printer

I visited a printers where I was trying to source environmentally sound and inexpensive card and paper on which to print. To see the printer's stock, I climbed up a staircase in a warehouse space, up to the mezzanine level where the paper was stored in cartons and on racks. The paper I was looking for was off-cuts and seconds, destined otherwise for the rubbish heap. I was excited as I found so much that I could use, a plethora of weights, colours and sizes.
Next, I was downstairs in a different space, trying to call someone on the telephone. I felt a little cagey so I hid in the toilet cubicle to make the call. I sat on the lidded seat but then realised that everyone could see through the walls. I was in my old pyjamas. I understood that I was calling the printer.
Next, I observed a scene. The printer went home and his wife walked in. They lived in a large unit or a small house on a hill or cliff in the Hamilton, Brisbane, region. His wife told him that she was leaving him. Her reasons were unclear though she mentioned that he didn't take care of himself or their home, that she had had enough. I remember that she was quite attractive with dark brown hair, brown eyes and distinctive eye liner and shaped brows. She left. I could see that the printer felt mixed emotions; I understood that he had considered leaving for a long time but had delayed out of concern for his wife, and that he was somewhat angered that she had left him so readily and out of the blue. Nonetheless, he started a new life. He rearranged the rooms so that where her bedroom was, he now had a music room. He cleared things out and climbed up onto the roof to clean out the drains blocked with leaves. Water rushed off the roof where it had pooled, stagnant. He took a good look at his appearance and tended to his teeth, his hair and his health. It went on. Rather than witnessing the next phase of the printer adjusting and changing his life, I saw it written in chalk on a blackboard, rather like reading stage directions. 'music lessons, practises yoga, reads books, paints an abstract (it was very good), cooks ...' and many more. The blackboard changed into a newspaper and his story was published. I saw the newspaper pages blown by the wind through the city streets, and stick to people. Men with newspaper pages plastered to their chests, their faces, their suitcases. The news spread far and wide.
Next, I walked along Kingsford Smith Drive, his house up the steep hill on one side and the Brisbane river on the other. I walked until I found a block of units on the river where I would consider living. An old woman welcomed me - the landlord of the building.