I saw them from the car window. A stream of blonde, coiffured, pram-pushers, muddled with their carefully styled husbands. They were rolling along the footpath, a caravan of monied middleclassness. And as they pushed their children back to urban 4WDs they passed a someone lying foetal in the park. Tiny, and from my brief glance, a woman (though she looked more like a pile of rags than a woman). As I marveled at the contrast of affluence one of the carefully styled husbands broke away from the procession to investigate.

It was almost a shock, a raised eyebrow of surprise. He was their nominated representative sent to make overtones of peace on behalf of his people. I only wish I had an ending to the story. The lights turned green and I turned the corner, missing the climax (I suspect it was anti-climactic). But as the car followed the flashing orange of the indicator I was filled with a mix of feelings, each battling its way to the fore; climbing, panting, hair-pulling to be the first in line. But humbled got there first, sliding into base just before shame. I had presumed, because of the way they looked, that they would keep walking past and ignore the passed out drunk. I was wrong.

Its hard not to get cynical about the invading swarms of well-to-do’s in this suburb. I grew up in a seaside town that lost its sleepy uniqueness to a flood of mediocrity in the guise of invaders from the south, come to make their favourite holiday destination home. I see that here in St Kilda, only this time I’m in the position of newcomer, an invader from the north (I’m taking back territory). I excuse myself from death by association by proof of my income, my lack of blonde-coiffure, and no desire to frequent the cafes that line the main strip. Mostly I excuse myself because I give a shit about the unseen half of the population.

This is a suburb with multiple personality disorder. A suburb that situates the most vulnerable next to the affluent, with a dollop of arts and a heft of booze. And mostly the parts seem to move in different worlds, so much so that you could tell Doctor Who to drop in and observe a parallel universe in action. So when I saw the neat man go to the aid of the rag woman I was moved from a position of judgment to that of begrudging admiration; my cheeks coloured pink with misplaced typecasting. Because I saw his face, and he went with genuine concern.

It is a temptation when you walk with the most marginalised/poorest/people with their teeth rotted out of their mouths to sneer at the better off who share the same path. Easy to write them off as non caring, oblivious and narrow minded. Easy to get cynical too. To expect the worst from those who look the best. But the reality is that grooming and fiscal security are not synonymous with lacking compassion. The reality is that choosing to look, to talk, to walk doesn’t give you the moral high ground over someone who appears not to.

Of course it is hard to reconcile the two coexisting worlds. I go down to the Esplanade to clear my head, and on those perfect summer nights the shapes of people litter my vision as I cross toward the sunset that silhouettes them perfectly. Families eat icecreams, backpackers drink cheap goon from the cask, I walk through clouds of joint smoke. Dogs are walked, children laugh and romantics hold hands. It all seems so damn joyous.

Simultaneously only streets and yet worlds away from where M. is hanging out on the corner in the same sunshine. Literally hanging, sick with wanting for heroin, selling her rapidly shrinking self. She’s lost about 10 kilos in the last couple of months, sliding deeper and deeper into A Really Bad Place. Her bones just out of her, angular and sick looking. Hard to fathom.

Bell took the photo of Luna Park. When we talked about it she said she wished it was her in the photograph, holding hands with her lover, wearing matching outfits; carefree. I felt the weight of her longing to be a part of the straight world in that wish. To make the step of the threshold of them, moving into us.

When I frogmarched my scrapping emotions into a semblance of order the one that waited calmly at the back was want. I want that woman passed out in the park to have what the passing parade of blond women had (soberness, security, safety, nice hair, white teeth). I want Bell to have her lover with matching clothes. I want M. to be silhoutted against the setting sun, laughing along the boardwalk with an icecream in hand, fatter and happy; not wasting away in front of my eyes. I want life to be distributed fairly, evenly.

But wanting all of those things doesn’t make those that have more automatically guilty, or those who have-not automatically innocent. My favourite cry of injustice as a child was “It’s not fair” to which any one of my exasperated parents would reply, “No, life is not fair”. No, it really isn’t. But that doesn’t mean I get to blame it on some arbitrary group, because they fit the part of perpetrator. Lesson learned.