My New Room

I'm sitting at my computer right now in a black, fold-up chair that I stole from the back yard and wiped clean with the new(ish) towel I bought from the Salvos yesterday for like three dollars or some shit. My computer is sitting on top of one of my two speakers – also purchased from the Salvos, but the Adelaide one this time... the pair cost four bucks (YES!!). I've got my copy of George Orwell's 1984 open to my right and the left set of pages are held open with a peg that is fastened to a hard-cover children's book that I brought to Melbourne for this very purpose. I was typing it out before and have been every now and then since March, I find it really helps me clear my mind to completely fill my brain with someone else's thoughts... granted I got the idea from the Hunter S. Thompson documentary where it says that he typed out The Great Gatsby a bunch of times, but I like to think that I've found merit in the activity other than imitation of my literary idol.

On the floor, further to my right past the already burgeoning mess of cables plugged into a five socket powerboard that I'm sure Dad is pissed about me having (even though I know for a fact that he would have no use for it back home... motherfucker doesn't even own a cellular telephone-machine) is my second monitor. It's a 17inch flatscreen that I bought for three-hundred badboys when I was like fifteen or some shit. In the corner are some sheets that will never be used because really I have never understood the usefulness of sheets. Like yeah sure I get the ones that you cover your mattress with, and we'll get to my bedding situation later, but the other ones... that thin layer of superfluous cotton that is supposed to line the people-sandwich between person and quilt cover... they are bullshit. If someone is using those sheets then they are clearly too afraid of something.

Past that along the wall to my right are a few books including the English-Spanish dictionary given to my upon my departure from Bolivia in February by my formerly estranged, now slightly-less-estranged ex-lady Melanie. She wrote a nice note in it for me when we left and I plan on holding on to that guy because, as it says in 'Everyone Has the Right to Wear Sunscreen': “keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.” There are no bank statements in this room... you can do that shit online now. Then more books and a fat pile of clothes, most of which I don't really like any more but I know will eventually be worn out of sheer laziness and aversion to trips to the laundromat. I only have one laundry bag and while it is a hefty piece of bagery, I really can't see myself making that trip any more than once a fortnight... that's fine, I needed to buy new socks and underpants anyway. (On that note, just quickly, the list of stuff that I lost that I ended up losing to the hostel tax grew by three pairs of socks, two undies, and another tube of toothpaste along with countless food items in the final weeks... I've come to terms with the fact that those losses are largely my own fault)

Behind me, after the door and the appropriate amount of empty floor-space to account for that, are my shoes, and some of Phil's shit that he left here like a the lowly drifter that he is – also mate your jacket is hanging on my door, come get it back or I will spit in the pockets. Then there's my bed; a single mattress with the fitted sheet-cover ON (ladies) and five pillows arranged in the optimum arrangement to avoid floor-touchies and the dreaded midnight head-roll. (trust me, I've done tests) Now we're on the wall to my left, just over my left shoulder and if you have a good ability to spatially visualise what I'm writing about you will have noticed (do the sums guys, it all adds up **gasp**) that my bed is on an angle with the wall and actually forms a nice little right-angled triangle between the short end and the two sides of the corner over my left shoulder for those of you playing at home. There's my big bag – the one with the 'Troop 712' tag still on from my heady junior days at the Australian Jamboree – and a few hoodies and shoes and then directly to my left are the sheets that will, god and Hubbard willing, be going on my queen size bed when it arrives from Adelaide. (it's on the list, you can't rush art, dickhead)

Finally, the most important item in this room, and the one that has allowed me to begin reclaiming my sense of normalcy and begin to make this bare, languid pit my new home: my Dad's old stereo amp. He told me that it didn't work when I brought home the two speakers from the Salvos a few months ago in Adelaide but I took it out of the shed in Naldera Street and plugged it in anyway and, well long story short... it did. It works fine mate, thank you nineteen-eighties. This badboy has already done about ten solid hours of work in the five days that I've been living here... actually make that twenty... and don't you people let anyone say that I let a hard slog go unappreciated. On top of that are my wallet, keys, and oh yeah to my right my phone is on charge. Piece of shit is always on charge. Feels like my life is on charge every time I walk into a room and I see a power point to plug that bastard tool into. Okay... time to stop, I think things are about to get a little too serious.

Peace, Taco.

(29/10/12 EDIT: For the sequel to this post, click here)