The Kwinkan. Mudrooroo
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a force rushing into the future loaded with all things nice for me and you, but especially for me. Well, that was then. The old experience eventually gangs up on you and you get some degree of reality, the reality factor going for you. Well, first of all, if you ask me what is life, I must answer, but from what position do you expect me to answer? As the head of a computer section, a minor bureaucrat to be precise, I might answer that it does not compute; or if you wish I shall refer the matter to my division head. So you see I cannot answer it from my official position; but as a man, a human being talking from experience I may. Oh fuck it, what was the question? What is Life? What is it after all but just bits and pieces of memory caked with some sort of emotional slime? Some are tedious, some exciting, and some, I must admit are even terrifying. Well your friend, Jackamara, played a part in my life and thus created some pieces of my memory. It is these which you expect me to open like a computer file and reveal to you the contents in all their pristine accuracy. Well, mate, it doesn’t work like that. I’m not a computer and I expect some, well, let me call it remunerative cash—no cheques please—for my ability to open these files to you.
‘What, you say that they have an importance only to you? Well, they are mine by the law of privacy. Intellectual property! I own them, mate. Admit that they are important to me through right of ownership ... but what about others? The laws of libel protect them. I am not a monad existing only in and for and by myself. So my memories are important not only to you in your function as an eventual narrator, but to me and others as well. I am the archive of such memories; and because they are an archive they have an importance towards forming the public view of contemporary history. You see, mate, then I was standing for a seat in Parliament and on the verge of becoming a minister and more important than that friend of yours. Yes, more important, and so if you want to learn about him, you’ll have to pay as you go and learn about me as well ... And don’t smirk, don’t even wonder why I am so thin now. So much, so much a Kwinkan, a thin stick of a body attached to a thick, misshapen penis. Well, she did for me, mate. It happens to the best and the worst of us, and so it happened to me and it all started from that story of Jacky’s. I don’t know about you people, you Abos, there’s something not quite right about you mob, something different. Underneath the old suit and tie of assimilation there beats the heart of an Abo, but no offence, mate, no offence. Just one of those things which are part of the reality factor, then I am pissed off about everything. There’s been little contentment in my life over the last years. But, no worries, eh? Or as my esteemed leader used to say, “Don’t you worry about that”; but I do, I do. Might have some kind of health and some kind of job, but everything’s not apples, mate. Still, it wasn’t always like that, like this. No, it wasn’t. No, not at all, and one of these days, when I get myself together, things’ll change, will change, you'll see; you’ll all see. I’ll be on top again!
‘Well, the tape’s running and I have to start somewhere. No, I have started, got to continue. Well, it was over a decade ago, at the end of one of those boom periods for which the economy of Australia is noted, I found myself at the end of my tether, or almost, for the recession had condemned me to seek out some quick, profitable venture to stave off not bankruptcy, this is in the strictest confidence—I really will have to vet this tape—but imprisonment. It was then after a too hasty deliberation that I decided to cash in my last favour with the heir to the then Premier of Queensland, a man, who did not like being reminded of old obligations. He made a quick phone call and shifted me as problem over to the head of his party. He greeted me with a cold smile which in rosier times might have warned me to keep on guard; but times were tough and so I listened to his plan to present me as a candidate in the forthcoming federal elections in an electorate in which I knew no one and no one knew me.
‘He assured me that the seat was as safe as houses and that my election was in the bag. Some of the old guard had been caught with their hands in the till and thus new blood was needed. I was supposed to be a pint of that new blood; but, from the very beginnings, ugly rumours hissed through the corridors of power that I was an upstart who, apart from party donations, had little political clout and no savvy. These rumours came to my ears, but the political bosses laughed them away. It happened to all new chums, they declared, and added it was a way the wheat was sifted from the chaff. I accepted their reassurances, as I was certain that I did know politicians and how they conducted themselves in government and towards industry. In fact, I felt that I was just as good or as bad as the best or worst of them and could further my interests with much more discretion. So much for my naivety.
‘Next came a solemn interview I had with the horrible Prime Minister of our country who had seized power by ruthlessly splitting a coalition of the conservative forces and by establishing an alliance of convenience with a party masquerading as the friends of the poor and the afflicted. There were no problems here for me. The PM was an old school chum who believed that the public school tie knotted around his withered neck gave him the right to plunder at will. I hoped that he did not remember that, well, I was one of an unselect group who had gained entry into the school through scholarship. He didn’t let on. My powerful, rich, old school chum greeted me with an outstretched hand and a warm smile to balance out the ice in his wary eyes. “You see,” he exclaimed, “we never forget our friends.” He let my hand drop. “You shall be an asset to the party, ministerial material. New blood is needed, new blood,” he exclaimed ...
‘ “I still have to get myself elected,” I replied peevishly, thinking that my business mates were paragons of honesty compared to this lot. Still, this old school chum owed me a favour. On many occasions I had helped him with assignments, though I doubted that this was something he might wish to remember.
‘ “Never you mind; never you mind,” he babbled in the nebulous fashion which was the political gift of Queensland to the rest of Australia. “A formality, a formality,” he burbled, flashing me his false teeth and even rubbing his hands together. I stared at him as he chattered on. “No worries, no worries, a safe seat and you’ll have every chance of taking it with an increased majority. You are what we have been looking for. Intelligent, charming and, and pleasant. Why, with your rugged looks, you’ll capture the ladies. You’re lean and hard and these’ll add to your appeal in the bush. You’ll see ... You’re in already ... but you must understand the situation, understand what you may and must not say. Simple, I assure you. First past the post too.”
‘His assurances and the classic buttering-up job failed to ease my doubts. I thought my leanness perhaps bulged with malnutrition. I attempted a warm smile of complicity which fell away as I recalled that a cartoonist on the Courier had already caricatured me as one of the five horsemen of the apocalypse of recession. It did not help matters when I recalled that our beloved Prime Minister had been placed in the lead. Grimly, I listened to his advice ...
‘ “And above all, no politics! No politics! Leave ’em to the Opposition. They always try to drag in politics and come a cropper. And above all don’t get involved; don’t get carried away by the side issues. Remember, it is a rural electorate, and the voters are only interested in one issue, and one only: the farm subsidy! Wool prices, wheat sales, land rights, the kangaroo menace—ignore them. The farm subsidy is not only to be continued, but increased—adjusted against the rate of inflation. That’s all you need to know. Let your opponents wallow in the swamps of generality, stick to the farm subsidy. Do you know anything about the farm subsidy?”
‘ “My God,” I exclaimed, “I’ve always been involved in urban property. Why, I’ve never heard of it before. Should I bone up on it?” I queried.
‘ “No, no,” the PM said hastily. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll get a few set speeches for you and some questions and answers to read through. These’ll be enough. Just stick to ’em and you can’t go wrong. And above all-don’t improvise! Don’t get carried away with personalities or general views. Remember commit yourself to nothing, except of course, the farm subsidy. Commitment is dangerous and a threat to the integrity of the party. You know, between ourselves, don’t take it personally, old chap, I’m not reproaching you, but there have been rumours, but ...” and he smiled knowingly.
‘My face had long gone numb in the mist of his waffling. The PM was renowned for concealing his ineptitude behind a fog of generalities, a trait he had inherited from his predecessor; and