By Matthew O’Shannessy and Rebekah Weikel (introduction).
3:AM fits. We met through 3:AM. We didn’t, really, but it’s possible. We both read 3:AM religiously. Small books brought us together; small books made by large people too large to be “general” — to us, at least. He emailed me from Melbourne in 2012; he asked questions around the titles I was publishing and many times felt like my only devotee. The only logical thing to do was to marry. We eventually did — marry — but then he got ill and left me with a son and this document to publish. This is he, Matthew O’Shannessy; as a young adult living in Melbourne, traveling across Japan, growing up in Tasmania, moving to Los Angeles. This is he as a young professional, a married man in Italy, and a new father on morphine facing the end. This is a review of a life, written in its last week; the moments remembered he was soon to part from.
He titled it, “Small Pleasures”.
-Rebekah Weikel
Small Pleasures
Bed
Tasmanian night. Pure and black. Ice on the asphalt. Trees sway in the breeze and woodsmoke. The soft roll of the hills, barely visible. These roads go nowhere but I still follow them. A loop. Then the warmth of bed.
Osaka
Horizontal rain assaults the train window. Grey sky. Smell of boiled pork and garbage. Endless arcades. Girl on a bike with an umbrella. Tiny cafe. Black coffee and eggs without toast. No conversations. No eye contact for days. Walking. Hot ramen from a street vendor. Snowflakes melting. An overwhelming sensation of incomprehension.
Venice Square
Children playing in the empty square. The waitress remembers us from last night. Take a seat. A glass of wine. Sun setting on the canals. Muggy air. I’ll have the fish. Other tourists wander the Jewish quarter. We talk about love. We talk about reality TV. It’s not so bad being a tourist.
Ocean
Walking further to find an empty beach. Heat. Humidity. Storm clouds gathering. Bruised sky. Purple and blue. Purple and grey. Floating. The force of the waves. Something bigger than myself. There is comfort in insignificance. There is peace in going forgotten. Slow rhythms. A figure on the sand. Finally, the rain. I’m just another withered dude alone at the beach.
Art House Film
Bitter wind in the street. Bitter coffee. Warmth of the cinema. A sparse crowd takes their seats. The film crowd. Social sub-circles create tension in the room. The silence is thick. Images unfold slowly. Analog clicks and hisses. Landscapes. Faces. Fragments of a plot. A murder. A love story. A mystery. Fragments of a dream. Pleasure.
Espresso
On the way to work. Clean and neat at the upscale cafe. One shot. They know how to do it. A face in the blackness then the crema. Lumpy brown sugar cube sinks slowly. Bitter-sweet sip. A bite of Portuguese tart. The rest of the day will not be this pleasant.
My Time Is My Own
CEOs and presidents do not matter. Petty tyrants and gatekeepers do not matter. Only the work of love matters. Take your time. Take your moments. Take your freedoms. Run from control.
Steam On Asphalt
Clouds roll back. Rain tapers off. Rays of sun. Hot as Hell. Children run wild through the steam rising from the asphalt. Long hair. Plastic tubes and sticks — primitive weapons. Screaming. Stench of humidity. It’s war. God has left them. Blissfully abandoned in the suburbs.
Cry
I cry for me. No. I cry for you. Hot tears stream down my face. Think fast. Work fast. Life is a tragedy. There is comfort in beautiful things. Self-pity is a privilege. I have my collection of moments. Some drunk once told me time is granular. The universe has an architecture. How profound — billions of exquisite granules of narcissism.
Baby Smile
First smile. A shock. Second smile. Warmth of love fills the nervous system. Human connection transforms from a joke into a miracle.
Getting Ugly
Baby faces draw envy and hatred. Curse your beauty. Curse your youth. They bring you nothing. A dream of the pleasures of sagging skin. In missing teeth. In baldness. In slowness. The ecstasy of aging out will not be mine.
Walking
Flat city. So many streets. No work. No obligations. Walk east. Walk west. What does it matter. Plenty to fill the day. Ancient shops. Empty, decaying factories. Haunted avenues. Silence in the aching heat. Junkies drying out in the sun. What new banal delights await in those endless suburbs?
Marriage
Bohemians balk at the contract. But what’s wrong with love blessed by the state? Bureaucracy and ecstasy are not mutually exclusive. Institutional power may foster longevity. Confetti explodes against brutalist architecture. Roses over concrete. Our love will live forever.
Nectarine
Mutant peach I crave your juices.
Leaving The Lauren Berlant Lecture
There’s an introduction. A long-haired man, adolescent in stature, provides an introduction. He talks about post-structuralism, grants, the mysteries of academia. The theatre is hushed. The lights are low. What is his name? We await the star. She’s here to talk about comedy. What makes something funny. Transgression. She steps up to the microphone, a Powerpoint presentation unfurls on the screen behind. The language is vague. The argument escapes me. We exit the theatre and head to the bar. I’m suddenly relieved to be too dumb to understand.
Ditching Work
Make the call. Fake the cough. The day is yours. Take the tram to the cafe. Fill your face with gingerbread and eggs and coffee. Dusty record store. Call the dole friends. Drink beer in the park. It’s barely lunchtime and the afternoon approaches as sublime eternity. Winter sun warms the bones. Maybe you will still be sick tomorrow.
Love
It has been found. What? Love on Gchat. A million miles never mattered. All those planes and packages bouncing over international waters. Two black paintings on the wall of a one-bedroom flat. The mysteries of life buried in shellac by a crack-smoking Detroit artist. This run of wine-pink evenings will never end. Until it ends.
My Flat
Close the door. Silence. Don’t turn on the lights. No one knows I’m here. Just another anonymous window. Lie on the couch. Listen to the neighbors fuss over dinner. The mind is nothing but shadows on the wall. No plans. No bosses. The night is mine.
Back Of The Room
Deafening noise. Darkness. Bodies. Shadows. People you know. Hands on your back. Alcohol. It’s beautiful to be alone among friends. Waves of sound. The body oscillates. Let your brain shut down. All the chatter has evaporated into incomprehensible noise. Leave alone before the end of the set. Deep breaths of cold air. The long walk home.
Driving
There is nowhere to go. Except everywhere in LA. Dirty streets. Winding hills. The flat geometry of the Valley. Neon daylight. Empty boulevards. Sunset at midnight. We never go home because home is here.
Silence
Terra-cotta roof tiles baking in the heat. Heavy silence until a wind chime rings out in the distance. The sound of a small plane somewhere. If this was a movie, the nuclear detonation would occur any second. It’s not a movie. It’s just the suburbs.
Discharged
Day one covered in wires. They draw blood. They do tests. Day two, alone in bed. Day three, the world has disappeared. All that exists are beige walls and IV drips. The food arrives and goes. The TV drones on. The surgery is delayed. A few more days while we figure out what’s going on. Finally they wheel you down to the operating room. Sleep, then more tests. More waiting. You’re fine to go. The world reappears. The sun hits your face.
Kitchen
(Left blank.)
Golden Sleep
Yellow haze behind the curtains. Single particle of dust caught in a ray. Movement of leaves on glass, on fabric. Dream pulling at the back of the eyelids. Waning afternoon sun. Bring me somewhere soft. Bring me golden sleep. Weight collapsing off me like shards of a melting glacier. Golden liquid poured into the base of the skull. Beyond the frame of light, only exquisite pure blackness.
Pictures taken by Matthew O’Shannessy in Melbourne, 2011.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Matthew O’Shannessy (1976-2020) was an Australian writer and filmmaker. He studied English Literature at RMIT University and Film at the Victorian College of the Arts, Melbourne.
Rebekah Weikel is a writer living in Los Angeles. Her writing has appeared in Artforum, Art in America, BOMB, and elsewhere.
