Pertinacity, Dogmatism and Palm Fronds.

I step outside, sans sunglasses, into a hot wind. Sunlight pierces my skull like a marlinspike, brain pulsating behind my eyes like the black, rum-soaked heart of Old Salty, marooned on some god-forsaken patch of white sand that stays sickeningly still beneath his feet. I need a drink, something cool and fruity, something that smacks of palm trees and an ocean breeze, of the rhythmic rolling of waves on the shore, and perhaps a scantily clad island girl to fan me with a palm frond.

Instead, I am climbing a fucking concrete hill, surrounded by great fingers of steel and glass pointing at the heavens, a cautionary reminder of the inescapable malice of the sun. Like a panicked rabbit, I zigzag between patches of shade, desperate to escape the descending fiery jaws of death. The wind, a sweltering blast like the flatulence of the almighty, burns in my lungs, parches my throat. I struggle to draw breath, stopping at every shaded opportunity to recover.

There is something deeply inhuman, inhumane about living in this sort of climate. We might have long since evolved away from growing fur coats, but we are not meant to live in this fucking heat. I’m sorry Edinburgh, for all my past indiscretions. I will. Never. Complain. About. The. Cold. Again… ever…

I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time – wasted it really – lamenting, discussing and ranting about the realities of Westralia, the rampant boganism, the dire state of conservatism, the nannying of the populace, not to mention the fucking temperature. I’m not going to take it back, the place is still bloody hot and (largely) colonized by dickheads, but I am prepared to be a little more forgiving, a little less quick to defenestrate the entire population. I have realised something very important:

It is not their fault.

The West Australian brain is like an overcooked roast, a shrivelled little nugget of meat sitting in a scalding pan of its own rapidly thickening juices. There’s no discrimination here, it’s not just Westralians. Their seems to be this critical zone that vaguely straddles the tropic lines, some shifting, indefinable region in which there exists just the right meteorological conditions to fuck white people up. Anywhere you go where the heat rises above 36.5°C on a regular basis, the whiteys in residence will by-and-large be a herd of bigoted fucking morons. Perhaps it is merely that cooking things brings out their natural flavour.

At any rate, I know it’s true, because I myself am drifting in that direction. Not to say that I’m turning into a racist, I’m most certainly not, but as I’ve said afore, and frequently in recent times (i.e. since taking up residence in this fair, red-dusted state), I’m becoming [more of] an intolerant prick – it’s just that my particular brand of intolerance extends only so far as my happily sweating jingoist neighbours. And you can’t blame me. It’s the bloody weather.

By the same token, give these poor little Jim Crows a break. Come on now, I’ve got an air-conditioner, and while I am loathe to use it – being a concerned little tree hugger and all – the odd session, when the outside leaves 40° in its dusty wake, might just be able to stave off a flailing descent into the scowling morass of dogmatism. But the locals? They’re fucked… or perhaps baked is a better term. More accurate at least. They’ve been cooking their pretty little heads (and there’re some pretty ones here abouts I can tell you) their entire lives, for generations even.

So, in the name of charity, of compassion and empathy, I hereby claim to cease my disparagement of, and disdain for all (ok, most) things Westralian. I will not go so far as to say there is a general lack of intelligence around here, far from it, so when it comes down to it, I can really only applaud and respect the fact that so many clever people choose to remain here, knowing full well that for all their intelligence, they’re gonna turn into a fucking idiot in the long run.

That’s some pertinacious shit right there.


Look, in regards to the above, particularly the fourth paragraph, I am well aware of the fact that I tend to sit at home, with two cats, and an occasional wife, and write – and maybe now and then watch a bit of telly, or shoot things on the x-box, or twiddle my mandolin. What I don’t do, is go out of my way to go out and be social, and make friends, and find like-minded people who will no doubt dispel my narrow-minded attitudes toward Westralia.

I also don’t go to the beach enough.

And, in all honesty, until I do, I’m not for a moment going to cease my denigration of the place.

I do also, I’ll admit, have a tendency to frequently and bitterly bemoan wherever my current habitat happens to be, and then leave, and then spend the next several years in a state of desperate nostalgia about the place. So Westralia probably has that to look forward to.

~ by Gethin A. Lynes on February 1st, 2012.

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