Xenitia: Nostalgia and Hardship in 1960’s Redfern, Sydney

June 30, 2024

First came the men in suits, then the bulldozers and the trucks, then the porta loos and cranes. Each day saw another house, shop, tree and a child’s doll knocked down and pulverised. Things that mattered all turned to scrap and dust. The bull dozers scraped the rubble into piles of broken bricks, concrete slabs, shattered glass and newspaper. The dust rose from under the wheels and steel jaws of the machines and swirled in the breeze. In that part of Redfern, Sydney the whole street breathed the demolition dust so holding your breath was hard. It got into clothes and between cracks along walls’ edges and footpaths. For Athena and her son Kosta, a walk down Young Street was not the easiest place to breathe.
For over three months, every day, people on Athena’s side of the road swept away sand and dust that blew from across the street onto their doorsteps. If they weren’t quick enough shutting the front door, the wind blew the sand down their narrow hallways. Every house had something tucked behind the crack between the door and the floor. Old towels, old clothes tied together, anything to stop the debris entering their homes by the wind.


As Athena opened the door, she said, “Kosta, close it quickly. We don’t want a desert in our house.” Kosta took a long look at the growing rock piles across the street. The wind blown sand prickled against his face and arms. He stepped into the hallway, sand grains tick, tick, ticked in pitter- patter against the shut door behind him.

Down the hallway, through the door, his father George squatted in front of the Kriesler radio. “Ssshh!” he said while turning the hand sized dial, “I’m looking for Greece.” The radio squawked and squealed, struck static, voices fell in and out in different tongues. Near the radio, on the table were coils of wire, screws, a rusty wire cutter and pliers. Out of the static a muffled sound came through the speaker. Then, full blown clear chimes of a bouzouki sounded from the radio. “Oppa! Ellada – Greece!” He brushed back his speckled grey, black hair with his hand. George stood up to face his wife and son. He nodded his head to the rhythm of the music, short waved all the way from Greece.


“Even in his singlet, without a shirt, he looks fully dressed,” thought Athena. George jutted his arms out to his sides, then slowly reached with his right hand for Athena. He caressed the scarf covering her hair. He returned his arm to the outstretched position and clicked his fingers, he danced a short hop to the music. Athena smiled and sat on the only soft chair in the house under the window. She took off her shoes and scarf letting her black curls fall around her face. “I fixed the antennae,” George said in Greek. Kosta stood near the cupboard with a mirror wall and glass doors. It housed the best cups and saucers for Greek coffee and small glasses for drinking ouzo and larger ones for wine and glaced cherries. Framed photos of family in Greece and their own small family in Australia covered the top of the cupboard.

Athena reached for a photo as George said, “Well, what did the doctor say?”
“Do you know what today is George?” asked Athena.
“Good Friday,” he replied.
Tears welled in her eyes, she crossed herself with her right hand while holding the photo with her left. She said, “Today, three years ago, Aliki died.” Tears trickled down her cheek. She pointed to a baby in Kosta’s arms, “Three years ago, today, my baby girl died.” She bent her head and kissed the photo. George stepped closer to her and took the photo from her hand and placed it back on the cupboard. He reached to touch her wet chin with his hand, “Athena that was three years ago. What did the doctor say today?”
“He said I have broken nerves, you tell him Kosta, you know English better than us, tell your father what the doctor said.”

George looked at Kosta, his 12 year old boy was strong, a pallikari and he had his father’s eyes. “Well son, what did the doctor say?” Kosta kept his hands, fumbling some marbles, in his pockets,. “The doctor said that mother has, I don’t know how to say this in Greek – “nervous breakdown” – her nerves, her nevra are broken.”
“What do you mean broken nerves? She looks alright to me.” George turned to face her, “Athena, what is it? What ails you?”

She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeves, took a deep breath and leant forward letting out a long sigh. “Oh George! What ails me? I want to go home. I want to be with my family, be able to walk the streets and breathe Greek air !”


Before George could answer she screamed, “VROOM! VROOM! all day, 12 hours a day VROOM! VROOM! The machine pricking my fingers and the boss yelling – FASTER! FASTER! VROOM! VROOM! – I want to go home. I don’t want to sew Akubra hats anymore!’ she sobbed. Her upper body folded forward and her elbows rested on her thighs while her head weighed on her hands. She didn’t look up, nor sideways, with no expression she stared at her feet. George moved closer, leant forward and gently kissed her head. He stroked her hair, slowly weaving his thumb and finger in her curls. By now he was on his knees in front of her. “Wife, you are suffering from xenitia – home sickness, that is all. I want to return as well. Do you think I enjoy my work at the Brewery?” George whispered, “ We just need another two years,” Athena did not lift her head, “The doctor said, no more overtime, better if I don’t work at all,” she replied.


George stood up and turned his back to her. He pointed to the black and yellow calendar hanging on the glossy white wall opposite them. “Look,” he said, “It will be no time at all… two years will run by.” Athena stood up and put her arm around his waist. Instead of looking at the calendar, her eyes were on the boxed stephania above it. The wooden box had six sides with hand painted green vines and black grapes, there were faded spots and some paint had chipped off. Under the clean glass cover were the stefania, the crowns of love joined by a white ribbon and worn on their wedding day. The stephania boxed on the wall were their life – husband and wife – a union for God.

“Yes George, time runs by fast. Already we have been here for 8 years and you promised we would be back in five.” She squeezed his waist with her arm pulling him closer. “Look at the stephania George,” she purred. She let go of him and returned to her soft chair feeling snug in its space. “I want to go home now. I need to go home now but not without you and Kosta. Please, we can do it – let’s go.”


Athena turned to Kosta who was on the floor playing with a lead airplane, “Kosta, bring the letter from Greece to your father.” Kosta stood up tucking his shirt into his shorts and walked to the cupboard. The letter was under the photo of him and Aliki. As he lifted the letter the photo dragged over the edge falling to the floor. Kosta immediately bent down to pick it up. The fall left a lightning crack zigzagging across the middle of the glass. Kosta stared at the little girl, his sister in his arms. He was wearing his cowboy gun holster at his waist, as long as his shorts, carrying a Colt 45 cap gun. He remembered the time it was taken, just a few months before she died of pneumonia. He was nine and she was two.


“What did you do!?” yelled George as he rushed towards Kosta. George raised his right leg ready to kick him. “Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Athena, “Don’t touch him!” she stood up quivering and crying. George stopped and let his kicking foot step onto the photo crushing the glass into a tight spider web of cracks. He snatched the letter out of Kosta’s hand. Kosta crouched still and silent waiting for a hit across his head. It didn’t come so he crept backwards in a crouching position until his back was against the wall. He was out of range and he knew from experience that this wall was the best because it was beside the hallway entrance and provided a fast exit. Kosta knew that if he didn’t do anything, just stayed there, everything would be alright because his father was walking towards his mother with the letter and photo in his hand.


“We’ve already lost a daughter, do you want to kill your only child?” George placed the photo on the table near the wire cutters. He looked at Athena sitting there and saw her sick and beautiful. He saw his love. He fell on his knees and rested his head in the crevice between her thighs. She caressed his hair, running her fingers from his forehead to the back of his head. His hand holding the letter rested on her hip. “Athena, I want to return home and work as a silversmith and be with our family.”

He saw Kosta sitting quietly against the wall. George lifted his head slightly from her lap, raised his eyebrows and nodded his head at Kosta. This meant that he could go and play. It was like that, gestures and signs for words. Kosta got up, smiled and ran down the hallway, opening the door to the wind and dust and a direct view of the demolition site.

He heard his father call out, “I’ll whistle for you!”

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Some Secrets Are Best Left Undisturbed.

April 8, 2024

There were no rainbow hues crowning the dilapidated house across the asphalt. A lone weed struggled through the crack in the cement to greet the constant passersby. She could empathize with the weed, “What’s a weed but a plant discarded from the mob?” she thought.

Her hair, from a distance, looked like a lion’s mane. Up close, what you thought was hair was clusters of thin lines of flame with light blue ends. Was she an angel? A messenger of fire descended into this neighborhood? Just an illusion to occupy a mind that’s locked into a cube space? Could she be both? Like a profile that is a vase from one view or two faces turned inwards from another. How long she has been watching is anyone’s guess.

Detective Claire Harper parked her car across the street from the dilapidated house. She had been assigned to investigate a series of mysterious fires that had plagued the neighborhood in recent weeks. Each blaze seemed to erupt without warning, leaving behind a trail of destruction and confusion.

As she stepped out of her car, Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She scanned the area but saw no one except for a woman standing near the weed-infested sidewalk. The woman’s fiery hair caught her attention, and Claire approached cautiously.

“Excuse me, miss,” Claire called out, “I’m Detective Harper. I’m here to investigate the fires in the area. Have you seen anything unusual?”

The woman turned to face Claire, her eyes burning with intensity. “I’ve seen everything,” she replied cryptically.

Claire raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the woman’s response. “Can you tell me what you’ve seen?” she asked, taking out her notebook.

The woman hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’ve seen flames dancing in the night, consuming everything in their path. But I’ve also seen something else, something darker lurking in the shadows.”

Claire furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of the woman’s words. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible for these fires?” she pressed.

The woman shook her head. “I cannot say for certain,” she replied, her voice trailing off. “But beware, Detective Harper. Not everything is as it seems.”

With that cryptic warning, the woman turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Claire standing alone on the sidewalk.

As Claire continued her investigation, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the mysterious fires than met the eye. And as she delved deeper into the case, she would soon discover that some secrets were best left undisturbed.

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Portal of Enigmatic Shapes

December 29, 2023

The room was dimly lit, the only source of illumination being the soft glow of the street lights filtering through the half-closed blinds. A man sat at a cluttered desk, his fingers dancing with a pen over a blank page. At first, the shapes that came from his fingers were geometrical doodles, spirals that began anticlockwise but ended up snaking clockwise. Now a triangle that grew into a star. The shapes flowed from his pen as if the pen itself inscribed the signs. Still, the scribble continued, now over half the page from the center was filled with shapes and lines.

The stars on the page weren’t even noticeable, only the light blue of the sky ran down the page making a huge teardrop. As he picked up the page with the letterhead, he noticed that the stars had grown a little brighter. He held the piece of paper up to face the window, as he did light streamed through the stars as if they were holes. He touched the spot where a star was, and he knew that it wasn’t a hole. The star, in fact, seemed to radiate more heat. Leaving it on the desk, he picks up the phone and calls Tony. No answer.

He sat down and began to scribble on a piece of paper he found on the shelf. It’s not as if he had a message for anyone in particular. In fact, he didn’t even know how he came to be in this room. The scribbles continued, forming a maze of lines and shapes that seemed to have a life of their own. The room, now filled with a quiet tension, held the secrets of the man at the desk and the enigmatic symbols he was creating. Tony walked in, the door creaking slightly as it opened.

“What’s going on, Joe?” Tony asked, eyeing the chaotic patterns on the paper.

“I don’t know, Tony. It just started. The shapes, the symbols. They won’t stop,” Joe replied, his eyes fixed on the mesmerizing dance of ink on paper.

Tony took a moment to study the page, then looked around the room. “It’s like you’ve opened a portal to another world in here.”

“Yeah, a world of shapes and lines,” Joe mumbled, almost to himself.

The two men sat in silence, watching as the scribbles unfolded. Joe pulled the blinds open. The stars outside the window seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, casting an ethereal glow on the room. The air was charged with mystery, and the wall between reality and imagination blurred.

As the night deepened, Joe continued to sketch, and Tony remained, captivated by the unfolding spectacle. The shapes on the paper seemed to tell a story, a story that transcended the boundaries of ordinary existence. The room became a sanctuary of creativity, a realm where the ordinary transformed into the extraordinary.

And so, in the dimly lit room, surrounded by the enigmatic symbols and the soft hum of the city outside, Joe and Tony witnessed the birth of something beyond comprehension, that defied the constraints of the mundane.

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A Domesticated Haunting

September 11, 2023

In the heart of the city, nestled between towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, there was a tumbledown building that looked like it had been swept off the floor above. The stairway leading to the basement creaked with every step, and the dim light barely illuminated the old bench and the many different shaped and sized bottles that sat on top of it. As I walked further down the stairs, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of longing in the house, as if the space had been abandoned and forgotten.

What was stranger still was the different hues that were projected on the walls. Clouds don’t hang around here, yet the colours that danced on the walls looked like a sunset over the ocean. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt drawn to the strange and haunting beauty of the space.

As I explored the basement, I stumbled upon an old newspaper with a date that was a couple of days ahead of the actual date. The eerie feeling in the air grew stronger as I read the headlines. It was as if I had entered a zone of causes, a space where past and present collided.

Suddenly, a snowflake of coincidence fell upon me. I heard the floor creak again, and my heart skipped a beat. But there were no people, just the occasional pigeon cooing in the distance. As I turned to leave, I noticed a pair of owl’s eyes staring back at me between the limbs of a tree outside the window.

On my way out, I passed a group of kids gathered under the great concrete anchor statue just across the street from Circular Quay. They were blowing bubbles, their rhythm setting up the pulse of activity. I couldn’t help but wonder about the mysteries of this midnight age and the secrets that candle makers hold about souls.

Perhaps it was just my imagination, but as I left the tumbledown building and walked down the street, I felt like I was being watched. I remembered the warning to beware the exhibitionist and the guru, for they speak with tongues of fire. But as I looked around, there were no gurus or exhibitionists to be found, just the bustling city and the occasional rumbling bus.

The haunting that I had experienced in the basement had been domesticated, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps these problems of vision had to do with something greater than myself. Something precariously balanced, like ash from an overladen cigarette.

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