pool, or an old woman at a trendy cafe, or even a rat trying to get some lunch. It is every person, and every experience, all at once, to the point that we become not even background characters but simply pixels on a screen.

All that said, I do have one quick last snippet that is all about me.

I had been wandering. I fricken love a wander. To clip clop around on my not so little feet, heading here and there, wherever my heart and google maps directs me. This day of wandering was around Brisbane. I was a man alone, wandering solo. On this day, I had headed into the city and southbank only to wander my way back out again. I had wandered across cliff tops and down bike paths. Beside the river and over it. I had been on a bus and a boat. Found myself first at a cafe, then a Vietnamese restaurant, then a brewery under a bridge. The brewery was sprawling, stretching out like a cat in the sun beside the river. The bridge in question was aptly named Story Bridge; apt, because stories were how I was spending my day (in addition to all the wandering).

It had been a solidly good day. One of the ones where you know it’s good, can feel the goodness of it all, while you’re living it. I was in a city that was new to me, exploring, writing, drinking, following my whims. A day that was as close to true freedom as the human experience will allow. The day was also coming to an end.

As the afternoon crept on, the sun decided it was packing it in for the day and so I chose to do the same. I placed my laptop in my backpack, downed the last of my drink, and headed for the river. I made my way to the boat stop, and waited for one of the many sleek city cats that spend their days going up and down the river. This was not the quickest route back to my apartment, far from, but in the spirit of wandering, of seeing out the day slowly, prioritising experience over speed, it was the one I chose.

It was a good choice.

The boat pulled up, the gangplank was lowered, and I made my way onboard with a few others. The others all headed inside the main body of the boat, where most of the seating was located, and where they’d be protected from the encroaching cold. I stayed out the front, still enamoured by the prospect of being at the bow of a boat as it raced through the water.

The sky overhead went orange then red. The temperature continued to drop. The few who, like me, had chosen the front of the boat either disembarked or headed inside. I was alone at the bow. I leaned on the railing, a smile on my face, as the bridges and buildings passed me by.

I was drunk. On the city, on rivers, on writing and wandering, on beer and the icy wind whipping against my face, on looking up and around and seeing and feeling it all.

I, in this moment, was the main character, and I was heading home on a boat, cold and alone and alive.

Thank you so much for reading these Stray Thoughts and until next time enjoy being a background character and why not take in a snippet or two.