Once again, I haven’t located a photograph for this year. I planned at the start of this 64 year run through to keep the posts short and quick and to not ponder over hidden meanings or implications so here I go.
1977 was a savage year for me. And Elvis Presley. I was living with Tad and we did Caravan Parks and dives and drugs and alcohol. He went off to New Guinea with Rotary to build a hospital and chew betel but and I “escaped” to Sydney. I saw him off in Brisbane. We went up on a coach, wasted on pills and madness and spent the night someplace in a motel. We ate at a French Restaurant which was luxurious but I wandered off onto the docks somehow – as I remember it. Or don’t.
Then I went to Sydney with my sister who left me there and months of true street drug use began. Inner city poverty and sickness and degradation. Mix in a good dose of suffering and shame as 1977 is summed up quite nicely. Fear and ugliness.
I went back to Tony and we did markets and slept in strange places like the old hotel in Devonshire Street. It was pink and filled with people as mad as we were.
My surface memories are of a tall blonde Icelandic woman with grey gloves to play pool. Of Mental as Anything sleeping in the living room of our pink hotel.
My surface memories are of walking in heroin withdrawals through the wind tunnel of Devonshire Street to the Haymarket over Chinatown Way to pick up money I had bludged from family.
My surface memories are of French’s Tavern on Oxford Street and hocking my cameras and at a pawnbroker at Taylor Square – the Courthouse Hotel and a bed under a table in an attic on Flinders Street.
Then Tad came and somehow I came home. After setting a mattress on fire in a motel in Bondi Junction.