Prahran

 

Arriving to be handed a pint glass of intoxicants, the air a dream of verbosity and marijuana trumpets, a friend of a friend’s party continuing into the night a dishevelled conference with friends of friends, the exact purpose of the party less clear at departure than arrival, is Prahran. Dropping off the proofs earlyish of the exacting school magazine to the printer in a forgotten side street, sometime in youth, wayward artwork and limpid photography and enthusiastic compositions, frost hard on bluestone, is Prahran. Flipping screaming alternative and freewheeling jazz and big-city rhythm and blues albums in aisles of A-Z bins off the autumn street beneath crisp fluorescents, a strange Detroit classic roiling from the duct-tape speakers, to find a pressing not until then thought a pressing interest, is Prahran. Is it a suburb, or a state of mind, Prahran? I’ve often wondered. Fronting the counter of the all-hours cellar, its liquid assets in shining glass from floor to ceiling, there to support the manifold thirsts of those around the corner, red-nosed reined-in dear-at-that-price tipplers, liquor-is-quicker clientele, six-packs for any occasion, a dipsomania big as Tasmania, day and night peering through a glass darkly, or sparkly, is Prahran. Watching, from shifty makeshift scaffold seating, actors turn themselves inside out waiting for Godot, or simply waiting for the reviews, a legally binding tree standing mute witness to their comings and not goings, a simile, or facsimile of backyard existence, its curt rejoinders and febrile academicism, in Prahran. Sitting in the sixties going somewhere, only where, when it’s ninety Fahrenheit behind meticulously designed wooden slat blinds of a green rattler, hot wind exorbitant, as jaywalkers weave front and back of the tram halted by jams of Valiants and Holdens, too hot to read, just breathe, is Prahran. That much is clear but doesn’t answer the question, is this a suburb, or a state of mind? Sipping the first coffee at a busy window and waiting for the toastie, remembering the American bookstore and whatever happened to the American bookstore, and why are the rare books dealers relocating to industrial parks, as the toastie arrives, and where would an author begin writing their great Australian novel with the creative rule, write only about Prahran. Observing from a safe distance Jaded Bayside Commuters (JBC) beelining off the beeping doors towards the immovable rail gates past the old heritage ballroom and the defunct Continental, destination a night home in cottage or unit, their eyes preoccupied with being occupied, their demeanour meaning business, no time to stop and talk, sidestepping the issue, if there is an issue, is Prahran.