Gilgamesh - Old Stories

Old Stories

. Eternity. Just a word I saw scrawled in chalk, a stylised script on the sidewalk, just the one word Eternity. A unique story behind it though. Sydney old timers will tell you about Mr Eternity. The man has long past, but the mystique behind him remains, apparently he begun his one word crusade after a sermon in 1930.
Between 1930 and his death in 1967, he wrote Eternity on the streets of Sydney. A lone figure at 2am would scribble the word Eternity in flawless copperplate font using yellow chalk. The streets would be washed at 6am and his work would be undone, yet the story grew and to this day he is known. Arthur Stace was his name, and there are some today that emulate his work, with chalk in hand the word Eternity is placed on cement footpaths in the west of Sydney.
There are many such stories, in every city there is a character a person that stands out from the rest of the crowd, it is their eccentricities that make them apart from the rest and places them on a different level to everyone else. I feel at home in the city of Sydney, a place of steel and concrete of cars and pollution yet with a beauty of its very own. In my travels I have seen many people, their faces just melding into the crowd until none is discernible from another, an endless sea of faces creating a mosaic that is blurred by time. There are however some faces that stand out, by their sheer individuality.
There is a man, he has no job, nor do I know his name, yet I have seen him regularly for 16 years, he sits in front of the cinema complex in the city. He bangs a tin can, or a plastic bucket, depending on his current state, he plays a senseless rhythm on it as if it were music. People will pass by and drop coins on a small towel he places in front of him. Curly black hair and a beard, his clothes unkempt and more than often dirty. He earns his place in society by playing his own brand of senseless music. One day he will disappear, and no one will know where he came from or why he sat there and played.
I remember another face in the crowd, back when I was young and full of thunder. I was out on some kind of excursion with some college class. We happened to be at Martin Place, which is the heart of Sydney proper, there was a band playing during lunchtime one of those nice touches provided for the office workers. Most people ate their lunch or walked in great hurry to take care of business during their allotted break, a dishevelled figure in many layers of clothes was the centre of attention close to the band. It was an old lady, one of many that frequent cities, forgotten by society living from a shopping cart.
People looked at her with mirth in their faces, she was dancing you see, there was a waltz playing and she was dancing to the tune, uncaring of those around her. I was younger then, still eager for attention and braver than I had a right to be, I could not let her dance alone. I stood in front of her and bowed as she faced me, I took her in my arms, and went a waltzing as a couple. She smiled with her wrinkled face and closed her eyes as we followed the music, as I led her through the steps of this simple yet beautiful dance.
The music stopped once the waltz was done, and I bowed to my lady who allowed me this one dance. She kissed me softly on the cheek and with her breath still laboured after the exertion of the dance walked away to push her cart back into the streets of Sydney, never looking back at me as I stood watching her. The people with me thought I was a loony, yet never did I care much for their opinion, I had my dance and shared something with a lady I have never seen again.
I remember one fine day in Sydney many years ago, it was the 26th of December. The city streets I walked with a friend, they were deserted even though it was past 9 am, a public holiday you see, everyone was resting from Christmas day. We walked together in this barren city, then we saw in the distance an old man. He was striking in his purposeful walk, as if his age mattered not, in a blue suit and long white flowing hair that shone in the sun, we noticed as with speed he disappeared into an alleyway. He looked cool, young and stupid we both were, it was the only description we could give him.
I met the same old man, years later, I recognised him right away. The long white flowing hair and the blue suit. He sat at a table next to mine in a McDonalds restaurant. He was wearing a blue pinstripe suit, an old fashioned cut that had been made to fit, it was still in good condition and only slightly frayed along the cuffs. His beard though long and white was neat and clean, and his long white hair framed a face from ages browned. He must have noticed my attention and looked at me and spoke.
The government makes sure that people can't better themselves. The old man said to me after swallowing a mouthful of Big Mac. I was surprised by his words, but answered anyway. Yes, you are right. Was the only thing I said. I invested money in the Sydney Tram system, back in the fifties. The government closed it down, sent it broke, replaced it with the railways. They didn't take care of anyone that had put money into them. He said, with that I grabbed my tray with its food contents and moved tables, sat on the chair opposite him so I could hear him better. He spent an hour talking to me, told me of his youth and things that were happening to him. The Social Security lady is going to come over tomorrow. I told the landlord to move some stacks of newspaper he keeps close to the entrance away. If she sees that mess she'll think they're mine and put a black mark on my file. They'll do that you know, people don't think it will happen, but it does. He said in three separate parts of the conversation.
He told me of his years as a roving reporter for the Age, an Australian newspaper, he took from his bag a photocopy of an old news clipping. He had been sent to Papua New Guinea to search for news and other things. The article, written by him, was old and described the plane trip in a DC 3 from Rockhampton to Port Moresby in great detail. I read it twice and handed it back to him, thanking him for the chance to see his work, for a good writer he had been. I can't get rid of the crease lines when I photocopy the original. There is this nice young lady at the Sydney Library and has tried a few times to get a good copy of the page, but the creases come up as black lines. He said to me, I told him that he'd have to put the copier to a lighter setting so it only copies the black type and nothing else, he would try it next time he visited the library he told me.
It was time for him to go, an appointment of sorts with an old friend. He gave me his name and address, I wrote it on a piece of paper and put it in my wallet. Through one thing or another I never saw him again. Still his name sits on a piece of paper, in a box of things somewhere in my study.
There are many stories written and told by many authors. There are stories of battles, kings and knights and warriors of bravery full. Yet there are so many stories told by no one. Lives lost in the traffic of progress and times ticking. An old writer told me his story so I'd remember it, he didn't write Eternity nor will he become a figure of myth and legend, yet I will remember him for someone needs to.
Maybe years from now, I'll be sitting in a fast food store, telling my story to a younger man, and then maybe he'll remember me.

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