The Irony of it all

Is it me? I wondered.

It was. I have now, in the ripe old age of thirty-nine, embraced my single flaw, but it has indeed been one hell of a journey.

Fuck journeys eh.

I remember the first time I read Catch 22 by Joseph Heller, I was enthralled. The absurdity of it all somehow spoke so clearly and plainly to me. Also I fancied Yossarian a bit. The rogue thinker, determined to outsmart the system. I kind of wanted to be Yossarian. Maybe my whole life is one long character study. Every time he figured out a way out, every time he beat the system, he came up just that little bit short. I can relate.

When I saw the 1970’s film, all of the characters were just as I had imagined them to be. I enjoyed Art Garfunkel’s appearance too; the underdog. Years later I would see Art, with my mother, Simon there too. I was the youngest in the audience by decades, standing up clapping along to all the hits. Wincing at Art’s only solo hit Bright Eyes, not quite hitting his notes. Always the underdog I thought. Poor Art, poor me, and poor Yossarian.

Like Yossarian, I find myself trying to make sense of the situation I’m now in. Fruitless act, but I do it time and time again. This is when I decide to take stock, each time. I guess in a way by me telling you everything, I’m moving past it. Communication is the key I keep telling no one.

Cast your brains back to 2019, oh how carefree we all were. I certainly didn’t posses a care, nor looked to have one anytime soon. Living in Sydney, working like most, banking the paycheque, socialising in the pods of friends and family each week. I had decided that I had spent the right amount of time back in Australia, and that it was indeed time for me to travel again. You see, I have taken pleasure being the square peg. I am sure if I delved deep enough though, I would discover I am just as round as all of the other pegs, but I have made a life of choosing my own path. I’d been in Australia for around three and a half years, and that was long enough. I’d spent those years working on myself, getting better, puffing up my esteem, like an inflatable jacket. It was now full formed and ready to wear. Another journey I suppose. My sights were set on Berlin. My Hungarian passport had been burning a hole in my pocket all these years, after having spent so long getting the damned thing, I still hadn’t used it yet. Nevertheless, it was time now to embark on a new adventure, one that had been delayed by some years. Like always, by way of guarantee, I told everyone my plans to leave. It was insurance, I had to go if I told everyone that I was going. But this time with the announcement, action soon followed. I gave notice at my Redfern apartment, sold what I could and stored what I couldn’t at my mum’s place, and entered the world of House Sitting. Which oddly, was an easy world to enter.

By the end of 2019 I had lined up enough places to stay in for around six months, a good time to then move to Europe. It would be summer, and I would have saved enough money to allow to look for work on arrival. I told a few colleagues of my plans, but was conscience not to jeopardise my standing. I’m not an idiot. The year was coming close to an end and with an excessive amount of accrued leave in tow, I made plans to go to New Zealand to see one of my great old friends. I can say that, she is indeed older than me (by a year or two), and more importantly she is truly great. It was to mark our friend’s 40th. A big fanfare. The three of us were determined to spend time together, them leaving their respective families and me my own solitude, we would be there for around ten days. At the time, I was in between one my house sits, so I was staying at Kyla’s place. How to describe Kyla? Another square peg I suppose, a force, an enchantress with an endless amount of energy, support and crazy ideas. I am equal parts enamoured and in awe of her. She had this great big house in Petersham, with a spare room. So there I was. When I get a text from Naomi, the birthday girl.

Have you seen the news? I hadn’t.

No, what’s happening? A revolution I wondered, or hoped.

New Zealand have announced they’re not letting people into the country because of Covid. Something about the cricket being cancelled because it’s too dangerous. We’re checking our flights, but it doesn’t look good.

I could feel the frustration through the message. Fuck this sucks I thought. Actually, my first thought was, how do I figure this out? This can’t be right, surely there is a way around this -no matter how illogical?

Fast forward to all these months later, eighteen months in all. All these holidays, the freedoms, and the routines lost -later, we know that there was no way around the massive annoyance. But who could know it would end up being so many months, filled with lock-downs, isolation, discrimination, fear, pseudo-science, and great social change, that would follow? I didn’t see it coming. I remember at the time thinking, I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse. I have had all my freedoms taken away before, and I survived. I didn’t know that just because you overcome one battle, it doesn’t automatically give you the armour for the next.

Well, naturally the plans changed. Sure, I was homeless, but I had a job. I made it work. Like we all did. I left Sydney for the countryside, ready to take up residence with my mum. Work car and laptop bound I headed for Goulburn. Still hoping that miraculously things would just open up. The positive of it all was that I could indeed save money. We all could. My greatest expense was wine and the painkillers to combat the excessive wine consumption, but that was pretty minimal -the expense not the volume. I spent a few months living with mum, and I can say I am thankful we had that time together. We spent most evenings playing cards with wine, and reconnecting, with wine. Our relationship had taken a battering over the years, but we somehow always made an effort to support one and another. As rosy as all of that seems, no one can live with their mother for an extended period of time, moreover live in Goulburn. I decided after a few months that while my heart was set on leaving Australia this wouldn’t be feasible for some time, and that it was time for me to come back to Sydney and re-engage with my fellow winoes. I lugged my possessions back to Sydney from Goulburn, it was almost like a tradition I was forming. Back and forth like the great herds of the plains, constantly moving, seeking better grounds.

To my surprise I found a lovely little place in Erskineville, a stones throw from Naomi in my budget. I snapped it up and by the end of January I had created a cool little place to spend my lock-down in. Every now and then news of flights being released would peak my interest, but I knew there was no point to leave Australia unless I had a way back, if I needed it, and that was a long way off.

Where does Yossarian come into it?! You’re yelling no doubt. Well its this situation I’m in right now, that I find myself feeling like my ill-fated compadre. Beyond the eighteen months, now at the twenty-two months, the world for the most part was now opening up! Paul rang

Have you seen the news? Viva la revolución! I thought as I felt a sudden case of déjà vu.

Yes, it’s amazing! I lied. I wondered what a revolution in Australia might look like.

Oh yeah, time to get out the ol passport then eh? Paul added.

Okay, no! What’s happening? I haven’t been following much of anything.

Travel! Let’s book somewhere!

My heart jolted a bit. Well this is indeed good news. The restrictions in Australia had risen to no travel outside of a 5 kilometre parameter from your house, so I was pretty happy to hear not only travel but international travel was on the cards.

I wonder where my passport is? I pondered.

I better start looking for it. I added to fill in the silence on the phone.

I hung up the phone and went to the drawer under the stove to have a look. There was a wad of passports held together with a rubber band. I kept them like this, it made me feel like someone with multiple identities. Swiss today? No, maybe Dutch, or American. I flipped through each of the books, two old flimsy faded blue pads were my old passports. I moved on to the maroon one. My prized possession -the Hungarian passport. Still valid. I moved it to the top of the pile. I’ll be needing this when I’m in Europe no doubt. The final one was the sharp darken blue book, still firm from lack of use. A little too firm. That’s funny, I thought my book had a little bit more wear-and-tear to it. I flipped through the pages, to discover no stamps in them -even more strange. I doubled back to the second page, the photo page. Staring back at me, wasn’t myself, but my old dad smiling. Phillip Gordon, Gordon Phillip. What the!? Crap -I’ve picked up dad’s passport by mistake. He won’t be needing it, but how the hell did I get it? I shuffled through all the passports again. Faded blue, faded blue, maroon, and dark blue. Same number, same ones. More mystery. Where could it be? I had better give mum a call.

Hey Mum, have you seen my passport? I casually ask.

No! Surprised at the random question.

Should I have? She added.

I explained the situation, and asked her to take a look around the place, while I looked at my place. I for the life of me couldn’t think where it was.

What then proceeded over the next few months was a rigorous checking, re-checking, un-checking of every single inch of my Sydney apartment. I flipped through my countless books, records, bits of paper, clothing pockets, random boxes, but to no avail. My desperation was growing with each day. I implored mum to do the same at her place, and she promised that she had been searching, endlessly. It had just vanished.

Like I boasted before, I have spent my life following my own path. For the most part that path was overseas exploring. In all of my years travelling I HAVE NEVER LOST MY PASSPORT! Never! Well, okay that’s not entirely true. There was that one time in Thailand, when yes I did lose it, but after putting posters up around the island, the taxi driver discovered where I was and handed it back in, along with my iPod. It’s always found its way back to me. But not this time. The only time, when I have been in lock-down for twenty-odd months, house bound, flightless and first classless the whole time, my passport manages to disappear!

Hail Mary! The irony of it all! I hear Yossarian yell in my ear, as I opened the drawer for yet another look.