She just turned ninety, her body withering along with her mind. She dithers and smiles, walks slowly among the isles, she is never alone when outside, she remains lonely. She has always been a pensioner, never worked. Her husband died thirty years ago, now with three adult kids. She is without want, despite wishing she had her youth back.

Her middle son, in his fifties, has never worked. Now, full time carer, paid to look after his own mother. He has no kids, never married. He boasts about his pokie wins, and treats himself to a massage twice a month, each ending happy. He takes pride in his car, a V8, regularly upgraded and tweaked. He is without want, except maybe he lays alone at night burdened by his mother in the other room.

His older brother, also no kids. Worked until his twenties, now is on benefits, he collects comics and pigeons for races. His shed recently modified to accommodate the birds, with a garage full of collectables. He didn’t have to pay for either upgrade. He coughs and sputters as he goes through his list, in search of low number Phantom comics, “it gives me something to do,” he says. He is without want, except maybe he could get on better with his family.

The younger sister, in another era would have been called, ‘a little slow’. She is sweet, overweight with a deep voice. A Star Trek fan, she loves Klingons. A mum, one boy now in his late teens. Like his mother, he has been diagnosed with conditions, the handles of which change names over time. Her husband no longer works, once a painter, on a pension like her. Both now forty. She is without want, except maybe her husband takes her for granted.

Her husband hobbles with discomfort in his foot, he throws cash about with ease as he buys as much Lego as possible. A large shed, and fixtures were made to their Housing Trust home, accommodating their hobbies. Displays of model trains, expensive and elaborate Lego stands in monument to their passion. He is without want, but for the pain in his legs. The drugs he is given, ‘makes me sleep like a baby.’

Their son has a support worker and like his parents has his hobbies. Trains are his. He smiles with excitement while he talks about them, like his parents he is lovely. Sharing in the ticks and quirks of each as he absentmindedly drones on about early 20^th century steam locomotives to the point of fascinating clarity. He has no want other than he can never go back to see those engines run in their prime.

His support worker also loves toys. He often walks with bags full to the brim of those he has just purchased. He pays cash for the toys. He has an expansive repertoire of knowledge and eager desire to increase his collection. Nay, his museum. Indeed, it is such a thing, two blocks and shipping containers dedicated to his toys. A nostalgic dream for children and those who wish to relive childhood. He is without want, other than he will never have enough toys, or room.

He has a friend who runs a “business”, it doesn’t have customers and is tax payer funded but he calls it, “his business”. It raises awareness, organising walks and the selling of merchandise, public cost, private profits. Most are already aware, but in raising awareness there is money to be had. Business is good, for him. He is without want, when he gazes into the mirror, he sees empty eyes.

He has a divorced sister, a full time mum. Her child has a learning disability, she mentions it every social gathering. The other parents understand, they do the same. She frequents community work shops, where they performed a welcome to the country ceremony, no first nation people are in attendance, so they find it appropriate to do it on their behalf. Nodding her head, six white suburban mothers raise awareness about domestic abuse and men, systemic racism and the likes. The solutions, more awareness and inevitably more money. She talks about, ‘self love, self care,’ often, all she does is for herself. That is said to be brave. She is without want, except for the one true love, she yearns for like in the movies.

She knows a man, he is large. A family friend. He plays video games, and each night downs two litres of cola, full strength. His body swells, barley into his thirties and he is a regular cast member in the local medical waiting room. His fingers shovel his ailments into his mouth, one bite and swallow at a time. He has every streaming platform and opinions on each film, show and game. He smiles many smiles of happiness. One of his support workers once tried to get him to eat better. A new house was recently built for him, with more room down the halls, and frames to assist with toilet and showers. He is without want, except he can never fit enough into his mouth at a time. Many have seen him try.

That man has a niece, she is in her teens. She went from shy and awkward to a bustling conversationalist. She has quirky fashion sense and passionate hobbies, obscure dark music and care bears. She recently discovered horror films but still loves Strawberry Short Cake. Her mother hobbles to keep up, single, the father is not in the picture. Dear mother is often sick, and worries often but loves her little girl. That little woman is ‘different’, teachers and support workers clamour about her with funding in their eyes, while hers innocently search for that next album on CD or Care bear toy. She has become the income stream for mother and others. She is without want, except she yearns to be free, the lyrics she hears whisper to her one note at a time.

She knows a They, at school. Once a He. Years have past and They and them, that being the family and professionals, helped to steer the teen into a decision. So now, They dress as they please at school. Boys in the same school are banned from mullet hair cuts, facial hair and shaved heads or any piercings. The girls are not allowed piercings other than the designated regions of the ears. However, the transitioned boys and girls are allowed these things, as are the non-binary. They has a nose stud. They, not the above mentioned They, rather them who are the adult professionals with vested interests and careers that govern and dictate childhood to adulthood, for them it’s income and funding and ideological, for Them it’s their life. So, they make the rules and the kids have to try and navigate them, without clarity and ever transitioning distinctions and definitions. They, is without want some days they (here either applies) come to school barking in furry attire and other times, dressed as a non-binary Sailor Moon. They, have been raised to know their want is inclusion.

He is fourteen, full of energy and confused. He wants to run outside, work with his hands. His mind craves inputs and stimulation, instead he is pushed down into a seat, like dough for the cookie cutter to shape, he is told that he must learn. Learn what is unclear, what is mandated, what the professionals of childhood require. Student support officers do his homework when he struggles or refuses, He is told repeatedly he is the problem, an alien to be exercised, re-programmed. He seeks digital avatars that tell him otherwise, they seduce. He is both problematic and diagnosed, depending on the professionals, medication he is fed. School is good, summer days now grey, the grass less vibrant. He is without want, except occasionally through the haze of pills, he yearns to run and climb.

His older brother was the same, now nineteen his hands are dirty with brick dust. He helps to build homes, addicted to energy drinks. He learns a trade alongside men who were also like him. One brick at a time, they turn builds into houses, to become homes. All his life he was told he was stupid. ‘You can always be a dumb tradie,” teased one girl. She now sits at university, a government job awaits her, maybe she will raise awareness too. A new home built by dumb men like him, await those like her, the important. The men around him are not unhappy, just stressed, depressed, some of them are the worse kind of criminals, they avoid income tax ‘obligations’. Unable to live and work if they paid it. He listens to them complain, an impending realisations they will be punished for working. Once fit and healthy men, battered by years of labouring, “what you get for not getting an education,” they are reminded by those who look down on any who build, repair and creates. For him, that’s the future. Now, he is young. He has want, to one day own a home, like one he helps build. He can’t afford that, not for a long time, if ever. He still lives at home, where his parents work and struggle as well.

On their street is a man, just turned forty. He has a wife and two kids, he works six to seven days. He is a carpenter, his body hurts but he works hard. He takes his kids to sport, and makes sure they have what he never had. His wife works as well. She aches from a work place injury. They do it together, despite him spending hours some days on the phone with the tax office. We all know fellow trades who took their lives, death by taxes. But who cares? He works too hard you see, he ‘owes’ them money. He struggles, the more he works, the less his family is allowed to have. His want is for his family and kids to be happy, free.

A lady who also has two kids, her body wracked in injuries from a car crash. A driver slammed into her from behind while she was parked. She works long and hard taking care of elderly patients. A growing population, many abandoned by their ‘kids’. Her husband works also, they coordinate their shifts and parent, each week a battle to save a little and make ends meet. With every hour worked, another bill, fee and tax burdens them. Her want is for her family to be happy, to be free.

She has a brother, he is Fly in Fly Out. Weeks away, and a week back. It gets lonely working in the mines. He services the big trucks. The pay can vary, though “the tax is murderous”. “The mines are always chasing,” he tries to entice his sister. “Everywhere is chasing workers,” she replies. He will do it long enough to buy a house, even then it’s too expensive. He saves, still living with his parents. Hard for a single man to get a rental, even with his pay. His contracts are not full time, “liability,” the real estate agent said. He spends his days swiping on Tinder, he will never get a date. He keeps to himself, his best mate was recently arrested for posting a meme online.

A family friend of theirs remains isolated, she prefers it that way. Bashed and raped, left for dead. The wounds had mostly healed, scars remain. Her memory stained, that pain shall always remain. She closed her business, overheads and costs too high. Stress. Now she works as a barista, “government workers and those on benefits will always buy coffee,” she bitterly notes. The man who did it, he is protected, on a scheme. ‘Mental health’, not his fault, awareness was raised, money made. Her want to be left alone, never allowed, she pays so men like him may live safe, comfortable. Revenge, justice, that’s forbidden.

She knows an old man, he walks by and smiles most days. Rod thin, always in blue. His hat covers his eyes. He worked all his life. Since he was a boy. He makes do with his pension. He was forced to pay super, “they will come for that,” he remarks. He was promised if he saved, he would be able to live into retirement, especially since he worked near all his life in the railways, keeping their infrastructure running. He complains to any who will hear. He is proud of his daily drive, a 1969 Chrysler, “no bullshit software.”. He takes care of himself, no vices, only lingering pain is from the hours at work. He collects nostalgia, remnants from back when. He misses the past, now is not what was promised to him, what he worked hard to help build.

He was born overseas, studied one career but when he arrived had to work a different job. Skin too dark, from birth, not the sun. He knows that he is not liked, he is blamed for all the problems. Crime, traffic, no rentals, housing cost. The blame is for his kind. A courier driver, twelve hour days. He struggles with his bills, the tax burden is worse than he was told it would be. He loves the beaches, some of the people are kind and nice. Behind his back the slurs bounce, “why don’t you go back home,” he hears while driving to his home. His wife is a nurse, her hours can be as long as his. They want to have kids. To be free.

They are not born, yet. Parents still uncertain if they can afford them. The future brings debt. They have not even lived, yet they will be burdened with it. Obligated. Should they choose to work, especially in a dying private sector, they will suffer for that choice. Maybe, the professionals will decide that they won’t have to, then they will be without want too.

Utopia and Dystopia in one suburb.

This is an older allegory thing that I wrote back in early 2022

The Mountain of Ambition

Imagine if you will that upon the horizon sits an impressive mountain. It is the distant fixture that confronts you every day. So far away and yet, it stands as it has since before history. A thought popped into your mind, ‘I would love to climb to the top of that mountain some day’. It is at first a seed of an idea, until you declare it to others. The declaration becomes a mandate, one that mutates into an obsession. You do not need a reason why that you want to accomplish this feat, only that the mountain is there and perhaps there is a purpose in climbing it.

What you do leading up to that moment seems to be more important than the idea of the goal. The ambition is empty, everyone has dream like ideas. They are as tangible as clouds at first, but you can still see a cloud. Promises that we make to ourselves and others that can often go unfulfilled. But in having the ambition, one can derive a satisfaction. A currency for themselves and even from others, that some day this trundle up an impressive mountain will be accomplished.

One may go shopping and wander through the rows of hiking clothes, buying sturdy boots and pants. Watching documentaries and movies about those who have achieved what is your declared obsession. Mingle with those others who are excited and eager to learn and pretend to do, consuming from the few who have. It is easy to be stuck inside the pool of procrastination. You may even go on walks, climb gentle hills and join groups that participate in outdoor exercise. All the while as you do or set out to do these little things, that great objective remains inside your mind. In the distance, still a cloud.

Should you finally tie up your brand new boots and set foot outside, the comfort of your home, walking into great unknown of your ambition. Gazing beyond into the distance where the foot of that mountain rests. You walk to it, from your home, to the feral majestic base of natures great heights, here you would have done more than most. To simply do, to act and to take on that task is beyond what many will ever do. A declaration, a fantasy is often enough. To watch, to judge, to indulge through a screen while others risk, attempt, that is the common way.

As you make those steps and walk past the suburbs and the structured normality of the familiar, you may face detractors. Those who cower inside the comfortable will tell you what you are doing is wrong or that you are a failure for setting out to achieve your goal. You may encounter those who approach with advice, none of them have dared to climb the mountain and yet they will scream their second expertise with the confidence of a virgin. Not because it may help, but they profit from your deed. You will have distant admirers and those who will cheer for you, and invariably those who are concerned that harm may befall you or even that your motivation may lead to others hurting themselves attempting similar goals. You may be called a fool because you risk so much without making any money from it.

The frontiers of wild land, broken and uncultivated greet you. Your legs are already tired, the pavement is no longer under your boots. You have no idea what lays ahead, great rivers could ring the mountain, shards of obsidian or broken rock could point outwards at every ledge, great winds may take you, rain and snow could drown you. There is no path but you. Many unknowns. But on this journey, it is step by step. Those micro goals and the attention to detail is how you will achieve that great ambition, to reach the peak.

You are now alone, the virginal experts, well wishers, naysayers and those frightened of all things are far from you. Even the voyeurs drones have run out of breathe, returning home. Nothing to record you, just your own memory. It is the purity of adventure that accompanies you. You navigate obstacles and indirect paths, it is not easy. You have an ambition, no matter how many times you may need to back track or find another way you remember what it is that you want. You are doing, you are no longer planning and dreaming. In this moment your mind and body are ascending the great unfamiliar unknown. You are learning, you and nature. You will fall and stumble, you may injure yourself and on such an expedition, you could even die. But this is your destiny.

No great rivers, but gushing streams, slippery rocks, strange wildlife and bushes that stab with barbs. You are slowly climbing, winding around the waist of the mountain, it is far larger than you could have ever imagined, fingers hurt from reaching for dirty ledges, legs swell from pushing you up steep edges and your heart pounds. Your mind is fixated on what is ahead, where to place a finger or foot, how much weight to apply, each action is calculated, small and brief but part of a greater totality. As you do all of these things, you question, do you have enough food, enough water, will you survive the night? How many days? How many nights? The doubt lingering, the risk constant but you persevere.

Tempting thoughts tease your mind, the warmth of your bed, the sweetness of treats all of which you left home. You could descend, return to the seductive life and no one would question you. You think about it, there is comfort in the option of quitting. You do not have to endure the pain, you could be like everyone else. You have already done more than others. You remind yourself, you remember the intention you have always had. You are not like everyone else. This is your moment, for you alone. The distinction of self, to assert yourself despite others, discomfort and regardless of the ease in which you could quit. You climb on.

It is hard to know how long it has been, you have not aged but you have matured, wiser from the experience. Though you are stressed, you are stronger. No longer naive looking at the distant mountain, you are now wrapped upon it, climbing it on your own terms at your own pace. You stop for a moment, you look back and see how far you have come. Your home, the comfort of the familiar are distant dots, the clouds are nearer, those streams and rocks that had obstructed you, now insignificant in their scale. You can be proud, but you are not done.

Even though you have come far, the challenges are now complicated. This far up, only a few shall ever know the dangers and perils. You need to innovate, adapt and invent as you steadily climb a deadly frontier. It is colder, harder and the pain is intense. You can no longer relate to most others because they will never dare to know what you needed to discover. You had to over come. Those who do will always be admired by you. You have greater respect for them because as you near that peak, you appreciate what it is that they had to endure.

Time passes in motion, sidesteps, backtracking great distances because you went the wrong way. You failed but you learned. Then forward, the momentum is upwards and you near that top. You reach new obstacles, ice and thin air, cold and ever so lonely. You talk to yourself and remind your being what it is that you have set out to do. The pain never passes but you are driven, you stumble in a delirium. Then. You are at the top. You sit, tired and weary of your surroundings. You feel deflated. You accomplished what had always been a dream, but it is nothing like you imagined. Hard work, lonely and now you smile proudly. You did it.

You can not own the location, you can only appreciate the moments where you were at the top of the world. You look at the graffiti and notes of those who went before you, welcoming letters to each adventurer like yourself, respectful words for those who failed on their way up and romantic gestures to loved ones who did not join in the expedition. You will not spend nearly as long witnessing your accomplishment as you did trying to achieve it. But for those moments you are the king of your own ambition. You fantasise about other goals and accomplishments, you feel motivated. You are educated from your endeavour. You are excited to challenge yourself in other ways.

You descend, knowing where to step. You still need to be wise and wary as the dangers remain. You think about what you have done, you did it. In the distance you see another tired, exhausted traveller. They are younger, as ambitious as you were. You had your time, you were once climbing like that as well. You and the new comer stop, a nod, respect, gloved handshake. You offer supporting words, learned advice. They thank you, Now, it’s for them to continue on. You know they can, you did. As did others. Yet, each ascent is intimate. Just as the decline is an internal realisation, ‘I had my time.’

You reach the bottom and walk back to the comfortable. You walk among the familiar, despite the great risk and effort you will meet those who claim you never reached the top or that you cheated. You will find those who will boast that they too shall do what you just did, unaware of what lies ahead. Those who are proud and supportive And many more who are indifferent, it was after all your ambition. Nothing in the world changed, only you.

Feb 2022