Live To Win

About 5 years ago a climbing magazine fell open in front of me. In bold, exciting type the article’s headline read “Deep Water Soloing – Vietnam’s Dangerous New Adventure!” The picture showed a lithe and muscular climber ascending a face of pitted rock overlooking a sparkling and iridescent tropical landscape. Remarkably, the climber was wearing neither harness nor gear – and there was no rope in sight. Being of mild mannered nature and not prone to taking risks I was instantly intrigued. Soloing, I learnt, refers to the practice of climbing rock faces without the aid of ropes or other protection. Deep Water soloing involves doing so on cliffs that sit over large channels of water deep enough to leap into from great heights. Thus the climber can solo a wall until they fall or decide to jump off. This image stayed with me even as other interests and adventures took place – purposely being so exposed and precariously balanced within nature, driven by the need to challenge and exp...

In 2013 I undertook an Honors year in Theatre and Performance at Monash University. I wanted to understand how magic works, and why we can be so easily fooled by the psychological manipulations of a clever performer. My underlying theory is that reality is a fluid, nebulous concept that is shaped and distorted by those with the power to do so, in order to promote their vested interests. In this way the magician seeking to create an experience of true wonder, is like the politicians, media moguls and those who promote the interests of rampant capitalism - creating an unique reality that backs up their actions. 

Next to my friends' house in Kensington was an old abandoned home, faded and cracked weatherboard, with holes in the deck and fallen timbers cluttering the doorway. One night while we were partying, I slipped under the construction fence with some mates and took a look inside. Almost as soon as we'd entered the house, one of my friends wanted to leave - the energy didn't feel good she said. It felt like there was a old, angry force pushing her out. She left, but me and Ben felt good. It felt warm and dusty and cluttered, like there had been someone living here, growing old, collecting their cloak of darkness around them and their belongings; waiting. There was a large workshop attached to the house on one side of the main hallway, full of hand tools and bolts, all stored in that classic shed fashion of carefully marked containers fashioned out of old fruit tins and plastic cartons. Perhaps it had been a man, alone, dieing slowly who lived here. We felt safe, welcomed, resp...

--> A number of conversations and events have influenced me greatly in the last few months. My friend was harassed twice while on her way home - on streets that I walk every day. One man attempted to pull her into a car. Another time two guys followed her on bicycles taunting and provoking her. Talking about this with my girlfriend I must admit that I was stunned when she told me that on a weekly basis she is verbally harassed and whistled at from passing cars while walking home – again along a street that I use every day without problem. (Here by harassment I mean the type of behaviour by men towards women that demeans their person, and reduces them to an object of that man’s desire – be it via a wolf whistle, calling her a slut, or by using physical force i.e. dragging her into a car.) Thinking about the harassment experienced by women on a regular basis in my neighbourhood caused me to reflect on the nature of gendered space in society. Whereas a man like me walks...

The Djemaa el-Fna square bustles and throbs. Its lights glimmer in the smoke of cooking fires that rises and twines its way through the thronging crowds of hustlers, beggars, locals and tourists. But at it’s heart, on the eastern edge and in full view of the stalls and restaurants there is a hole. Bandaged in sagging earthen cloth over a makeshift wooden construction frame, the Argana Cafe is a stark emblem of violence, like a wound on this colourful square. Less than a year ago an explosion ripped through its guts, wounding 20 people, and killing 15. What colour they were, their social standing or occupations was swept aside by a blast that scattered bodies, and drained the square of its touristic life blood for months afterwards. They’ve come back of course; they always will explains my friend Hakim. But it’s a frightening reminder of the darkness here or anywhere that there is a cultural clash between worlds and attitudes. Do locals turn their heads away and tr...

At the front of Ernesto’s tattoo design folio there is a A4 sized graphic of an indigenous elder in ceremonial dress, with added text which reads “Preserve Iban culture – Get Tattooed!” This cheerful and yet devoted attitude typifies Ernesto’s approach to his art form. During our conversation he explains that when he came to tattooing some 15-20 years earlier, the traditional customs and designs of Borneo’s tattooed tribes people were all but gone. Had he been even a few years later in beginning his research, via travelling to longhouses and collecting stories from tattooed elders about the meaning and techniques involved in creating Borneo’s instantly recognisable strong black imagery, it may have been too late.

My city is textured. Every street and corner, every skyline, every space, it seems, brings to me a memory of another event or time that was violent or emotional enough to imprint itself on my consciousness. I walk past a tram stop where I once sat watching for cops as my comrades hung a banner from an empty building. I see from the window a street that I used to skate along on my way to Uni classes. I shiver as I remember punches and arguments thrown in a park. This week I have added a few more memorable moments to my mental map of Melbourne. And after Friday I will never look at the City Square in the same way.