Heaven

She sat alone in what she called heaven.
The walls were covered from top to bottom with pictures of beautiful people, people she admired, people that she saw as perfect. No one dared talk to her unless they were one of “them”, one of the beautiful people. Her friends were one of them, the people who went to her parties were one of them, everyone she knew was one of them. To her the nice were the beautiful, the people who could make a difference in the world were the wealthy. Anyone who wasn’t one of them wasn’t important to her, they lived in two totally different worlds.

She sat alone thinking of what to wear to tonight’s party. Everyone was going to be there, everyone would be watching.
She stepped from the limo blinded by the flashes of bright light, everyone was trying to get ‘that’ photo they could add to their collection of beautiful people, the perfect picture they could stick on their wall.
Inside she fitted right in. Sipping Cristal champagne all night, she left arm in arm with one of them.

Lying alone on what he called home,
it was nearly that time again. The time he was dreading, the time which he was told would one day make him better. The nurse opened the door labelled intensive care. He lay there still as a log, hoping, praying. He squinted just enough to see what was happening. In came the nurse, leading a team of ghostly figures pushing a white bed similar to his own. Lying on the bed was a bandage- covered angel, with a face that rekindled the beauty of heaven itself.
He lay motionless with his eyes focused on this perfect creature, oblivious to the pain of chemicals running through his body.

The sun leaked through the gaps of the heavily draped windows pushing the gloom of the night into the past. She awoke to the thought of how that little black dress had turned into a ghastly white garment. She lay there shrouded in bandages in a world so different to her own. Across from her lay a little boy who was far from being one of them.
He slowly came towards her and presented her with his most prized possession. The thought of taking that dirty, old toy never crossed her mind until she turned and saw the smile in his face, the anguish in his eyes.

The happiest days of her life were spent in that room labelled intensive care. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her newfound friend and returning to the life she once thought was perfect. The world that was full of “those” people, the fake, the shallow the materialistic. She had to change, she couldn’t see those people again, she couldn’t return to “that” world.

She sat alone in her empty room holding a parcel.
The walls were bare, no posters or pictures of those people once thought to be perfect, no little black dresses hanging up in her closest.
She opens the parcel. Inside is that ‘dirty, old toy’ that belonged to the little boy who had taught her that beauty was so much more than just skin deep. She took the bear and placed it on her window sill where the sun was streaming in.

She sat in silence. Now this was heaven.


By Amy McKinnon - 2004

Club 77

Club 77
Like a scene from Party Monster every Saturday night.
Well it once was.
For a first-timer maybe it still is.
But it has changed, only slightly though.

It once was a place for the minority of kids who liked listening to hours of electro in the bat cave like den reaching temperatures that could easily challenge those of a steaming sauna. Drugs and dancing were the only things that mattered on a Saturday night. The clothes worn by the regulars happened to be the best that Salvos could offer, but no one gave a damn, except those who wouldn’t dare venture down those red stairs. Mind you that was most of Sydney’s clubbing youth. Girls who went to your school would laugh if you mentioned you spent almost every Saturday night at “Club 77”, and if you were a guy the words fag would most likely be thrown your way.
But we didn’t give a damn.

Although it has slightly changed, the vibe that Macaulay Calkin portrays so well still enchants the club. The kids who run the night (although not kids by age) are “living the dream” of the underground lifestyle, and have been doing so at Club 77 for the past three years.
Enjoying the hallucinations of three day acid trips is no strange experience to them.
Whilst the more expensive entertainment option of a fine white powder is the ideal premium preference, the young boys and girls who pay the ten dollar fee to experience the scene generally don’t have the option and spend their last dollars on little white pills.

If 77 is your club of choice it is more than presumed that drugs are a key part in your night’s entertainment. And for most it is.
The deejays, in particular one, are adored by the young crowd, with their biggest fans wanting to emulate every aspect of their lives. And some try their very best.

I did, sort of. Making a “fan” tee shirt is as far as I went.

When it started three years ago it was never like it is now. Leaving the club around 3.30am satisfied you smelt like cigarettes and sweat.
Your mind wanting to stay whilst your body drags you out the door. Ears ringing as you lay in bed, unshowered, partially dressed, with the beats still playing in your head, smiling as you fall asleep from pure exhaustion.
And that was the perfect night.

Not to mention, the occasional Tuesday night where the club’s reputation has brought the world’s best deejays to the spot for free. MSTRKRFT and DJ AM proved that deejaying is truly an art form. And this was just a bonus.

Like a scene from Party Monster every Saturday night.
In many ways it still is.
It’s attitude.
It’s reputation.
The music.
And the original kids, just living the William Street lifestyle.

By Amy McKinnon 17/07/2009