rusty, lodge, spoon, blood

on the third day he stepped on a rusty nail and needed to see a doctor. she stood by his side looking anxious.
'we'll get there,' he said.
'i know. i just...' she kissed his temple. 'i just don't know what to expect.'

they arrived just before sunset and walked through the aisle of pots and vases, of souvenier spoons. marketeers nodded in their direction, tired. disappointed maybe.

'excuse me,' they approached a man in a brown cardigan selling coloured toffees. 'we're after the puppeteer, can you help us sir?'
'toffee?' he said in russian.
'the puppeteer?' she said.
he took a good look at the man. then her, more slowly. he looked at the shape of her eyes, the tone of her skin. he smiled and pointed towards the west-end of the market.
'it has been along time since you here,' the toffee man said suddenly.
her heart beat faster.
'his english no good since he come back.'
'i don't have much to say,' she stammered.
the anger built in her suddenly. she remembered him leaving. not writing. sending a birthday card. she remembered being here, five years before and running from the market when she had seen the same red hut. the familiar curtains. his puppets.
'love the same in all languages,' the toffee man said.
she took a deep breath.

...

and his nose started to bleed and they had misplaced the key to their room in the lodge. but he was here with her - and he loved her - so they laughed and sat down by the door and kissed and smiled and he wiped the blood on his jeans.
'i'm glad it's over,' she said.
'it will hurt less soon,' he promised.
she put her hand in the puppet.

candle, blink, airport, change

none of it had been romantic. like a new job or a haircut, it had just happened in an orderly and logical fashion. they had met on tour. she had returned and he had picked her up from the airport. having nowhere to stay, she had carried her belongings (confined to a small brown suitcase) up the apartment building stairs and unpacked. he had bought her a toothbrush. she had cooked dinner by candelight - only because the power had gone off.

'good night,' he said and stuck out his hand.
'good night,' she said shaking it.
they lay beside each other not touching.

blink blink. the alarm clock suddenly came to life.

he laughed in the darkness.
'what?'
he fumbled through his wallet that sat on the drawers beside the bed.
'here,' he said with a smile and held out a handful of coins.
she looked confused. then hurt. then she laughed.
'you're an asshole.' she grinned, 'it's pro bono... i told you in paris that you could never afford me.'
he hesitated for a moment, then leant over and kissed her ear.

rose, buckle, whistling, said

i see his walk, his smile, the freckle below his nose - on the face of every stranger. sometimes i smell him in a cinema; only to turn and find another man, a different set of hands, a softer chuckle. i wonder how many people see me as me or for how many i'm just a blur. a reminder of her.

i remember the first day we met, a stranger whistling nearby, a meeting of eyes, a smile. that day i had been sad. troubled. and he had been there. we had laughed into the early hours of the morning. kissed by an old factory fence.

i remember the last day we kissed. the airport, my hand on the buckle of his bag. his arms by his side. an unfamiliar silence.

in my office across the sea, i receive a single red rose. i think of all the things i should have said. my boss whistles. i think of all the things i'll say.

statue, paper, crayon, desperate

there was a statue of a poet in the town square. as a child she would stand before him and read the words engraved in the stone. she'd read them fast sometimes or sound them out slowly, kissing every word as it passed her lips. he had died a hero for his words (or had simply been the most famous man to ever live in the small town). she loved the way he looked towards the sky - like there was never anything to fear.

at home she would lay on the floor and sketch. she would take more pleasure in the blackening of her finger tips than in whatever evolved on the paper. she would smell the crayons and line them up, in darkening shades or in alphabetical order or sometimes in the order that clashed the most - pinks with orange, red with brown, a vomit of colours before her. she would pack them away, the sticks of wax, like bars of gold under her torn mattress.

she would take her drawings to the square and hold them out. she would tell him what they were. the desperate mother, clinging to her sick child. the town fair, where her brother and she had danced with puppets. the men with guns that stood by the city walls. a picture of her, wearing the green hat that one of them had given her. she would stand for hours looking at the statue, the pictures dangling by her side. she would poke her chest out like his.
'there is nothing to fear,' she would whisper, as she looked to the sky.

slowly, the town filled with more men and more guns.

desk, button, elephant, walk

i press a button and within moments we're in an african jungle. elephants, tigers, skeleton trees. we walk for miles, drinking from our canteens, our hands throb in the warmth.
i press a button and we're on the floor of the ocean. still. quiet. bubbles.
press again and there is fire, a screaming child...
press again and a lady writes at her desk.
press 'off' and the screen turns black.

the world is no safer out there.


(haha. sorry. tired. will write something wonderful tomorrow...lies!)

shiver, fingers, ripple, danger

i run my fingers over the ripples of his skin and sigh. sometimes it always seems warm.
the coldest night leaves you shiver-free when there is something in your head that makes your heart beat slow.
sometimes you can't give it a name.
other times, it's a place or a danger or a boy.

props

props are presented, as props are due.

ta to harpo for ace html editing/picture placing.

dream to trace the basil animal

i've lived my life as a fake.
because i couldn't draw - i'd trace animals through baking paper.
because i wasn't funny - i would memorise comics' sketches and recite them to my friends.
because i wasn't tall - i would wear high-heeled red shoes.
because i wasn't happy - i would smile all the time.

only bad writing starts by recounting a dream, basil said.

i could pretend i didn't know that - because i'm good at pretending.
pretending i'm working, while i listen to the voices on the cd's that i play.
pretending i'm learning, when i'm looking at her hair or her clothes.
pretending i know someone named basil - because i can't think of any other way to use the word. :)

to hinder the discoloured calm clock

the alarm clock beeped. nooo i heard myself whine.
i need to shop i thought as i worked my way through a pile of clothing, most of them similar items, in a varying discoloured black. stockings, skirt, tshirt, cowboy boots, jacket. done. no time for breakfast. i imagined him saying it was only a matter of time till i got grumpy and an unfamiliar calm washed over me.

on the train there was a poster - part of the moving melbourne exhibition - the first caption, a poem about a moth. a bad poem, but my distaste was instantly hindered when i continued to read. under such a wide sky, how can narrow minds exist? the words of a melbourne-based graphic designer. i smiled, inspired and typed the quote into my phone. i thought of him.

today - there was something worth getting up for.

man beer sleeping brown

the only time he felt happy was when he was asleep. the thought ran through his head all day. on the train in the morning, sitting at his desk, having a beer over lunch, sleeping with his wife.
'how could he be happy if he didn't know what he was thinking or feeling,' his wife would ask her friends.

it was an absence, not a happiness. but neither could distinguish the two. she kept making the pie that he hated - hoping that one day he would explain why he pushed it around and around on his plate, or that one day it would infuriate him so much that he would throw the plate, or pound the table with his weatherworn hands... so that one day, she would know that there was something still alive inside.
'he just seems to be asleep all the time,' she'd mutter.

...

when he had fallen for her the sky hadn't gotten larger or brighter, it had just fallen silent. the whole world around them had fallen silent. so that he could hear her breathe. hear her sigh. hear her coming up the hall. the world seemed less brown - less edged.

and it was that time he dreamt of when he was asleep... but how could he explain it to her over dinner. how could he say that he frowned all the way home on the train. that he couldn't hear her anymore.

the descent silently down the bake line

he sat silently while she ranted.
‘and i hate them and i can’t believe that they would say that or do that and they can…’ she made some kind of angry noise. ‘i’m so angry.’
he knew better than to say, ‘no shit,’ but there wasn’t really anything else he could say.
‘just cause you love your job.’
‘it’s not about loving it. it’s being able to take a step back and say, this is my job but my job isn’t me... and i’ve told you about my pipecleaners before. i sorted the line into colours today because i didn’t really feel like making anything,’ he said smuggly.
‘you’re insane,’ she said laughing.
‘made you smile though.’
she put the cake in to bake.

...

'i bought you something,' he said.'what?'
'open it.' he passed her a package wrapped in blue paper.
'pipecleaners.'
'for work.'
she was a little disappointed.
'try it,' he coaxed her.
'but i'm not angry.'
'just try it.'
she made a fishing rod.
he made a boat.
she made a rainbow.
he made a dog.
'you're better at this than me,' she blushed.
'don't give up.'
she made a lamp-post (that looked like the fishing rod).
he made a flower.
she made a little girl and a little boy.
he made a ring with a red stone.
'marry me,' he said.

some sugar, a certificate, a goose and a fork

magic is not something to be toyed with.

but when you're fourteen, when you're in love and when she, who is seventeen, doesn't give a goose-wobble about whether you live or die... you've gotta try your hand at playing god. you gotta try your hand at something or the only thing you'll be handling... is well... you know.

well you do.

the plan was to meet at bertie's. to get her mum out of the house... maybe tell her kmart was having a sale, or there was an old lady down the road with a fork stuck in her throat, or (if neither of those worked), maybe set the back shed on fire. uncle jimmy had done it once before and bertie's mum sure didn’t have time to worry about bertie then.

in a saucepan - we place a cup full of sugar, hair from bertie's dog beetle and seven cups of water. we stir it till it boils and tip in seven drops of red food colouring. when the colour has soaked through the hair - we carefully collect each strand and rub them together, to create a kind furball. once all the hair is tightly interlaced; we stretch it into an ellipse shape. then we apply.

that was all the kit said.

so we did it, using the kmart excuse.

but all the magic in the world couldn’t make ms certificate fall in love with me and my dog hair moustache.

a death, a sea shell, a radio and a jacket

this particular part of the ocean had never seen a jacket like this. it was green and made of synthetic material. it had two long sleeves and a zip that ran up the front. but it was not these things that made it new, for the ocean had seen many zips and many sleeves. it was the body that filled the jacket – the almost transparent skin - that made the sand and the shells and small fish nervous. the tag said his name was jerrebie meremi. he did not sound or look or die like a fisherman.

he just arrived one day, as things often do, and that - my little sea urchins - is where our story begins.

....

to be continued...

the four burials

a new bit of boredom has led to a new writerly challenge... named after a horrible film of a similar name*.

a story, based around 4 words, to be uploaded by 4pm each working day.

cake

you do a course and while assessing the best kind of work for you, you're told that an incident that occurred when you were 8 - has left you forever feeling like you'll never be enough. so you take on work and uni, a novel and the most destructive relationship possible - to help you sleep at night.

and they're right about some of it.

wrong - because you still can't sleep at night. you're far too stressed for that. you start having blood noses in the shower. you stop doing your hair.

and then it's the 10th of june and the bar is double-booked.

two 21st's.
1. a boy who works in the local surf shop
2. a girl who is having barbie party... because she can

you and t laugh predicting the "events". the skirts that are too short, the eyes that leer for far too long. you sigh and over-staff. you hire security. you make a stiff drink. your nose bleeds. the birthday girl arrives first in a stretch of pink lycra and the bar-boys opt to work the front bar. you happily accept the back bar when mr. birthday arrives with all his friends.

amongst barbie hookers and surfers, you move bottles of champagne, unpolished wine glasses and libidos. you keep the door between parties closed as often as you can. but the scent of lust is too strong. soon there is pounding on the glass. there are liaisons outside. the security guard is smiling - earning every dollar. you call a quick "bar talk" while the speeches are going.

not much to be said. the bottle of moet is passed around, as are a few chilled becks. e brings a tray of function food out the back; you laugh and scoff it down. at $400 a platter - it's not too bad. before you re-open the bar, you put the moet, beer and pinwheels on account.

you continue with the party, you dance and mouth lyrics. you cut more people off than you should - simply because you can. you start to envisage the clean up and quickly push the thoughts from your head. eventually you turn the lights up too high. you start collecting glasses you should have cleaned up hours ago. you keep eating the cold food. drinking the cold beer.

you call a swarm of taxis and tell the dj's its over. you kick them all out. you tell the mother of barbie that all the cake was cut and served. you bill both parties and laugh because the total is ridiculous. you lock the doors quite rudely, assemble the staff and sit down for a much needed cigarette. you uncover the un-cut and un-served birthday cake and laugh. it is better than last weeks.

when you're drunk enough, you start to clean up. you break the "floating dancefloor" while trying to pull it apart but you don't care. you smoke more cigarettes. you run the dishes through on a cold rinse so you don't have to wait for them to cool down. your boyfriend picks you up on his way home and you're too tired to talk. tucked under his arm, you sleep well that night.

you wake up the next day and decide to work on your novel.

newbies

the car is a horrid blue and has a giant 'courtesy' sticker on the driver door. you laugh because you know c frowns everytime he's forced to stop at the traffic lights. fiddles with the stereo to avoid meeting eyes through the window.
'nice one,' you say, smiling. you run your finger over the sticker, 'more like...'
'cuntesy'.
you both laugh.

squashed next to the girl that's replaced you, you make idle chat as you drive towards to the 'coop'. the manager has been fighting for this land for years and you're sure its splendour couldn't validate all the drink rings you had to clean during meetings and trial briefs and voting days. you hit the beaten track, the rocks flying - denting, damaging, laughing - saying its the mechanics fault for not returning c's car sooner. he pulls over by the house.

the house is disheveled and slanted. on the west side a tree has fallen on the roof which makes it look from the east side, like tim burton has grown a tree right through the middle.
'now until there are permits for the b&b, we're not really sure what to do with the house,' the manager says.
'party?' asks e.
you laugh and finger the mainsafe key in your pocket. at night, once all the keys are locked up, that house is as good as yours.
'there's blood on the carpet,' t squeals.
'less to clean up,' e whispers.

the sun sets while you're all standing there - in the most magnificent pink - and you remember a line from a kafka novel - in a battle between you and the world, back the world...
even though all you can smell is cow dung - you know you haven't seen anything as beautiful for a long time. the blue car turns a kind of purple. you smile.

behind bars

but that's the thing. you leave and you think it'll all be different when you come back... it's not.

there is still the grandma that wants half a plate of food, the child that paints circles on the table with sauce crusted fingers, the uncle that avoids his round of drinks by going to the bathroom just as mum finishes her jellybean. all there and all expecting you to sing when you bring out the overpriced, sprinkle-covered blackforest cake.

aunt wendy orders a skinny decaf soy latte because she thinks it's a real drink and the cold steel bars come up. a co-worker drops a bar of soap and you laugh 'cause it's all true. everything they said.

happy fucking birthday.

ok. bored.

how do people do this for years?

tomorrow there will be a monster unleashed on this little site. a new project. because i cant get my shit together and write a novel in real time, i am going to begin posting sections on a daily basis - with no formal planning and see what happens.

then, come the vogel next year, i'll just cut and paste some, win $20.000 and never blog again.

you have my word.

sleep soundly dear children.

dave chappelle's block party

j:beats says:
im going to have a block party

very busy maths student says:
yeah? but you aren't as funny as dave chapelle, and you don't know lots of hip hop artists
what are you going to do?

...
:) cheers glover.

it is, by the way, an excellent excellent film.

snow

when i get to the office it’s the same recounts of dinner time conversation, the sighs over full instead of skim milk, the clicking of emails and forwards and text messages. a playground of awkward smiles and pretend birthday wishes. i can't see a window from where i sit. i wait for someone else to look at the clock before i do.

there is a drip by the side of my desk and i imagine it’s a knife. i move under it to stop from falling asleep. i dream of sky falling and covering my desk in soft, white snow.

cape

and maybe i had loved him. i had convinced myself it was the return of love that i had loved, the having of someone after so long. but then, it wasn’t so good. i had been sad for longer than he knew and while he had slept, i had pondered leaving more times than he’d want to know. it’s hard this whole relationship thing, when you’re meant to be honest but protect yourself, meant to love – but not too quickly, when you can give up your body – your very self, but still hold back. and because of all of this, because it just wasn’t right or just wasn’t working – it ended. and i got front row seats to his next show.

he donned a cape, like superman - except his was more tight black jeans and leather. with new hair and a new point of view, it would all be okay. the pain would be buried deep inside, the memories… merely that. to be recounted and recollected only when it suited a joke or anecdote he was telling. and it worked, the mask, the laugh, the walk. they were fooled and they embraced him and took him out and fucked him.

and for awhile, that was enough.

the mourning after

every year she would wrap foil around the tree. she would flinch if she heard the screeching of breaks close or in the distance. she would see his face smiling, something he rarely did, she would shake bad thoughts from her mind. not now nola, she’d think.

and every year i would cut it down when she’d gone to work. i’d cut it down and hide it in my drawer. the same gaudy silver, the same fluroscent happy birthday written in capital letters. i'd sit silently as she’d rant and cry that some local bastard had cut it down. some bastard child of some bastard bastard. flabbergasted, she’d fail to make sense. she’d cry the way she had the day it had happened. reliving the moment over and over again.

i did it hoping one year she’d accept it. that one year she’d see there was nothing wrong with mourning. that it was the only way to look towards the future, to embrace what was left.
the life she was letting rot.
that marriage.
the children that hated her.
the room.
the room that didn’t change.
the socks on the bed.
the dust.

bc#1 love of seven dolls

ok. a book club to serve as both a reminder for me and a portal for the reading pleasure of others...

#1 love of seven dolls (paul gallico)



it is a more a magical story than a psychological study. mouche's innocence is pitted against the brutality of the puppeteer in a tale of redemption.

'that night mouche reached a new depth of shame and humiliation as she dressed beneath the mocking eyes of the drab and went out of the room leaving them there. she thought again of dying, but was so confused she no longer knew how to die. for a time she wondered about in a daze through the streets, not knowing where she was going.' p.54

but if you dont do the whole reading thing, it was turned into the film lili

(thanks to simon for lending, i loved it)