Salad Lashings, in Europe

It is five months today, since I departed Australia. Within that time, I have shifted my lifestyle drastically. I have seen a huge reduction in my income, my free time, and my solitude. The liberties – or, luxuries – which I relished as normalities, stripped away and replaced with a minimalist approach. No longer do I have a fridge full of food, nor multiple areas of leisure in my living quarters to enjoy time alone. No backyard, and patio to read the Sunday morning news, nor some flat screen tv, with a five-speaker sound system. No endless pile of transgressive novels displayed upon my darkly stained, self-upcycled coffee table. And, no assortment of broken drumsticks, displayed in a jar-style vase, as if a flower bouquet.

Instead, I have a small room in Westferry, East London. Where I can sit upon my bed, next to my open window, and stare-out at Canary Wharf – the heart of the London banking world. My considerable reduction of lifestyle luxury, now being taunted every evening, as the banking world’s lights pollutes the night sky, and creeps through the edges of my closed blinds. I will often stare at the towers, red eyed and tired, wondering how my life would have panned-out, had I of ended up in one of those offices. Slaving away, working night and day, attempting to accrue more wealth for myself.

Perhaps, an alternative stream of my reality. One which was more significantly affected, by a developmental stage tainted with an engulfment in Gold Coast wealth. Centring my interest for many years, as I strived to uncover how to obtain their level of surplus fortune. What kind of man would I be today, had I followed my dean of schoolings advice, and gone to Griffith University with the horde, to study a business degree? Or, am I simply imagining a useless alternative universe, only slightly different from the life I already lead in, Queensland – except, maybe, living closer to the city? Certainly, if I had of taken that route, and still found myself in London Town, I wouldn’t be engaging in my current minimalist approach to material goods:

Two pairs of boots, one coat, one laptop, one phone, five books, one electric guitar, five pedals, and no amplifier. Or, perhaps, in the proposed alternative reality, my inventory would differ only slightly, with the addition of an ever dwindling eight ball of coke, also in my possession.

All in all, this change has been positive. It has brought real experience, real knowledge, and real perceptive. Not forgetting, that at the centre of all this change was a real objective, of: artistic exploration. As arrogant, and self-assured as that statement comes across, that was the sole motive behind my migration across the planet. A test, of my commitment.

Although, the objective was definitive, the plan was not. If only a vague outline, hindered by the complexities of the mysteries surrounding life as an expatriate. It has dawned on me, after experiencing two separate rejections from publications this week: that perhaps, in the mania of change, this narrative has taken a somewhat unguided, and spontaneous approach. And, while that surely gives me the freedom to spew up anything I want, it is terribly inconsiderate to the reader. I suppose, in my own pompous audacity, I expected whomever the reader was, to have read everything that came before each piece. Filling my work with banal meta-humour, for only myself. Albeit, as the numbers creep up on my page each day, and editors accuse me of using too many adjectives, I have decided a self-reflection of my time, and writing since moving to the UK, is in order.

Which is why I have decided to write this. This is now the beginning of the story. This is a narrative, which is based in pure comedy. The writer, is an arguably crazed ex catholic, with severe ideological beliefs. Who enjoys superfluous minor lyricism, for his audience of one. The only real intention, is an enjoyable read, however, this comes with a side dish of trite philosophy. So, may the Salad Lashings, begin.

London. London. Through Here