There’s me and there’s Kite, and then there’s all the others. That’s not in order of importance because the others are just as important as Kite and almost as important as me, though not quite, because I’m me after all, and to myself I’m extremely important; not because I’m in love with myself or anything, just because I made a plan to live an unusual life, and in order to live an unusual life you need to do a lot of discovering and uncovering and maybe recovering too. Who knows? So, I’m always asking myself: just what kind of shape is my life in? Is it getting flabby? Or is it getting close to the particular shape that I plan it to take?
See, I have always favoured the shape of a tree, but not a pine tree; a pine-tree-shaped life is not for me. I am Cedar B. Hartley and let it be known that I would prefer to live my life in the shape of a golden elm tree, more specifically the one on Punt Road that spreads out so much you can’t even see the trunk. There are certain people who might have a pine-tree-shaped life, but I don’t like to name names (like Marnie and Harold Barton) because a pine-tree-shaped life doesn’t spread out but just goes up in a narrow point. If you thought about my best friend, Caramella, you might see her life in the shape of a fruit tree; not big, but full of beautiful, quiet fruits. And Oscar is a willow tree because he stands out in a particular way, and you can’t help loving the particular way he stands out, even if it doesn’t always make sense, even if it leans over a little too much.
As for Kite, I’d say he’s in the shape of a river red gum, tall and towering and true. And if that leads you to suppose that I might have a small crush on Kite, you’re absolutely wrong. I haven’t got a small crush on Kite, I’ve got quite a big one; a crush the size of a huge wave that only Layne Beachley could surf. Have you heard of Layne Beachley? She’s a famous lady surfer. We girls have to stick together and celebrate heroes like Layne Beachley and Mother Teresa, who also did great things like helping the needy. Also, don’t forget Marge Manoli, the Op Shop Lady in Smith Street who from here on in shall represent the countless thousands of kindhearted ladies who won’t ever be famous, since kindness isn’t as exciting as surfing or winning the one-day match with a hat trick, and what’s more you can’t really watch it on telly.
But I’m sorry, God, it’s not kindness that I’m going to be famous for. What I plan to become is infamous. An infamous acrobat. Like Kite.
Infamous is more famous than famous, don’t forget that. You may want to use it one day yourself. Though don’t say it in front of your big brother or he may laugh in a slightly scoffing way, like my brother Barnaby does. Barnaby is mostly just jealous because he’s really crappy at cartwheels and has to count on being a famous rock star instead of an acrobat. He’s always in his bedroom writing love songs on his guitar because he’s either in love again or he’s out of love again, and both states of being seem to require him to sing about it. Maybe all songs are about love, and even if they’re called dust-bowl ballads and they seem to be about people without land they’re still really about love. Anyway, Barnaby is pretty good at getting love because he’s clever and he’s good at footy and he’s also a little bit handsome, but don’t tell him I said that. Lucky for Barnaby, he inherited dark hair from our father, who died when we were kids. But as for me, I’m not so lucky. I’m a redhead like our Aunt Squeezy. Her real name is Tirese but I call her Squeezy. I’ll tell you more about Aunt Squeezy later because I know what you really want to hear about now is Kite.
So here goes.
First of all, Kite has a voice like a river running by. Second of all, he can move like an animal. Thirdly, he’s very cool, and when I say cool what I really mean is warm. Isn’t that funny? He’s cool in a warm way. I mean he’s cool because he isn’t afraid to be warm. He doesn’t wear new clothes; he just wears camel corduroys or King Gees. And he knows what he’s interested in and it doesn’t matter to him what anyone else is interested in. Whereas Harold Barton is always getting the latest thing, like the fattest best skateboard, even though he isn’t the best skateboarder. Ricci says Harold Barton has a little dog complex. If you’re a little dog, best thing is to bark all the time, especially if you see a big dog. That way you’ll have a large effect, which will compensate for your small presence. You don’t often hear Harold Barton barking, which is a shame because at least that would be amusing, but what you do hear from Harold is a lot of bragging and bad-mouthing. Unfortunately, that can have a large effect because it makes you mad when he calls your best friend Zit-face, or he calls Oscar The Spaz, or me No-hoper Hartley. Sometimes I feel like giving him a big thump, but lucky for Harold I’m in training to become a Buddhist and that means I can’t thump him. Instead I must feel compassion for him.
Compassion is not like passion, because it’s not so thumping hot, so you have to take your temperature down to warm, and then you have to summon feelings of kindness and understanding. I can tell you, it’s very challenging to feel kindness and understanding for someone you want to thump. It’s harder than maths, butterfly swimming, map reading and horse riding.
Here’s something I’m bad at: feeling compassion for Harold Barton.
Not to worry, I still have my whole life to master this compassion game. There’s no shortage of little-dog-bad-mouthers and prissy-poodle-know-alls (Marnie) so I’ll have to practise transforming my thumping urge over and over again. And, just for the record, I’m not calling Marnie anything, since I don’t want to become a bad-mouther myself, but really, is there anything more annoying than a know-all?
As for me, I’m a know-nothing.
Except for one or two things I do know. If you want to be good at guitar, you have to fall in love a lot and sing songs in your bedroom. Another thing I know is that it’s hard to work out who you are, and it doesn’t matter if you make a mistake. Also I know how to do a cartwheel.
You know what I just thought? (This isn’t something I know, this is just a little stumbling philosophy according to Cedar B. Hartley, which happens every now and then, but don’t worry, I’m not planning on becoming a philosopher because a philosopher can’t be an acrobat, and a philosopher has to become serious and ponderous and wonder about things that other people can’t be bothered wondering about, and who would want to hang out with you if you were that serious? Anyway, this is my first guess in the realm of philosophy.)
It’s all about love.
Everything somehow depends on love, or is sad without it, or wants more than anything to find it.
Some people do strange things because of love. They become brave, or they go on diets, or they give away their favourite CD.
And love comes in different colours. Some of those colours just strike you with their brightness, while others are soft, or unremarkable, like the muddy, worn colour of your sneakers. But still you need that colour. You need its familiarity. You depend on it without even knowing, until one day something terrible happens, and then you see just how much you do need those familiar colours around you.
Which brings me back to Kite.