Delphine Jamet

The wheels on the locomotion spin so fast, out of control. There’s no one to pull on the reins and halt it to a stop, despite technological advances that seemingly appear to be like the age of my life. It wasn’t that long ago I was young and now I am faced with being a third way through my life. It’s a scary thought, a fear factor of jumping off a cliff with a parachute the size of a handkerchief.

I know I’m lucky to have not reached 60 yet but they’re right when they say the time creeps up ever so fast. Each day seems slow but looking back at it at night, I don’t know where the time went. I remember sitting bored in class, high school always so much fun. Keeping guard on my wrist watch, counting down the time to the end of class, the day or even summer holidays. I’d do anything to be back in that class revelling in youth that I took for granted. Even my first job, how it seems so long ago, I can barely remember the faces I once loved at that suburban child care. Even all the clients would be in high school right now, no more nappies to change but it won’t be long before they have to do it themselves.

It would be nice to step into the past, there must be a way. A hidden time machine waiting around the corner to refresh our memories that zipped by so fast. The moments I had a family, my parents together or even starting high school for the very first time. I can still remember it but it doesn’t feel the same to not be there, at the scene, reliving that moment in the flesh.

The big 3-0. No more being in my 20’s, I’m past my prime. One third of my life. Whatever way I phrase it, it seems so scary. I just have to be positive, welcome the new experiences and people I meet in the future with open arms. It won’t be longer before I’m 40!

John Rawl's concept of The Veil of Ignorance promotes belief that we should make decisions based on what we believe is more beneficial to the other person without determining their status position, ethnicity or sex. Once we learn more about the other person, we tend to allow ourselves become swallowed up in stereotypes and prejudicial verdicts that affects the way we make a righteous decision, whether consciously or unconsciously. If we could learn to turn a blind eye to human difference, discrimination could decrease proprotionately. Politicians tend to initiate policy and rules that benefit mainstream society. In way, they are blindfolded about the type of people they will be reaching out to, although generally in a middle or higher class. They could take advantage of examining those in an unfair or restricted position to evaluate what type of policy would do them best, even though they would be taking into account racial and varied clauses of discrimination. In this light, it is the only way to resolve differences and bring them into line with the rest of society. But this would require an excessive amount of cost, time and related resources that the rest of society don't receive because they are generalised.

Distributive justice entails two components - how we should distribute freedom and how we should distribute opportunities. People believe that we should all be treated the same or else it implies partiality but for the minorities, they habit a more disadvantaged level in society, outcasted and given unpreferred treatment. If we were to give them special treatment, they could be brought in line with the majority of the population and begin a life of equal fairness and opportunities. Should we then focus on giving people special advantages who we deem as in need when our view of 'those in need' could conflict others? People living in poverty have opportunities to receive food and bill vouchers where as mainstream society have to work for everything they have, even though they may be equipped with a higher standing in society, better education and advantageous startings in life. 

Whirring like a rotor blade but not quite as heavy. Winds from the aircon or the conveyor belt, it's hard to tell. The skylights are forever shining endless, day or night, it's hard to tell. I breathe in deep and almost splutter into a coughing fit. Citric acid or some chemical component hangs heavy in the atmosphere, seeping out of the syrup room around the corner.

The udders kick into action, pushing out the pleasant liquid into the plastic 2 litre bottles. A slight machine gun sound can be heard as the caps slot into action, screwing onto the full bottles before air can penetrate its contents.

They whirr past me like an army destined to rot our teeth and health, sugar contents so high, our ancestors would turn in their graves. Purity of natural foods slowly disappearing into extinction as economic growth reaps unimaginable wealth and greed. Money replacing morals and ethics that once supported honest and basic ingredients to fuel our healthy minds and bodies. Our society now full of cancer and diseases, a government that fakes concern and sincerity with their backs turned.

I grab a bottle off the line to test it for weight, torque and a range of other measurements to uphold the company's reputation. I pour a sample into a cup, thick syrup mixed with a bit of filtered water and bring it to my lips for a sip. Orange, banana and mango cordial. Mmm . . . it tastes so good.

I love my job. How can something this good, be so dangerous to my health?

The heaviness sets in, a sort of noddy feeling. Vibrations of the latest dance music belt out of my cracked Iphone, my only inspiration for life at this point of time. I take another swig from the bottle, medicine for coping. My head spins in no set direction. I lie back down, watching an empty azure sky filled with nothing but peace. No clouds, no birds, no visible time.

I feel the commuters march by like ants, always in a hurry. I hold my breath, wondering if I have the courage to hold it until I pass out. A sneeze crosses my mind and I surrender.

Short Stack start playing their music. Successful teeny boppers I can only envy. I believe in dragons and witches and turning back time. How I wish I could get myself out of this mess.

I reach for my 6th Bicardi Breezer in 40 minutes. It helps the peace strategies of survival, pop out from within like listening to the music from a bowl of Rice Bubbles.

I imagine waking up in bed. Again. I know I might have a house next week but just to feel those clean linen sheets against my freshly washed skin seems like a peaceful paradise. My piece of heaven. I long to reach out. Just over a month before both Uni starts. Time is running out.

My mind wanders as my body obeys its daily goals. 110 laps of the 25 metre pool. I can do it, I can do anything. I must push myself harder. Dreams of my bike becomes my vision, the only thing that can set me free when my life is such a mess.

The sponsors gave me a new protein yesterday but I know I need to start eating more. I hit 30 laps of the Bullcreek BMX Track this morning. It was a lame effort until the Iphone was put on notice. Beats of energy that can replace meals any day, hit me from head to toe and I suddenly fly down the second straight in three feet of air. I dream of meter high jumps, my heart and focus in the right place. I’ve dedicated my life to this, I can envision myself doing flips and massive air. I never give up, I want it too bad.

Lap 110. I swim the final using every ounce of energy remaining. My heart pounds the blood with fatigue but like everything, giving up is no option. My mum and friends are wrong. I must push myself to my limits every time or I will become weak and unable to achieve anything.

I hit up Kings Park for a 2 hour walk. The day’s not yet finished. I give Jacob’s Ladder a miss for today. I pushed myself close to collapse yesterday, I need to push to keep on going or I will never become the strong person I so desperately desire to be. I will always beat those painful memories that will forever surface.

My last for the day, the reason I live. A city ride with a fast paced agenda. The adrenaline pumps over the pangs of hunger but I finally surrender to a cheap McDonalds meal, made more from plastic than protein and carbs. I get back on my bike, pedalling with fury, an imaginary race that becomes my life. My jumps are high and every pedal is my 110%. I cannot contain the energy that comes from nowhere.

Then I stop, disappointed my need for sleep almost drowns me. My obsession for physical exercise and fitness keeps me going through this troubled life of mine. Excitement flitters through my body like a hundred butterflies, in hope I can continue another day of this rigorous regime fuelled with minimal food.

The butterflies flitter in unsteady patterns, pulsating rhythms of vibrations, sending shivers down my spine. The atmosphere closes in, slight beats of drums I can feel. The world that I see has a different aspect to it, unknown to billions of people on this planet who walk the corridors of life with their eyes firmly closed, darkness filling their surroundings. If only they knew how to open them, their lives would be swept away with tsunamis of dreams that could suddenly be achieved. Like a tome of Alice In Wonderland dropping from the skies, the strange little key held in my palm, ready to open that peculiar little world that only I have control over.

The slightly built man in the starch tight suit stands in front of the microphone, adjusting his tie as a nervous little smile creeps across his chubby face. He cracks a private joke to his spin doctors standing behind him for support. The camera crew and his fans immediately stop their conversations as he commands their attention, ready for the circus to begin. They listen with their ears perked up, keen to swallow all he has to say with evident respect, whether they voted for him or not. He oozes such power, his ego pounding through him, seeping out of his pores. Yet a civilian off the street could enable himself to command more power, fame and respect just by entrapping his thoughts and focusing them to be more productive, sending them in the right direction rather than a scatter of hazy clouds, awaiting action.

I lie on my bed, excitement pulsating through my veins, pounding as the visions in my head become so strong, they become my sight. My bedroom is slightly cool but I feel so warm and loved, my two beloved cats snuggling into my sides. I feel the quilt under me, caressing it with my fingers and smile with happiness at how awesome life feels right now. I take a look at my perfectly neat room with the bookshelves in the corner storing my university books with a matching table to its right, a computer on top awaiting my commands. The carpet matching the curtains and mirrored closet doors. Adrenaline pumps through my body as I feel so lucky, so at peace and in control of my life. The direction I choose suddenly so clear and my problems and issues nothing more than little mounds of dirt.

I’m sitting back in my car, the radio playing casual Saturday morning music. My crumpled Holden quilt and Astro Boy pillow on the passenger seat. I take a look around at my pleasant environment, entombed with tall trees bearing history and bushes of Kings Park, a pleasant breeze running through the car, whipping my hair.

I release the visions of my beautiful room in my new house the way I imagine it, excited that it would soon take place, like winning lotto after I dream it. I feel sad for all those dreamers who fail to make it a reality, they never release their thoughts and desires, to continue its process into manifestation. Then I realise it’s not my problem and I have my own dreams to work on, one at a time like a stepping stone over clear water leading to my heaven. I let the universe complete its process and I sit back to enjoy every wonderful moment I have in this life.

If every man comes from God, why are we so driven by stereotypes and justifications to separate the human race? A man of fortune is on top of the food chain but instead of helping the less fortunate, he thrives on classifications.

There are many reasons why people become homeless which comprises those who are couch surfing, living it rough, in their car as well as visible on the streets. Experiences passed through generations, job losses, mental illness, bad decisions, too many children, lack of finances? Personally, I’m living in my car due to bad decisions and trusting friends who I thought were good. It’s a game of dominos. Sleeping rough makes you exhausted, you become a liability if you’re employed, you run out of money and food and BAM! You face the idea of hanging yourself, committing an armed robbery or toughing it out. So far I’ve only resorted to the last option.

I close my eyes, listening to the rumbling of the local insect air fields interrupting my sleep. The heat intensifies with excessive temperatures of 30 degrees outside my window, my heavy quilt protecting me from the loud mosquitos, yearning for my blood. I try and dream of something pleasant, happy memories but the hungry pains in my stomach rumbles me awake, the added “time-of-the-month” women’s syndrome intensifying my hatred of myself, my life and my choices. Social crimes connected to living on the streets such as move on notices issued by the police, drinking and swearing in public has branded me a criminal for life, whether I have committed them or not. I have never stolen, never assaulted, never done drugs but no one cares. It’s all the same. Now I can never enjoy the same benefits of life as those who have never been in trouble and there are many jobs I can never apply for like a security licence. The inbuilt classifications as a result will follow me through my life, the world and especially the government, who will never be prepared to give me another chance.

I met a friend on the streets, a tall happy larrikin with a beautiful smile that could turn winter into summer and night into day. His heart on his sleeve, showing the world his care and love for those he never personally knew. He forks out $50 to a homeless bum on the side of the street, not caring if it was for drugs but happy to have helped the man with his temporary issues. A middle class man enjoying the summer riding his bike before he returns to working on the mines, he doesn’t benefit from stereotyping anyone.

A police officer working the streets is driven by classifications which dissects his mind into targeting who should be fined or moved on and who should be left alone. It appears for many cops, the judgements of the job is in balance with the heaven and hell issue. What part of their life did they change to become so mentally heavy handed? Is it people’s experiences or hatred of particular social groups?

How do people benefit from issuing such critical statements about other people? Are they low on self-esteem and need to feel like they have the world at their fingertips? They command the power over the poor and those affected by social injustices? I am yet to see any proof how classification cruelty can enable you to have a better life, other than the financial proceeds of gossip magazines, bringing entertainment from those making mistakes in the spotlight. If we could walk on the street and give 5 strangers a warm compliment, wouldn’t the world be a better place rather than angry and shameful? But that would be too hard.

Homelessness is living on the streets, on a friend’s couch, in your car and anywhere that makes you transitional. Some people end up that way because life gets too hard and giving up seems to be the easiest option. There are agencies out there but you think they might be too busy to help. You should be able to take care of yourself, why would someone want to help you?

When you’re a kid on the streets, it’s a lot more fun. You don’t need to take responsibility and you can run amok. If it gets cold or you’re hungry, give the police some trouble and you end up soaking in the luxuries of juvenile detention, which in some Australian places are more like a summer camp than a penitentiary built to doll out punishment.

According to ACTnow.com.au, 105,000 Australians are homeless on any given night!

But what does it feel like?

The cold passage of Forrest Chase’s General Post Office drips cold water from the dark clouds, setting in like depression. The chilly gusts of wind penetrate my clothes. Hunger rumbles through my stomach as I watch some litter dancing in the wind. The alcohol I rely on makes my body shiver as I yearn for more to dull the stages of hanging out, my body weak and idle. I have no possessions, no blankets, just the things I see and feel. I yearn for the summer, the bright sunshine burning heat through my clothes and soaking me with happiness. Life becomes joyous when it’s warm and happy, no time for depression. It’s drink after drink with regular street feeds and more friends coming out from the hostels, where they’ve been hibernating through the long winter periods. Camp fires and bottles of bourbon, cheerful atmospheres and nice cool swims in the oceans.

The police come out in force in the summer, like parades of ants, wanting to take control of the streets. Moving us on and closing down squats which have sheltered some of us all winter long. After several move on notices and policies in place to deal with vagrants like us who litter the precious tourist environments, it gets to a point where locking us up is the best thing for us.

The Magistrate with his grey hair and bulky black rimmed glasses, peers down from the high bench. We’re at the bottom of society’s food chain, fines and middle-class punishments are no use to us. Jail is the only solution. The cold bars slam home in the small cell, which offers protection against the dangers of society. Three feeds a day with a warm bed and shower. Amidst the hierarchies of armed robbers, prostitutes and drug dealers, the violent thieves who want to punch our head in for our share of cordial. Perhaps it’s safer in here but after a few weeks, it’s back on the streets and the cycle begins. There’s no point in putting my name down for a Homeswest House. It takes 2 years to get anywhere and there’s always people jumping the queue, popping out kids left, right and centre.

So what do you do? That’s why I call the streets home.