Monthly Archives: August 2014

Harley Loco: A Memoir of Hard Living, Hair and Post-Punk, from the Middle East to the Lower East Side – Rayya Elias

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He was fourteen and I was two, the oldest and the youngest, the two that would always be synonymous as opposites.

My mother, for her part, became a seamstress, mending the rips and tears of other people’s lives as she let mine fall to the wayside.

At home, I got into bed with rock and roll in my heart and Sophia on my lips.

It was intoxicating and sexy, mind-exploding—it took the razor-sharp edge of reality and blurred it, turning the world into a beautiful, loosely rendered watercolor.

I was recording in the studio, and, with Lana’s support, I started connecting to my heritage. By having the woman whom I loved appreciate my culture, I also started to look at how my character had been shaped by my family and my country’s history. How rich and valuable my past was and that in fact it had made me who I was.

The drugs fed my broken heart, and my broken heart fed the need for drugs.

My life was like a garbage disposal unit: Everyone who came in got sucked into the whirlpool that ended in obliteration.

One of the sayings my father always repeated to me was, “know who you are, Binti, because this is where the foundation of your character is.”

Then came the rush, cocaine first, cold and bright and picture perfect with edges so sharp that my vision seemed neon.

One of my favorite sayings has always been “the truth has legs, it always stands.” This is my truth, and it may not be pretty, but I own it.

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Tracks – Robyn Davidson

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There are some moments in life that are like pivots around which your existence turns – small intuitive flashes, when you know you have done something correct for a change , when you think you are on the right track.

One really could act to change and control one’s life; and the procedure, the process, was its own reward.

Before that moment, I had always supposed that loneliness was my enemy. I had seemed not to exist without people around me. But now I understood that I had always been a loner, and that this condition was a gift rather than something to be feared.

I think when you are truly stuck, when you have stood still in the same spot for too long, you throw a grenade in exactly the spot you were standing in, and jump, and pray. It is the momentum of last resort.

The self did not seem to be an entity living somewhere inside the skull, but a reaction between mind and stimulus.

The two important things that I did learn were that you are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be, and that the most difficult part of any endeavour is taking the first step, making the first decision.

The question I’m most commonly asked is ‘Why?’ A more pertinent question might be, why is it that more people don’t attempt to escape the limitations imposed upon them?

Wherever there is pressure to conform (one person’s conformity is often in the interests of another person’s power), there is a requirement to resist.

His grin disappeared like greasy water down a plug-hole.

A compliment bled from the master was worth a million given freely by anyone else.

Though this may sound like a negative quality, it was essential for me to develop beyond the archetypal female creature who from birth had been trained to be sweet, pliable, forgiving, compassionate and door-mattish.

The trip home reinstated a faith in myself and what I was doing. I felt calm and positive and strong, and now, instead of the trip appearing out of character, instead of worrying about whether or not it was a pointless thing to do, I could see more clearly the reasons and the needs behind it.

It lay, crystal clear, beneath the feelings of inadequacy and defeat, the clever, self-directed plan that had been working towards this realization for years. I believe the subconscious always knows what is best. It is our conditioned, vastly overrated rational mind which screws everything up.

Although she could not understand my desire to be alone, her company was never an infringement of my privacy, as it was easy and relaxed and carried with it that ability many Aboriginal people have to touch and be affectionate without stiffness, and to be comfortable with silence.

How animals ever forgive us for what we do to them, I will never understand.

The road leading out of Alice was narrow, twisted and perilous with huge lorries hurtling along it, and if there was one thing that camels hated it was anything bigger than them that moved.

I was on an untouchable high. I had sprouted metaphorical wings.

Their shit had turned to water by the time we got there. So had mine.

I wondered what powerful fate had channelled me into this moment of inspired lunacy. The last burning bridge back to my old self collapsed. I was on my own.

The answer came back, ‘She’ll be right, mate,’ the closest thing to a Zen statement to come out of Australia, and one I used frequently in the months ahead.

… and I grew muscles on my shit.

Without actually saying yes, they didn’t say no either, a common form of politeness amongst Aborigines called courtesy bias.

Some string somewhere inside me was starting to unravel. An important string, the one that held down panic.
It’s amazing how well one can communicate with a fellow being when there are no words to get in the way.

I liked, still like, the person who emerged from that process far better than the one who existed before it – or since it. In my own eyes, I was becoming sane, normal, healthy, yet to anyone else’s I must have appeared if not certifiably mad then at least irretrievably weird, eccentric, sun-struck and bush-happy.

… it seems to me that the good Lord in his infinite wisdom gave us three things to make life bearable – hope, jokes and dogs, but the greatest of these was dogs.

As I have said before, friendship in certain subsections within Australia amounts almost to religion. This closeness and sharing is not describable to any other cultural group to whom friendship means dinner parties where one discusses wittily work and career, or gatherings of ‘interesting’ people who are all suspicious, wary, and terrified of not being interesting after all.