Author: tq1695

Antarctica in winter –
something like a Jimmy Buffett song
money and booze, the divorced and the displaced
apathy and self-loathing. Indifference and spite.

200 people : two square miles.
Too many rules : too much futility.
Not enough work : not enough purpose.
Time for a drink – always. And another.

Compulsory screening : a kind of psychology SAT test
provides admission to the longest night.

Despite everybody being certifiably sane
strange behaviour is frequent.
Or perhaps not. What seems unnatural elsewhere,
is nature to many here.
Coexistence can be difficult,
confrontation easy. Very easy. Too easy – eyes front,
and away.

The earth turns from the northern sun
light appears, then aircraft.
A ticket home. No charge. One condition –
debrief with a second, different psychologist.

Part way through, a topic thought non – examinable
I’m asked about senior staff –
“ I … I …. I, ah ….”
a bedside voice said
food service workers occupy an observation post
often they were astute,
recording what some might prefer deleted.

The tone is certainty without boldness
a tranquiling blend of flattery and trust.
Intuition assures reluctance –
this profession is used to guarding confidence.

Tittle tattle is passed
of excess drinking, of inappropriate behaviour, of poor example.
A plea made on behalf of the civilian contract manager,
he has done his best,
a good man, who always looks for good in others.
The response is curt : “John has failed for precisely that reason,
he seeks good in everybody, but in many here, there is no good.”

It wasn’t the constant sniffing … coke head, what do you expect?
Or the clothes, ever seen a well-dressed junkie?
Or the furtive look,
man, people like that, they’ve been in the woods so long,
they just are hunted.
Or that he always turned up every second Tuesday –
“welfare day, mate”
handed over the cash
and bought stolen booze
paying with his unemployment cheque undoubtedly.
On seller probably, or on swapper
swapping top shelf Scotch
for bottom grade Thai.

No, she said, it was the car
only one headlight worked
often drove up at dusk
then away – half lit.
She told him it should be fixed
always laughed that addict’s laugh … and said he would
always said next time he’d meant to –
but ….
then laughed that spacey laugh again.
Brilliant she said
made us think he was ditzy druggie, not an undercover cop.

Then, tertiary education was free
the government underwrote fees and paid allowances
the weekly payments not generous, but adequate
a supplement to expected summer savings.

Late 1970’s the economy slowing, but not yet stalled
restructuring and free market economics still to arrive.
Students needed for peak times in now extinct factories
processing the fibres and carcasses of the nation’s farms.

A friend finds me a job in a killing plant
lambs to the slaughter,
for British Christmas tables.
Abundant overtime, good pay,
the work not hard, but dirty – bloody.

Unblocking sludge pumps, crawling beneath machinery
constantly addressed as, “fucking students”
often with humour – sometimes spite
always dribbled, splashed and sprayed with viscera.

I shared transport and fuel costs – cheap,
but not quite door to door
a 10 minute walk through suburban streets
past houses …. with dogs
carnivores homing to my unintended scent
following,
salivating,
hopeful –
up to a dozen at once.

A decade later I work winter in Antarctica
women rare on the frozen continent then,
occasionally I would see a lone female
walking down a corridor
trailed by a line of eager men. I knew how she felt.