Buffalo Cartwright

I’m sitting by the back door, feet up on a pile of old surfboards and wetsuits, a dusty TV and a rocking horse with strangely realistic hair. 10:30 and it’s already a scorcher. All I want to do is put on my boardies, grab a towel and head off down to the beach. But first I have to write. First I have to collect all these barely connected thoughts and lump them into some kind of order, drag these warm buffalo carcasses into a clearing and somehow pile them into a neat pyramid, alone, by myself.
Meg stands in the doorway with an armful of recycling, hair wet from the shower. I have to stand up and get out of the way while she squeezes past me. I roll my eyes and sigh, getting frustrated.
“Sorry” she says. Immediately I feel guilty.
“It’s ok. I just want to get this done.”
I sit back down and read through what I’ve written.
‘There’s something there’, I think. ‘It’s a start at least.’
I’ve started seven times already. There’s a pile of screwed-up paper under my chair. I know what I want to say, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes it’s much easier to write about nothing instead of sweating over these lumps of flesh, these big ideas.
I want to write more about The Kindness; about the idea of promoting altruism, making it cool. I also want to talk about the idea of using the media as a tool for change, starting a web of propaganda to counteract the dumbed-down, ‘come and play, forget about the movement’ culture. I want to write loftily about our responsibility to future generations and the urgent need for change. But, to be honest, all I really want to do is go and play.
Neighbours pass and say hello. A warm wind from the sea rustles in the banana trees. The dogs stand in the doorway, looking out at the sunlight.
“Sit down or piss off.” I tell them. It’s not a command they understand entirely, but they get the message and slope off looking sorry for themselves.
I groan, put down my pen and rub my eyes. Then I take my empty tea cup into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and wander into the living room where Meg’s writing an essay on human rights violations in Australia. I flop down next to her on the couch and rest my head near her feet. She reaches down and strokes my face. I groan again.
“What’s wrong?” She asks.
“Can’t write,” I say.
“Yes you can.”
“Not today. Not very well.”
“Aw,” she says; a sympathetic, distracted sound. “Maybe you should write about something else.”
“I am. I’m doing a short piece about not being able to do a short piece.”
That catchy one-liner perks me up, this trip to the living room has turned into a brilliant material gathering mission.
“It’s hot out there. Maybe you should go for a swim.”
“I just want to get a handle on this first.” I say, biting her toe.
“Maybe you should edit my essay instead.”
I take that as my cue and wander back into the kitchen, make tea and sit down again. Then I roll myself a cigarette.
‘Think lofty,’ I tell myself, ‘think high-brow.’
I light the cigarette. It jiggles in my mouth as I write. One of the dogs comes trotting up, wagging his tail.
“I’ve had a really good idea,” he says. “Let’s go outside!”
I ignore him. He sighs and trots back into the house, his claws clicking on the kitchen floor.
‘Maybe Meg will be more responsive.’ He thinks. Not bloody likely dog.
The sun’s getting really fierce now. The buffalo are starting to smell. Maybe I should get some help. There might be a friendly farmer with a tractor about. Maybe he’ll help me pile these grand ideas together into a tasteful mound of flesh.
I’m not even writing about nothing now. This is getting silly. Lofty, Wil, high-brow.
My friend Kate said: “Why is it that only Gucci and Calvin Klein have sexy advertising? Why can’t libraries and good causes be sexed up?”
“Why not indeed,” I said.
My friend Kate said: “Let’s make the revolution sexy.”
“Let’s,” I said.
I love that idea: Let’s make the revolution sexy. Let’s make kindness sexy. Let’s save the world by making it cool to be a kind, switched-on, conscious, caring, sharing, happy member of society. There’s gold in that. Let’s share it with the right people and together we’ll rid the world of apathetic, dumbed-down, distracted thinking and…
Another neighbour walks by.
“Hot out there,” she says.
“Bloody oath.” I say, engaging the natives in their own parlance. When she’s gone I put down my pen again and groan, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands. Look- I’ve moved another buffalo a full three feet into the clearing, but one of its horns is snagged in a root and I can’t seem to budge it. I stand up and wipe the sweat from my forehead. This isn’t working. I’ve been at it for an hour and I’ve achieved next to nothing. I sigh and sit down heavily on the beast’s rib cage. Through the trees I can see the water, dancing and glittering in the sunlight. It’s getting smelly around here. I could really use some help.
I’m a man of perseverance. I fully believe that no task is too great, as long as you’re willing to work your arse off. But I’m not stupid either. I know when I’m beaten. Sometimes the best thing to do is to wait till the heat of the day cools a little, spend a couple of hours chilling and thinking, get some help and tackle the problem later when you’re fresh.
Thus mollified, the gnawing hunger in my guts calms down a little. I strip off my sweaty t-shirt, peel off my blood-stained jeans, socks, pants, boots, and wander naked through the woods. Down by the water I stand, ankle deep, smiling as my toes sink into the mud. I give them a little wriggle, sigh contentedly.
Then I take a deep breath and dive.