More blatant lies.

Isn't it crazy, how many lives we can live, inside a life?

I was marinating on Ms Cynic's recent post, where she spoke of her days messing with the Yakuza in Japan, and, well, it reminded me of MY days messing with the Yakuza in Japan.

And of buying a camel at the Cairo camel markets and heading off into The Sahara, because the nightlife in Egypt "left a lot to be desired..."

I ran into my old hairdresser from New Zealand, 3 camel trains, and no-one else, until I accidentally rediscovered Jordan, and turned back.

I was thirsty, and wanted sex.

I've been so many places and done so many things, that I often forget, sometimes for years, some of the things I have seen.

Sometimes I have to take out my diary (all 6 boxes of it) to prove that I was actually there, and didn't just see it in a movie.

My wingman Greg is under strict instructions to burn the diary in its entirety should I die (I'm sure it will happen sometime).

Some secrets should stay secret...like the years 1989 through to 2003.

And so, while remembering past travels, I remembered someone I haven't thought of since 1998...his name was "Hedge", and he was a taxi driver.

He was one of the two only taxi drivers I have ever loved, the other being Raymond Yee, and like Raymond Yee, he was a formidable martial artist, even though Hedge walked with a permanent limp in both legs.

But WuShu was not the only feather in his cap.

He belonged to an art movement, a collective, who would spontaneously unleash art in public spaces, much to the excitement and bewilderment of those who had been enjoying a naughty lunch with their secretary only 5 minutes before.

He lived next door to me in a place far, far away, in a house that he had shared with other anarchists since the 60's. It was full of art of course, and instruments, and odd items like mutated animals in jars, collected from the University his housemate was the Professor of Biology at.

Formaldehyde zoo of grotesquery.

They had knocked out the back fence between our two houses sometime in the 80's, thus making us all housemates in the greater sense.

It wouldn't be unusual to come home to my house, and to be offered a cup of tea from one of them, in my kitchen, with their tea.

Very social.

Hedge didn't actually say anything other than "bonjour" to me in the first 6 weeks, he was very quiet.

But his quiet demeanour was gently massaged by the fact he always had the most peaceful of smiles on his very handsome and old face.

One night, after I had discovered my body's allergy to benzodiazapenes, I was recovering in the back yard, in a hammock under a massive pine tree, in the middle of the night.

Our goat was chewing one of my sneakers, and I had 3 chickens in the hammock with me, as they were bantams, and very affectionate and loving birds.

Like dogs with wings, and crazy rubbery headflaps.

I sensed a shadow next to me, and it was Hedge.

"Bonjour", he said.

I had never been alone with hedge before, and I was interested to see what would become of it...was he going to stand there and say something?

For sure he was.

"Come wiz me knifeee, I have somezing I would lurve to share wiz yooo".

Well, that's just awesome.

I followed him through the demolished fence, and into his house.

Through the kitchen.

Into the lounge.

Down the hall.

And down to the basement.

There were far too many odd items to ever list down there, but the thing that excited me the most was the very thing he reached for.

It was an antique tape machine, with little quarter inch reels stacked neatly beside it, in their boxes.

It ran on a battery, which Hedge connected, then loaded up a tape.

"Sometimes..." said Hedge, "I like to visit my Fathers farm in the South".

His face lit up as he said this, I sensed exceedingly good memories.

"And, I like to record the sounds there".

I have been to farms before, enough to know French chickens and Australian chickens speak exactly the same language.

Le cluck.

But that's not what he meant.

I heard a noise, so faint, so faint...like a woman singing in the distance, so far away, and so very sad, that she was only allowed to sing one note.

Enter harmonics.

I heard a perfect seventh of her note, creep in and appear suddenly, then a ninth, all three together, as if she suddenly had three voices.

There was no vibrato, the note was pure.

There was no other sound.

The only thing that changed, was the intensity of the note, the strength, the volume.

I was transfixed by this most mysterious and other-worldly sound.

Hedge's face was held in such a way as to suggest his enjoyment of it all rivalled mine, even though he had heard it before, that he was there.

If you asked me what it was, I would say it was a Siren, luring sailors to the bloody rocks, waiting to consume their hearts with serpent teeth, with tongues like mercury.

"It is the front gate..." said Hedge "...vibrating on its mounting."

Say what?

And it was true.

I could hear it now.

It was just a gate, singing as it swung, needing a touch of oil, the steel producing harmonic overtones, that just happened to be perfect in every way.

I felt cheated!

I felt like a fool!

But that sound...was so beautiful, it rose above its ordinaryness, cast off the everyday, and decided for itself just what voice it would give to the world.

Hedge took the tape recorder off the deep freeze it was sitting on, and the tapes too, and put them on a shelf.

i realised he had set it all up, just for me, and I felt so priveledged.

He reached into the freezer and pulled out a big container, big enough for a large fish, or maybe for corn.

It was about 4 feet long, and covered in frosty ice.

"What's this?" I asked.

"These..." Hedge corrected me, pulling out the long, white, heavy contents, "...are my legs".

He handed them to me, and I realised why he limped, and why I had never seen him in shorts, even on the hottest days.

He looked proud, as he looked at them, and he brushed off some of the ice with his hand.

I, of course, was speechless.

What? Should I say "Hey Hedge, nice legs man!"

I honestly thought we were going to eat them or something.

Until Hedge took them back, and said cheerily "Time for wine!" (as if he wasn't legless already.)

He slapped me on the back good-naturedly, like I was part of the club now.

The 'I have held a mans severed legs while he looked on like a proud parent' club.

I retired to my hammock, and thought about the whole thing, and came to the conclusion that Hedge had decided he liked me, and wanted me to know him more than merely in passing.

He wanted me to know him.

All of him.

Even his frozen legs, down there in the basement, all alone in the freezer.

And I think that is probably the sweetest gesture I have ever known.

That, and the three chickens gently clucking and nuzzling me for cuddles and my warm ribs.

Bonne nuit, mes petit enfants...


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.