The black fire

Hey Sam,

today we went to Anna’s place for a swim. Anna lives in a weird Gold Coast housing estate, with a gate and a bunch of identical units on curving streets next to a canal that has bull sharks in it. At least that’s what I told you. It’s probably true. You were a bit ‘creeped out’ by the idea of the bull sharks while I was just creeped out by the dense suburban sprawl.

To be fair the place has more of a holiday vibe than an Edward Scissorhands suburban horror and I’m just being facetious because I know you like a bit of drama. The place feels like a resort, with a giant lagoon swimming pool (next to the canal with the bull sharks) and a hot tub that’s built up on fake rocks that resemble a volcano.

Anna likes it there because she’s a musician and the unit she rents has a soundproofed garage. That’s because a past tenant was a DJ and presumably needed somewhere for his ‘beats’.

OK, now I’m sounding like a Dad but like I said, it’s all for your amusement, rest assured I’m much cooler than I appear here…

The canals on the Gold Coast sit in former marshland behind the beaches. They curve around houses, force streets to end abruptly and detour the pavement over bridges. Often from the road you don’t realise they’re there, flanking you. Deep waters still like mirrors or, when there’s a wind up, ruffled and foamy and reflecting nothing back.

We’re rode our new bike to Anna’s. The Yuba Boda Boda Stepover electric cargo bike. Now I’m not looking for sponsorship or anything (??) but this bike has changed my life. Our lives. You sit on the back with your own set of handlebars that steer nothing except the joy that’s in your heart, and I’m on the front, with our bags casually tossed into the basket. That basket is welded to the frame, which means when you turn a corner it stays obstinately facing forward, as though it has a better idea of where we’re meant to be heading than I do.

I used to find this quirk unnerving. I’d start to turn and imagine it wasn’t happening, I was leaning to one side but still travelling directly forward at the same time. I’d always feel like I was going to tip over. All the bike baskets I’ve ever used were attached to the front wheel so they turned when you turned. This version is much better because the weight sits on the frame, not in the hands. It’s just another reason the Boda Boda Stepover is one of the best family sized cargo bikes around.

As we approach a bridge the houses drop away from either side and the canal fans out suddenly. It’s a beautiful day. Autumn, my favourite time on the Gold Coast. The wind drops, the humidity recedes, yet the ocean is still warm. The sun seems brighter, clearer, as if every detail has been wiped clean. In the distance I can see the hills banking up out of the plains and I imagine waterfalls tumbling out of them, spilling down into the canals around me.

A year ago we went into lockdown here. At the time it seemed the whole world was embarking upon the same experience together, united by our common experience, but since then we’ve inevitably split once more. What we’re experiencing in this country is nothing like what’s happening elsewhere.

I remember that first lockdown. Open blue sky, much like today, and a highway of bright blue butterflies that seemed to flow into the spaces we left behind.

There aren’t so many this year. I heard it was actually a plague of butterflies, possibly a result of the dry months, the bushfires, the end of a tough summer. At the time it felt like nature was responding to our absence and I was witnessing a world like the one before we came.

We exit the bridge and I turn into the short driveway before the gate. There we pause, have a drink and call Anna. We wait for her to come down and I read the sign once more. Sailfish Cove. Selfish Cove, I joke. There is something about a gated estate that makes me judgemental.

Anna comes and we head for the pool. You’re in full flight, excited and talking non-stop, because I’ve made the rookie parenting error of letting you snack on some tri-coloured fairy floss left over from last night’s trip to the Surfer’s Paradise night market. At first you seemed ok with the yellow pineapple layer, but after you excavated down to the sedimentary blue (berry?), you took off. It’s probably due to the food colouring, you’ve hit a rich seam of chemicals and you’re now bouncing around the pool area. Your voice has jumped two octaves higher and increased to a decibel level that I’m not sure even Anna’s soundproofed garage could smother.

I keep telling you to keep your voice down but fortunately the pool area is mostly empty so we’re only really disturbing ourselves. Anna and I throw you around in the water a bit, trying to wear you out, then we hit the volcano spa, ready to relax.

By this time you’ve decided you’re a dragon named Johnny.

Johnny lives in volcanoes (obviously), flies higher than any cloud in the sky (although probably a smidge lower than you’re flying at the moment) and can breathe fire of every colour. Anna asks you which colour is your favourite.

Black fire, you answer.

What does black fire do if it hits you? I add.

If black fire hits a person, it causes them to have a bad memory of their life…

…

…

Um…

I’m still dealing with that.

I think I’ve spent most of my life making good memories and reforming the bad ones into something positive so I can just get on with it. I think that helps me find a way forward.

A British psychologist named Richard Wiseman conducted a number of experiments with people who considered themselves lucky and people who considered themselves walking disasters. In one of these he arranged to meet in a cafe at a certain time without telling the participants they were being filmed. Outside the door of the cafe was a five pound note on the pavement and inside, standing at the counter, an actor playing a businessman and investor, the type of person who could make a dream a reality. The ‘lucky’ person found the note, struck up a conversation with the businessman and had a great day. The walking disaster missed the five pound note, didn’t talk to anyone and got a crappy coffee.

So as I understand it we make our own luck and our own good memories. But still, when the fire causes you to have a bad memory does that mean the memory itself changes (like Arnold Schwarzenegger in that Mars movie) or is it just your perception of the events that changes and the events stay the same?

I’m not sure what’s worse.

You complicate the situation later in the day, when I’m telling the story to your Mum, by adding that if a person has only good memories of their lives when they are hit by the black fire, they are immune to its negative effects. That seems positive at first but then you top it by saying being hit by the black fire can actually become a bad memory, which means you will subsequently have a life of bad memories, even if you started out with only good ones…

I ask myself quietly, which circle of Hell are we in exactly?

There is very little we can be certain of, especially not the stories we have constructed that justify our place in this world. But if we let go of them who are we?

An emptiness of self bathing in black fire perhaps, someone able to maintain a good memory, a benign imprint of the past with the present unfurling like the leaf of a fern.

You sit behind me on the ride home, the rise and fall of your fairy floss fixation passing. My hands are wrinkled from the volcanic hot tub as they grip the handlebars. I ring the bell and we circle the roundabout outside Sailfish Cove. The wind plays in my hair because I have left my helmet at home. You have yours on because I am a responsible parent who has learnt from the past.

I feel the wind passing through me, my arms away from my body. A car passes by us but I feel safe because the Boda Boda Stepover is a large bike that commands the street. You have your hands on your own set of handlebars, even if they don’t steer anything yet. You’re quiet now but both of us turn to look as we rocket onto the bridge and the canal yawns open next to us. The water is still and deep.

Beneath the surface, somewhere, are bull sharks.

Love, Ragnar.