Published in Overland Issue 206 Autumn 2012 · Uncategorized Mayfield Blues Mark Mordue O man – that concrete powder twilight over Mayfield falls softly down into the mind; we’re skylarking, you see, on Vine Street, atop the hill, near The Gatsby House, before it was fixed, when there was no balcony and it was just a gut-eye of a building that you dreamed of, us visioning out Blacked on three schooners, a deal Gladwrapped in each of our pockets, the three stooges ready for the sun-streaked BHP overspill of the eve the traffic glinting and glowing, orange sparks, first-born halogen, plasma buzz on the wind-wiped scene of our laughter I wish we could see the Hunter River, its thudding treacle to perfect our life, suck it in through our mouths like birds delighting in the taste of a caught worm Uni boys, house mates, chitter chattering on LIFE: which means bush ballads and Public image Limited, August Strindberg and Al Pacino, and those sexy girls at the record store who have addicted me to next week’s sound. Tim’s on Jack Kerouac, Don can do the Hunchback of Notre Dame, we’re supposed to be studying but we might learn the Jew’s Harp this week, and go see The Birthday Party at the RSL where punks slouch with oldies at the pokies John Hughes has a poem as long as your arm to share that dipped into Ancient Greece via amphetamine Newcastle East; Swami Binton have their shirt backs out, and a pisshead singer scowling into his harmonica like he’s ready for a fight - waaaaah – if you wanna laugh Musical Flags are around and Bull Street is always full of spinach pie and tally-hos but we’re Mayfield boys, matchboxes blu-tacked to our walls bongs behind our couches, rice-a-riso twice a week yeah now the street curves down and straight and we can see the highway cross, smell the dog shit stars are out, crackling the sky, night looms like a frost we’re gonna get fucked up and get crazy, play word games try and convince Chris Kelly not to climb on the roof naked it’s a House of Cards we live in, no keys left (our pockets had holes) we enter through my bedroom window if no one is home and the dogs lick our faces, desperate to remind us we’re their friends Lennon and Watson. Famous. We live off legends. Hallucinate, put music in our ears, play act, make wild theatre. Wear masks for real. This street is ours, this town is our race track, bets down, the southerly delivering salt to our skin. Out the back the Vietnam vet will sometimes say hello with his crazy eyes and kind slouch, we’re terrified he knows we’d love to screw his wife. Tim’s taken up painting, Don’s hooked on commedia dell’arte, I got Tactics Buried Country on the stereo. Soon we will be needles in a haystack, part of that sound, free again, Friday night, Vine Streeting, out in the back yard with our rooster and our dogs, our lounge chairs and our wine. Mark Mordue Mark Mordue is a writer, journalist and editor working internationally. He is a co-winner of the 2014 Peter Blazey Fellowship, which recognises an outstanding manuscript in the fields of biography, autobiography or life writing. More by Mark Mordue › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays First published in Overland Issue 228 8 December 2023 · Fiction Fiction | The Victims Emma Jayne Willson Every morning I checked the Director’s calendar to ensure there were no meeting clashes, no opportunity for her polished façade to slip. Once I’d made the mistake of booking two meetings without leaving ten minutes between them, thus forcing her to run across the sprawling campus. She arrived late for her meeting with the Provost, […] First published in Overland Issue 228 7 December 20238 December 2023 · Food Righteous appetites: the dilemmas of the ethical omnivore’s diet Jaimee Edwards The pastoral is our setting for the good life that puts the 'ethical' in 'ethical sausage'. The websites for small-scale farms and ethical meat butchers around the world look like brochures for retirement living. Together, the happy animals, their conscientious handlers, and ceremonial butchers form a picture of aligned values.