Graham CATT

The Poet

I

The first time I saw Gordon Orlof I assumed him to be an eccentric, old drunk. He sat in a darkened corner of the room together with a group of similarly odd looking individuals. They talked loudly, and occasionally burst into raucous laughter, most of which seemed directed at the poor poet on stage at the time. Gordon Orlof was the loudest of this group, and didn't hesitate to shout his blunt criticisms across the room. I instantly disliked him. Then he was summoned to the microphone himself, and I realised that I had been watching the city's most notorious poet in action. Gordon Orlof was well known not so much for his poetry, but for his outspoken, often belligerent, nature, and for his somewhat outrageous lifestyle. He was a self-confessed alcoholic. He openly condoned the smoking of marijuana, and admitted trying cocaine and LSD. He was often seen involved in protest action, usually against urban developers or the city council. I had occasionally seen his poems published here and there in various alternative or left-wing magazines.

Orlof strode on to the stage with swaggering self-confidence. In the corner of the room he had appeared small, almost dwarfish, with beady, black eyes, and bedraggled facial hair; his balding dome shimmering in the dim lights. But now he towered above us, an intimidating presence. He hitched his thumbs into his belt and directed his substantial paunch at us in a threatening manner. He seemed to be daring us to speak, and I did not anticipate anyone taking up the challenge. Then the poetry began.

Unlike the other poets, Orlof did not read hesitantly from a beaten notebook or scrap of paper. He recited his poem from memory, and delivered it like a sermon. There were long pauses, when he would just stare out at the audience, or fold his arms and look down, as though deep in thought. The poem was an epic, a feast of rich and colourful language, which soared and swooped, turned in circles, then twisted back on itself. I couldn't help but lose track of what he was saying. But his work was so unlike anything else I had heard that night that I was left in awe. He spoke of "skies filled with a thousand suns", "the ghosts of green Cadillacs", and "monsters with flaming cocks". It was apocalyptic stuff. Orlof left the stage to rapturous applause, returned to a hero's welcome in his little corner of the room. I stayed until the end of the readings, although nothing else came close to Orlof. I was so overpowered by his poetry that I even considered giving up my own creative ambitions there and then. It seemed unlikely that I would ever speak to Gordon Orlof, let alone come to know him well.

It had taken me months to build up the courage to attend the Paradise Hotel Poetry Readings, and at this stage I was only going along to listen. The Readings were held once a month in a run-down, but somewhat fashionable city hotel, by a loosely knit collective known as the Paradise Poets. There was no "movement" as such, for the individual writers were too disparate to form any sort of unified style or philosophy. The Paradise Poets included academics, university students, ex-hippies, pensioners, as well as crazed bohemians like Orlof. After witnessing Orlof on that first occasion I was tempted never to return to the Paradise Hotel. In comparison my poetry seemed simplistic and naive. I had dreamed of being a writer since adolescence, but always seemed to find myself distracted by other matters. Now, in my mid-thirties, I had decided to take my dreams a little more seriously. This visit to the Paradise Hotel Poetry Readings was my first tentative step.

I did return the following month, perhaps, more than any other reason, to see what Gordon Orlof would do. Once again, he was seated at the back of the room with the same group of misfits. I found a seat near the bar and perched there awkwardly, clutching at my drink for security. That was the night that Simon first spoke to me. I had seen him sitting with Orlof's crowd. He was a tall, thin man, who, although dressed in the baggy clothes of an adolescent, looked somewhat older than I was. His face was red and wrinkled, pockmarked by acne scars. We were both at the bar, during a break between poets, when he introduced himself, then asked if I intended to read that night.

"No...er...I'm just here to listen," I stammered. "My stuff isn't good enough to read."

"No...I couldn't...it's too intimidating," I said, inadvertently looking in Orlof's direction.

"Ha...I wouldn't worry about Gordon," laughed Simon. "Don't take him too seriously. As the saying goes: his bark is worse than his bite."

I wasn't convinced, yet came again the following month, and again the month after that. Once I took my girlfriend, Bernie, but she was bored senseless, and we left before Orlof made an appearance. Most months I bumped into Simon, and we chatted briefly, expressing a polite interest in each other's work. Then one night, when he saw me sitting alone again, Simon invited me over to Orlof's table. I was very nervous, but also excited. I tried not to look at Orlof as we approached, sensing his eyes upon me.

"Hey guys," said Simon, as we sat down. "This is Rob Ellis, he's a new poet about town."

I cringed as he said this, but attempted to maintain a reasonable degree of confidence as each member of the group either shook my hand or gave a little wave of recognition. There was Dominic, a darkly handsome young man, possibly a university student. Helen, an older woman with a kindly smile and bedraggled grey-green hair. A younger woman named Sue, whose stern, yet attractive face hid behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses. There was also a pair of serious looking silver-haired gentlemen whom I knew to be the poets Glen Snailberg and Roger Cosgrove. Gordon Orlof extended a stiff, cold hand and shook mine firmly. He smiled, although it looked more like a grimace.

"Always glad to meet a new poet," he said gruffly. "What do you write about, Rob?"

"Oh...er...all sorts of things. Life in the suburbs, the weather, animals, family. I'm working on a series of childhood poems at the moment," I bumbled, trying to put on my best "serious poet" voice.

"Mmm...and when are we going to hear some of this...poetry," asked Orlof, his dark eyes seeming to look through me.

Gordon Orlof seemed to lose interest in me then. The poetry readings recommenced and he turned his attention to shredding each poet to pieces. Most of the time he merely muttered derogatory comments to his cohorts, but occasionally he was unable to contain himself, and would let loose with a scornful shout. One elderly gentleman introduced his poem by saying:

"This is a poem about the Coorong." Orlof did not hesitate to offer his thoughts on the topic.

"What a fuckin' bore!" he yelled, causing the man to stumble over his opening lines.

"Leave him alone, Gordon," said Helen, in mock sympathy. "You're making the poor man nervous."

As we left that evening Orlof surprised me by whispering in my ear as I walked towards the exit.

That night, as I lay in bed, I began to worry about the commitment I had made. The thought of Gordon Orlof dissecting my poor attempts at poetry terrified me. But in the following month I discovered a new confidence. A couple of my poems were accepted for publication in national magazines. I had a flood of new ideas. And a family friend, whose opinion I respected, had praised a selection of poems I had given her to read. As the next meeting of the Paradise Poets came around I prepared to read my poetry. I even looked forward to it. This time I did not wait for an invitation. I went straight to the Orlof table and sat down. Simon was there, as well as Orlof and a couple of the others.

"Yeah...well...I've had a bit of luck with a couple of poems. Thought I'd give them an airing here."

Orlof did not talk to me. He seemed removed from the surroundings, absorbed in some internal dilemma. Even once the readings commenced he remained quiet, did not offer the usual comments, just an occasional polite handclap for those poems he liked, or a sigh of disgust for those he didn't. My own turn to read came quickly enough, and passed in a brief, nervous blur. I hurried through the poems, then scampered back to my chair, eager to get out of the spotlight. I had read the two poems that had been accepted for publication, both from my "childhood" series: one entitled Playground, the other Stamp Collecting.They were simple enough, but quite effective.

"Well done mate," said Simon warmly, as I flopped down in my seat with a sigh of relief.

My eyes met Orlof's. For a moment I expected similar praise. I had received a warm response from the rest of the audience, and I thought the poems to have some value. But Orlof said quite the opposite, in a cold, matter-of-fact tone.

II

If Simon had not quickly followed Orlof's comments with some reassuring words I am sure I would have gone home and shredded everything I had ever written.

"Don't take any notice of Gordon," he said, with a laugh, not attempting to conceal his thoughts from Orlof. "He's in a foul mood tonight."

Orlof merely grunted at this, continued sipping at his glass of wine. After the Readings had finished Helen suggested we all stop for coffee at a nearby cafe. I was still reeling from Orlof's reaction to my poems, and really wanted to escape as soon as possible, but the others pressed me, and I reluctantly agreed to go with them. It was there that Gordon Orlof suddenly, and inexplicably, opened up to me. He had hardly spoken all night, as Simon had suggested, seemed "in a foul mood". But then, as we arranged ourselves around a table, ordered coffee and food, he came to life, as though someone had flicked a switch. His face became animated, his voice full of enthusiasm, his arms gesturing passionately as he spoke.

"Mmm...sorry if I seemed a little harsh back there," said Orlof, looking toward me with a slightly apologetic smile on his face. "I just have very high expectations. I'm easily disappointed."

Then later, as the others fell into conversation, he leant across and said to me in a low voice. "There was, technically, nothing wrong with your poems. I just thought them very stuffy, far too inhibited. They lacked freshness, a sense of spontaneity."

I eagerly (perhaps too eagerly) adopted the role as pupil, while Orlof continued his little "lesson". He asked to see copies of the poems I had read that night, then, pulling a battered pencil from his jacket, began slashing through lines, crossing out words, adding suggestions here and there.

"Your writing is just too conservative, too safe," he observed. "You need to inject some passion. Get angry or violent or lustful. Put everything in there: dirt, sweat, shit, semen. Don't hold back, let it all out."

Then he looked down at the remnants of my work and raised his eyebrows sorrowfully, yet sympathetically, and adopted the expression of a doctor about to tell the family of a sick patient that the patient has a fatal illness.

"I'm sorry Rob, but these need a lot more work. I like a couple of the images you've used though. You'll have to show me some of your other stuff."

I returned home to my old poems as though to friends with whom it is embarrassing to be seen. I cringed as I sifted through them, suddenly seeing them through Orlof's eyes.

My confidence may have taken a battering that night, my thoughts on writing turned upside-down, yet I was pleased with one thing: the infamous Gordon Orlof had chosen to be my mentor.

I was a regular among the group from that point, and quickly came to know the others and their connection to Orlof. He was, obviously, the central and most senior figure, and also, as far as I could see, the only established poet among them. It seems the appearance of Snailberg and Cosgrove that first night was rare. Whilst many established poets knew and respected Orlof, they didn't actually socialise with him. Dominic was always around, he seemed to idolise Orlof, agreed with everything he said, but did not write himself. In fact I couldn't see that they had much in common at all. He was not a student as I had first thought, but a chef, who worked in a popular city cafe. Helen was an old friend of Orlof's, and by the way they talked to each other I wondered if they might have been partners at some stage. She also did not write but seemed to enjoy the somewhat bohemian atmosphere of Orlof's milieu. Simon gave the impression that he was always working on something, but his actual output was minimal, and of varying quality. He always had grand ideas, talked of incorporating music and drama into his poems, but nothing ever eventuated. His chief responsibility in the group seemed to be to encourage Orlof in his consumption of alcohol. But he meant well and was always very supportive of anything I did. Sue was more of a fringe member of the group. She was friends with Helen, but did not seem to get along that well with Orlof. Sue occasionally read at Paradise Poets, and sometimes joined us for drinks afterwards. Her poetry was dark and dangerous, always confronting. I don't think I ever heard her read a poem that didn't contain the word "fuck".

Gordon Orlof admired her spirit but detested her politics. I even once heard him refer to Sue as a "FemiNazi". Sometimes, after the Poetry Readings, we would walk to Orlof's flat rather than the cafe. He lived not far from the Paradise Hotel, in a Housing Trust development that catered to those on a limited income. Orlof himself relied on a Disability Pension for support, having injured his back at work ten or fifteen years previously. His flat was a dirty and disorderly place, littered with books and newspapers, empty bottles and food wrappings. Helen often offered to clean it up for him, but Orlof refused, even seemed slightly offended.

"I like it like this," he would argue, waving his arms around. "This is the stuff of life—the smell, the taste, the wonderful chaos—I want to immerse myself in it."

Someone usually brought along a bottle of wine to these sessions; otherwise we were left to drink the vodka that Orlof kept hidden in his freezer. Occasionally he would bring out a pipe and offer everyone marijuana. An hour or so would then pass with us entangled in conversations about poetry, religion or politics. Gordon Orlof was always at the helm of these debates, directing and challenging those who spoke. He was always keen to know what I was reading, and forever recommending books or authors to me to investigate: Dostoyevsky, Whitman, Hamsun, Aldous Huxley, Henry Miller, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Kerouac. Orlof was obsessed with the Beats, claimed that they changed the face of popular culture. (He was stunned to learn that I had never read On The Road.) He even named his cat Jack. Occasionally someone, or something, would set Orlof off on a dark tangent, and he would start ranting and raving about any number of groups or individuals: academics, politicians, Christian fundamentalists, feminists, yuppies, multinational corporations, advertising executives, rock stars, anti-censorship groups. I couldn't help but cringe whenever Orlof did this, particularly when his target was the wealthy or privileged. Not that I was rich, but I did work for an accountancy firm and earn a reasonable salary. I also owned what most people would call a sports car, as well as lived in a suburb, which Orlof would refer to as "the home of yuppie scum".

I tried to avoid talking about these aspects of my life when around him, or gave only vague, non-specific responses—said that I worked in finance, and that I lived in the eastern suburbs. I had the feeling that Orlof would disown me if he knew the real details. One night when Orlof didn't show up at Paradise Poets, Helen, Simon and I called at the flat to see him. Dominic answered the door.

"Jack is dead," he announced solemnly. "Someone run him over. Left his body in the gutter."

Orlof was sitting despondently on the sofa, an empty bottle of vodka on the table before him.

Adjacent to the Housing Trust flats were a row of exclusive townhouses. Jack had been found in the gutter nearby. Orlof was certain that the occupants of one of these townhouses were to blame for Jack's death.

We sat with Orlof for an hour or so, but our presence only seemed to make him worse. He began to shout, and then, after swaying over to the window, hurled the empty vodka bottle in the direction of the townhouses. It fell on to the footpath just below, shattering into the gutter.

"You fuckin' bastards," Orlof screamed. "Which one of you fuckin' cunts killed Jack."

III

Under Orlof's guidance, I abandoned my series of childhood poems, and attempted to adopt a looser, more spontaneous style. This change in direction drew praise from the others in our group, of course, but I seemed to find it harder to place my poems in magazines and journals, the rejection slips accompanied by such comments as "too raw", "needs more work" or "undisciplined".

"Bullshit," Orlof would mutter angrily, when I showed him the slips. And then, if the rejection had come from a university or college journal. "Fuckin' academics! What would they know about life? They're too busy sticking their tongues up each other's arses."

While Orlof would happily discuss my writing for hours, I found him evasive when questioned about his own work. There was always something planned, something "in the pipeline". He talked of a new collection, even described the cover he had planned for it, but I rarely saw him working on anything. As I got to know him it became obvious that much of his reputation had been established with work written ten to fifteen years ago.

"I would love to read more of your poetry," I said one afternoon, sensing that Orlof was in an unusually amiable state of mind. I had often hinted at this desire before, but usually drew a blank look, or found my interest gruffly dismissed. This day, however, I received a different response. Orlof retrieved a battered shoebox from his bedroom, in which lay a dozen or so copies of the same book. It was his one and only poetry collection, published thirteen years earlier by some obscure West Australian small press. The cover of the copy he handed to me was badly weathered by time and dust, and featured a blurred black and white photograph of a much younger Gordon Orlof. The collection was entitled The Unconscious Cosmos, and full of the familiar Orlof phrasing and imagery. The poetry seemed similar in content and structure to the poems he read at the Paradise Hotel, yet Orlof disapproved of the collection.

"Some of that stuff is embarrassing," he frowned. "I wouldn't think of publishing it today."

Orlof's real passion was an unpublished magnum opus which he believed would rival Kerouac's On The Road. It was to be a semi-autobiographical account of his own traveling days back in the sixties. He kept his notes for this project in a pile of musty journals stacked untidily on top of his wardrobe. We often asked him about his progress on this epic, but as with his poetry, he would reveal very little, and refused to let anyone see the contents of his notebooks. He did tell us about the hero of this project; a convicted criminal named Fred McMahon, or Macca, as he was best known. Orlof described him as his very own "Dean Moriarty"—a brawler, womaniser, hunter, alcoholic and car thief. In Orlof's eyes, Macca represented the pure vitality of life.

I first heard about Macca during a long night with Orlof at an all-night pizzeria. Somehow we had found ourselves alone, and Orlof, hungry as always, suggested we go to Giovanni's, a restaurant within walking distance of his flat. We settled down at a corner table, where Orlof ordered enormous quantities of food, a bottle of wine, and proceeded, with little prompting, to tell me his life story.

He was the eldest son of immigrant parents; his father, bitter and bad-tempered; his mother, quiet and easily bullied, but also kind-hearted. She liked to tell the children folk stories and was able to recite them from memory. It was here that Orlof developed a love of language. But his mother's attention was not enough to keep Orlof at home, and he left when only fourteen years old. Throughout the rest of his teens and early twenties Orlof roamed the west coast, drifting from one job to another. He worked on fishing boats in the southwest, in mines up in the Pilbara, and later in a bar in Geraldton. It was during this period that he first met Macca.

Being several years older than Orlof, Macca adopted the role of big brother. Together they traveled around the northwest; working on cattle stations, in hotels, roadhouses. Under Macca's guidance, Orlof learned how to shoot wild pigs, how to fight, how to drink, and how to fuck. They drove across Central Australia, then found themselves working for several years in a roadhouse on the Stuart Highway.

"It was the best roadhouse in the Territory," Orlof mused, with a wistful look in his eye.

During these years "on the road", Orlof had not lost his love of literature, and spent long hours devouring the classics. He looked forward to the day he would immortalise Macca in his own epic novel. Then, it seemed, everything turned sour. Macca ended up spending some time in Alice Springs jail after nearly killing a man during a brawl in the roadhouse. Without his friend, Orlof lost interest in Central Australia and drifted south, found himself jobless and lost in the city. But within several months he had established himself; found a job in a city bakery and met a girl called Jackie whom he would eventually marry. They settled in a small home in the northern suburbs. Orlof's eyes narrowed when he reached this part of his story.

"Watch out for women," Orlof said, as he downed another glass of wine. "In the beginning they'll pretend to be interested in your work, say they appreciate art and writing and so on, but before long they're on your back about "supporting the family" and "getting a proper job", and complaining about how they need a new television or a new washing machine."

This line of talk made me squirm somewhat, but still, I listened intently, unable or unwilling to challenge him.

"They don't think on the same level as men. Don't appreciate the creative urge. Their concerns are different—money, family, house, material goods. I guess it all comes down to chemistry. They just haven't got the capacity to write an epic poem or a symphony. I mean, can you name a decent female composer?"

I was sure I could, but for the moment the name escaped me. In any case, Orlof was not really interested in an answer.

"What about your girlfriend, Rob?" he asked. "Does she appreciate what you are trying to do with your writing?"

"Oh...er...Bernie," I stammered. "Yeah, she's fine. But, y'know, we're not that serious. I can't see us getting married or anything."

"Mmm...just remember...don't let her get in the way of your work," said Orlof. "It's not about love, it's about art."

Orlof's mood took a dark turn then, but he continued his story. His marriage ended badly, of course. Ten years and two children later, Jackie left him for another man, took the children and moved interstate. Orlof hadn't heard from his children for years. He believed his son to be married with a family of his own. His daughter lived in North Queensland. Not long after the divorce, Orlof had injured his back at work, but failed in his bid to receive compensation. He ended up on a Disability Pension. Orlof went quiet then, as though nothing had happened in the last ten years. I wanted to know what had happened to Macca.

"Macca lives in Darwin. He loves the lifestyle and the climate," explained Orlof. "He's still a larrikin."

We left in the early hours of the morning, my head spinning with the details of Orlof's life. Yet when I awoke the following day, the words which I found stuck in my mind were his warnings about women. I had dismissed them at the time, yet they struck me now as having more than a grain of truth. I had to admit, Bernie did seem preoccupied with her own needs. I was always going out of my way to please her, even though she somehow made it seem as though she was the generous, sensitive one. And she had little appreciation of my writing. She liked the "idea" of me being a writer, but the details didn't interest her. I can recall once writing her a romantic poem, then finding her copy of it on the kitchen counter buried beneath vegetable peelings and food scraps. I was livid, but Bernie seemed unconcerned.

"What are you making such a big deal about?" she shrieked, after I had yelled at her. "It's just a fuckin' poem."

When I thought long and hard about our relationship I struggled to find much in common between us. Bernie loved sports, especially cricket, while I detested all sport. And she loved socialising with her friends. They were okay, I guess, but I really didn't have much to say to them. They certainly didn't have any appreciation of art or cinema or literature. And then there was Bernie herself. Admittedly, she could be sweet and a lot of fun, yet she could also be tactless and quite stupid.

Within one month of my night out with Orlof I had broken up with Bernie. At the time I told myself that our separation was natural or inevitable. But upon reflection I can see now that I was primarily motivated by the need for Orlof's approval. When I broke the news to him he was almost overwhelming in his congratulations.

"Well done, Rob," he said, with a smile. "Now you're free to pursue your dreams."

"Don't take it personally," I said coldly. "It's got nothing to do with love, it's about art."

On the drive home after announcing the bad news I can recall battling to justify my actions, told myself again and again that I was doing the "right thing". But I felt I had to prove something to myself, so upon reaching home, took out my journal and attempted to write down some ideas for a poem. But I could not concentrate—could not see the page for the tears in my eyes.

IV

I was shocked to discover that Orlof and Dominic were lovers. Admittedly, they spent a lot of time together, but there was no overt physical contact between them, at least, not in front of others. Orlof never discussed his feelings with anyone, nor was there any mention of his sexuality in his poetry. I found out about their relationship after witnessing a nasty exchange between them one afternoon. Some trivial disagreement had blown up into a full-scale argument, ending with Dominic storming out of the flat. When I mentioned the incident to Simon he was not at all concerned.

He seemed surprised that I didn't know, and laughed when I expressed concerns that Orlof may have had similar feelings towards me. I didn't want to discover that his only real interest in me was sexual.

It seems that Dominic was merely the latest in a long line of young men who had fallen under the spell of Gordon Orlof. Apparently he liked olive-skinned, dark-haired young men of Mediterranean descent in their early twenties. Dominic neatly fitted this description. After the initial surprise I became angry over these revelations, and began to look at Orlof in a more critical light. After all his talk of "putting everything into your writing" it was more than disappointing to discover that he had withheld so much from his own work. Then there was the advice he had given me regarding women; statements such as "don't let her get in the way of your work" now seemed hypocritical. Or did he have different rules for homosexual relationships? I never confronted Orlof over these matters, but let the bitterness and disillusion gnaw away at me, slowly turning my opinion of him inside-out. I began to notice faults in his poetry. The way he often repeated himself, read something at Paradise Poetss that he had only read a couple of months earlier. Sometimes he merely
changed the title or shuffled around some of the lines to make the work appear fresh. The poems from his collection made regular appearances, even the ones he had previously dismissed as embarrassing. One night he read a poem which had been blatantly plagiarised from Ferlinghetti. Orlof, however, seemed oblivious to any shortcomings, and continued to behave in his usual abstruse manner.

Despite these changes in my feelings towards Orlof, we were still spending a reasonable amount of time together. He was helping me put together a collection of poems, and from week to week an increasingly bulky manuscript would pass back and forth between us, filled with his nearly indecipherable notes and corrections. Although I found I now had less regard for his suggestions. Orlof also used his influence to have me read at a poetry evening at the University. It was quite a high-profile affair featuring many established writers as well as "up and coming" poets like myself. I found the prospect daunting, yet exciting. Orlof gave me some tips on how to improve the delivery of my poems.

"Speak with passion," he implored. "People will believe anything if you say it with enough conviction."

Occasionally I thought of Bernie. In light of the discovery of Orlof's relationship with Dominic, and my reassessment of Orlof's philosophies, I again wondered if I had made the right decision. Yet, when I considered all the facts, the separation still made sense to me. I already found that I had more time and energy for writing, and that, with this increased concentration of effort, the quality of my work was improving. Subsequently, whenever I experienced a pang of doubt regarding Bernie, or found myself yearning for her company, I would bury myself in my writing.

One day, Orlof announced that Macca was visiting the city. He promised weeks of drink and debauchery, spoke of Macca as though he were still the "terror" of thirty years ago. I certainly wasn't expecting to find him as Orlof described, but could hardly conceal my shock when Orlof approached a shabbily-dressed, wizened old man on the railway station platform, and began hugging him and cheerfully slapping him on the back. A hard life in the outback had reduced Orlof's hero to a toothless, mumbling dwarf. He looked like a tramp. Orlof, however, didn't seem to notice, for he beamed proudly as he introduced Macca.

"This here's Rob," he explained to Macca, adding with a wink. "A promising young poet."

Afterwards we went back to Orlof's flat and spent the afternoon eating and drinking. It was the last time that I can recall us all together. There was Simon, Helen, Sue and a couple of others from Paradise Poets. Dominic was there too, chatting to Orlof as though there had never been an argument. I found myself feeling distanced from the activity, fell silent in the background, while the others talked and laughed around me. Maybe I could sense that a period of my life was coming to a close.

While plenty of wine and food was consumed that afternoon, the weeks of drink and debauchery Orlof had promised never materialised. In fact, I didn't see him for weeks. The couple of times I did call at his flat he was not home, and I assumed him busy with Macca. He didn't turn up at the Paradise Hotel the following month, and the University readings came and went without any contact between us.

Then one Sunday afternoon I was browsing in a city bookstore when Orlof walked past me. He seemed to be in a daze and did not initially answer to my calls.

"Hey Gordon," I called again, as he looked in my direction, a vague and troubled look on his face. "How have you been? How's Macca?"

"Oh...er...Rob," he mumbled. "Oh...er...not bad...Macca...er...he's gone back to Darwin."

We talked awkwardly in the doorway of the bookshop for several minutes. I tried to get him talking about poetry, about the University readings and my collection, but he didn't seem interested. I asked if he wanted to come for a drink, but he made some odd excuse. Then he said goodbye and wandered off down the street, looking lost and alone, and suddenly, very old. The arrogant, over-confident artist I had first encountered at the Paradise Poets seemed no more than a distant memory.

V

In the following months, my life underwent significant changes. I moved out of my townhouse in the eastern suburbs and into a small inner city apartment. I traded my car for a bicycle. And I resigned from my job at the accountancy firm and took on part-time work in a former client's restaurant. I now had plenty of time, albeit with a much reduced income, with which to pursue my career in writing. I had plans for a collection of short stories, a novel or two, a screenplay. I considered applying for a government grant. Initially, however, I felt rather lost, and found myself daydreaming or aimlessly wandering the city streets. Then I learned that Gordon Orlof was dead.

He had been found floating face down in the river. I assumed that his death had been accidental, that he had fallen in whilst drunk, but Simon informed me otherwise.

"It was suicide, Rob," he told me solemnly, over the phone. "He had another fight with Dominic. They split up for good this time."

I found Simon and Helen at Orlof's flat. Helen sat on the sofa, looking pale and tired. Simon was sorting books into boxes. As Orlof had no other close friends or family, they had volunteered to clear and clean the flat. Some of Orlof's stuff was going to charity, but most of the furniture and electrical goods were of little value.

Simon handed me a small plastic envelope containing a scrap of paper. I recognised Orlof's familiar scrawl immediately.

"It's the note that Gordon left," said Simon. "The police gave it to us. I guess there wasn't anyone else."

I unfolded the note; a simple sheet of lined paper, and read Orlof's last words.

"I guess the break up with Dominic hit him hard," said Simon. "Gordon must have really loved him."

Surely it wasn't that simple. I recalled the conversation I had had with Orlof that night at the pizzeria many months before. "Just remember," he had said. "It's not about love, it's about art."

Was this note a warning to me? Had he reconsidered his philosophy? I wondered if he really had killed himself over Dominic, or whether it was something deeper. Did he regret his divorce? Or the fact that he had rarely seen his children? Had he been damaged by his own unhappy childhood? And then there was Macca. Had they been lovers? Or was this a case of unrequited love?

I stayed at the flat that afternoon, helped the others sort through Orlof's stuff. We were looking through his wardrobe when I caught sight of the pile of journals—the supposed "magnum opus" which he had guarded so religiously. Standing on a chair I carefully took them down. There must have been thirty or so, of varying thickness and age, some cheap exercise books, some leather-bound volumes. The covers were labelled with the dates to which the journals corresponded—1984-1985 and so on. I found the most recent book and flipped open the cover, expecting to find Orlof's barely legible handwriting. But the book was empty. Not one page was marked in any way.

I picked up another, older looking volume, this one covering a period ten years or so earlier. But this one was also empty. The pages looked worn, as though leant on, or frequently handled—I even thought I saw a pencil smudge—but there was not a word of writing. I threw this book aside and sorted through the pile until I had found the earliest journal, dated in the mid-sixties, at the height of Orlof's glory days. On the inside cover Orlof had, almost childishly, inscribed his name, but apart from this, the book was empty, just as the others had been.

As I flicked through the pages I found a couple of black and white photos. They were of Macca—a much different Macca to the one I had recently met. In the photos he was dark and muscular, his hair wild and unkempt. He leaned against a battered Holden Ute, a rifle in one hand, and a dead cat in the other.

Simon and Helen had begun to help me sort through the journals. An inexplicable sense of panic had crept over us as we tossed aside one empty book after another.

As I reached for another journal the photos of Macca fell to the floor. They were quickly buried beneath the growing pile of discarded books. We moved quickly now, not even bothering to examine every journal in detail, just glancing at the first few pages. I had begun to feel a little nauseous, overwhelmed by this discovery. Was this all there was to Gordon Orlof?

Did he really have nothing to say? Or was this emptiness the true story of his life? Soon we had checked the last journal, and as the dust settled, I looked about us. We were surrounded by the glaring white of unmarked paper—a brilliant void, into which I feared I might tumble at any moment.

Graham Catt is a South Australian writer of poetry, short stories, and children’s fiction. His work has been published in numerous magazines and journals around Australia, and widely published on the Web. His first poetry collection, Shooting Stars, was published by Ginninderra Press in 2001. He is a member of Adelaide’s long established Friendly Street Poets, and currently serves as Treasurer on the Friendly Street Committee. In 2002, he co-edited Blue: Friendly Street Poetry Reader 27.

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