An exchange shop somewhere in the Greek Islands;  rows and rows of used books , hardcovers , paperbacks, in varying stages of cleanliness and decay, the inside covers of the paperbacks seem to be crumbling like an ancient fort. Throw- away books that were never meant to last now becoming ash beneath my fingertips, fainter and fainter with every read, with each transaction. The inside cover of one book bears a large stamp from a library in Rotterdam with a squiggly signature inside.

This place smells of the decaying leaves within the books. With each page opened and examined another molecule or two joins the breath of the shop , giving the unmistakable air of ‘olde bookshop’ , similar to a library when you get to the real ancient book sections, bound in heavy duty cardboard with gilt lettering  sunk into the faux fabric exterior.

I pick up a spy novel , Len Deighton, one of the ‘pre formulaic ‘ ones. My finger running over the ridged heavy imprint of a Luger sitting sitting atop a red soviet hammer and sickle.  Flipping through the pages to make sure they’re not marked is like running my fingers over the edges of a well worn pack of cards or a sheaf of photocopy paper.  At a cafe next door I order a pastry and a strong coffee. As the fishing boats come into the harbour and the ferry swirls around to release another draft of passengers I begin. I could easily finish by the end of the day. The coffee is bitter and thick as treacle, offset by the sweetness of the Baklava. Time seems to be moving at a different pace here on Naxos, Greek Island time I like to think of it as, the words on the page start to swim before me after an hour so I know it’s time for a bit of a siesta, though that’s not what they call it here, thoughts move to lunch, perhaps a lamb gyro……

Start with the borders. the edging, the Berlin wall around the outside, then keep the prisoners in, the pieces are all experiencing freedom on the outside ,  but then they’re plugged into their spot, just like us, locked into  place, locked into a life , a behaviour a course of action, as fixed as the bee to pollen. Stuck in the furrows, puzzling our way through, holding up the pieces of our lives examining them, wondering where they fit, do things fit? Does anything fit anymore?

Trying to force pieces into a place they don’t belong, just like us, just like a pair of shoes that don’t fit, pinching on the toes and the sides of the feet,  each step uncomfortable, why did I buy this pair? Because they were CHEAP, my mother saying ‘cheap and cheerful’ learning later through a series of misplaced puzzle pieces that the reality is that this means ‘cheap and nasty’. Quality costs, costs in time and money and patience.

Nobody’s picture is perfect, looking on I think that someone might have the ideal life, but they have things to deal with, illnesses, losses, triumphs, successes. No-one is immune, it depends on how you think, how you picture the world , how you have constructed your jigsaw puzzle of a life. Some people have gaping holes in the middle of their puzzle, they don’t know why, others have all the pieces locked into place  and the image seems unbreakable. I keep trying to place the cardboard backed bits and pieces of my life into place, but they never fit so I jam them together and it’s all just a mess, though it appears to be a complete picture

Start with the borders. the edging, the Berlin wall around the outside, then keep the prisoners in, the pieces are all experiencing freedom on the outside ,  but then they’re plugged into their spot, just like us, locked into  place, locked into a life , a behaviour a course of action, as fixed as the bee to pollen. Stuck in the furrows, puzzling our way through, holding up the pieces of our lives examining them, wondering where they fit, do things fit? Does anything fit anymore?

Trying to force pieces into a place they don’t belong, just like us, just like a pair of shoes that don’t fit, pinching on the toes and the sides of the feet,  each step uncomfortable, why did I buy this pair? Because they were CHEAP, my mother saying ‘cheap and cheerful’ learning later through a series of misplaced puzzle pieces that the reality is that this means ‘cheap and nasty’. Quality costs, costs in time and money and patience.

Nobody’s picture is perfect, looking on I think that someone might have the ideal life, but they have things to deal with, illnesses, losses, triumphs, successes. No-one is immune, it depends on how you think, how you picture the world , how you have constructed your jigsaw puzzle of a life. Some people have gaping holes in the middle of their puzzle, they don’t know why, others have all the pieces locked into place  and the image seems unbreakable. I keep trying to place the cardboard backed bits and pieces of my life into place, but they never fit so I jam them together and it’s all just a mess, though it appears to be a complete picture

Start with the borders. the edging, the Berlin wall around the outside, then keep the prisoners in, the pieces are all experiencing freedom on the outside ,  but then they’re plugged into their spot, just like us, locked into  place, locked into a life , a behaviour a course of action, as fixed as the bee to pollen. Stuck in the furrows, puzzling our way through, holding up the pieces of our lives examining them, wondering where they fit, do things fit? Does anything fit anymore?

Trying to force pieces into a place they don’t belong, just like us, just like a pair of shoes that don’t fit, pinching on the toes and the sides of the feet,  each step uncomfortable, why did I buy this pair? Because they were CHEAP, my mother saying ‘cheap and cheerful’ learning later through a series of misplaced puzzle pieces that the reality is that this means ‘cheap and nasty’. Quality costs, costs in time and money and patience.

Nobody’s picture is perfect, looking on I think that someone might have the ideal life, but they have things to deal with, illnesses, losses, triumphs, successes. No-one is immune, it depends on how you think, how you picture the world , how you have constructed your jigsaw puzzle of a life. Some people have gaping holes in the middle of their puzzle, they don’t know why, others have all the pieces locked into place  and the image seems unbreakable. I keep trying to place the cardboard backed bits and pieces of my life into place, but they never fit so I jam them together and it’s all just a mess, though it appears to be a complete picture

I’m a machine racing through the crisp edges of Faulkner Park this morning. Edging along a narrow ribbon of tar that undulates with the creeping tree roots. Sucking in the crisp air, it’s like biting into an icy pole, but dry , biting away at my mouth, negotiating my way around dogs off the leash and people on foot walking in the same direction as me. Approaching from behind and making a noise to let them know I’m there. The gears set just high enough for me to make an extra effort, other wise there’s no point.

At Toorak road it’s the daredevil cross. Looking both ways assessing the oncoming traffic. A fleet goes past, rubber streaming on the ashphalt, some with radios blaring … doof doof doof. Pogo stick legs plant on pedals and I spring across , cutting back along the college and onto the strip of pavement. At the shrine corner , the man turns green and the bike catapults over pavement edgings for the home stretch. The whole body is warm now, in the zone , flowing along like rain in a gutter, swirling and bobbing along the footpath, round more pedestrians until the St.Kilda Road cross. A swig from the water bottle; the flat taste of water quieting the pounding veins and heart and rasping breath, adjust the helmet and power across to John Mellencamp’s Jack and Dianne…….

Humming fluro lights in cancerous concrete underground bunker. Footsteps smash off walls in infinite loops like the particles that are traveling around and around on this infinite loop before they are released to smash into some piece of  antiquarian looking measurement device akin to a wind up clock in a glass case.  The air is filled with the dusty odour of dry concrete and mouldy patches where water has seeped in from the outside. A patch of concrete is stained darkly from a lack of concern.

The walkway is meshed steel, it rings out with our footfalls as we traverse our way alongside the man sized tube which is the particle accelerator. It has a hum  of its own when the circuits are in operation and hair stands on end in freakish static spikes if you’re too near.  Back in the clinical cleanliness of the labs machines  plot and capture data, white coated  assistants and professors hover  over LCD screens and computer models in a disinfected air of automation. Data , data, data, 1’s and zeros all making sense. Discoveries being baked up in the oven of imagination, theorems proven or disproven , the football match of the science world, competing yet sharing. Competing for a space in the coveted ‘Science’ magazine. Observing all this with fingers wrapped around the handle of  of a China cup , feeling fragile and vulnerable with a steaming soup of black tea waiting for me to ingest.

Within the store  there’s a sense of quiet as eyes meander over fonts and type of various sizes while further down the open plan walkways a coffee machine is spitting out another cappucino double decafe soy-latte enema for someone to ingest.  Before getting to the magazine racks you have to run the channel of specials, heavily discounted ‘loss-leading’ books that get your foot in the door wetting your apetite for consumption, the taste of a fresh purchase leaves the need for a desert of some sort and a wander though the glossy section or further along the towering corridors will surely reveal another ‘must have’ purchcase.  The thrill as the ridged plastic card is taken and the cash register strikes up a series of numbers, the sense of expectancy that starts to build on the walk home. The pavement seems springy and light, the passers by friendlier than usual.  That great sense of well being after making a well chosen buy. At home, plastic bags wrinkle onto the kitchen table and feet echo across the medtirannean tiles as the kettle begins a slow grind to boiling point…..

Fingers grip the muted metal of the pump handle, still cold from the morning chill, the numbers begin to tickle the LCD screen and I watch in shock as my pay packet is gobbled by the adversary- maybe he is going to win this fight, 10, 20, 30 dollars is consumed in a minute! The bowser now looking like a fat penguin having consumed my hard earned. As the transfer is occurring I watch the rest of the world through a streaky haze as the vapours from the tank leak out, the world appears as a mirage until I reach my target number of dollars. I relinquish the pump……

I now have a system within the wardrobe instead of random clumpings of shorts and jeans and dress pants I go by colour.  The left hand side starts with shades of yellow that morph into orange and then red and dark brown to black and grey. Sheets and pillow slips still sulk in  a pile at the bottom of the cupboard. 

Fingers run along the various weaves in a rough and smooth pattern when It’s time to select the clothes for the day. When ever I’m searching, the hangars slide along a chrome rail making a metallic swishing sound. They all collide together  and click away like frenzied knitting needles at play. I’m not at the stage of needing mothballs yet, but it does seem to be rather stagnant when I open the doors. Maybe that’s a function of the light that occasionally illumines this secret place. Atop the wardrobe are a stack of boxes and collected memories hanging like an executioners guillotine.

 Studio lights are small suns burning overhead. The illusion is broken by the failure of a buzzer. The floor manager sweeps into view and a couple of technicians rush to the set, make up attendants douse the guests with a cloud of  make up , they were getting to the point of sweating. A few small adjustments to hair, buzzers working again. 

I’m sitting on a plastic seat and it’s the second show, after two and a half hours my bum is numb and I’ve had nothing to eat. My stomach is becoming a grand canyon within, a wide chasm, a body builders stretching machine. At least half an hour yet until the show is done. We have sworn secrecy , can reveal nothing until the show has gone to air - supposedly, but morsels will no doubt drop from the table of my mouth over the next week or so, at least there will be food in it!

My interest drives more toward the mechanics of making he program than the actual content now. I see production staff hanging about like muggers in an alley in the darkened wings, but straight ahead it’s all glitz and colour and personality, shining personalities competing with each other for attention, and don’t the crowd love it. There’s some bloke called Hamish - think he does a radio show, and there’s Myf of course, who’s now defected to MMM. Spicks and Specks.