BEGINNINGS
Circles – Sarah McLachlan
After an uneventful day, the phone rang and I leapt into action.
I don’t know why I was so excited. I was running around the apartment scrubbing the dishes, myself and the grime from our greasy bench. Hiding the mess that couldn’t be disposed of in the 15 minutes warning I’d been given.
Mick was bringing over his new boyfriend Milo.
Standing a good two inches taller than Mick, Milo had short spiky blonde hair and was dressed in a trendy long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans.
Milo seemed a little nervous as he stepped through the door. I, on the other hand, was fighting the urge to jump across the room and hug him.
Mick’s had a rough trot in the past. He’s had his share of freaks and losers, all of which made him feel terrible. And for the past couple of years it has broken my heart to see him so uncomfortable with himself, he seemed so frustrated and lonely even when he was in a relationship.
But for the past couple of weeks he’s been truly happy. I can’t say it will last forever, I don’t have that power, but for right now it’s the best thing that’s happened to Mick in years.
He has someone who adores him, something he deserves.
“I just hope you two get on,” was the last thing he said when he called to warn me about their imminent arrival.
I understood his concerns. Friendships are strained, and in the past have been seriously endangered, because of a new addition to the fold. Luckily, his fear was unfounded.
I hadn’t met this guy until last night but I could see how he made Mick feel, how Mick was comfortable and happy and excited, and that made me already like the idea of having him around.
The pair had spent the day shopping and when they spilled through the door with their swag of goodies I was immediately ordered to close my eyes. I obeyed and heard a bag rustle.
“Open them,” Mick stifled a laugh. There before me was a new pair of animal ears. Fluffy, white bunny ears with a blue satin lining. I’ve been walking around bemoaning not having any animal ears since my leopard ones were reclaimed by my sister-in-law a couple of weeks ago. Now, I had the sheer pleasure of ears once again.
The gift meant so much. Not only because it was a thoughtful thing to do, but because of the timing of its arrival.
So we spent the night drinking and dancing and laughing and talking. As Mick cooked for us, Milo and I got a chance to talk and I was impressed. He was open, honest, funny and intelligent. The characteristics I have always admired in my friends. And he seemed to casually blend into the landscape, as though we’d all hung out like this a million times before.
So now Mick’s got someone to love and to love him. A man who’s normal and charming and damn attractive. Someone who makes him happy.
That makes me happy.
So I stood on the balcony this morning, hung over in a world that felt a little on an angle, and I watched the sun rise over Sydney.
All I could think was how blessed I was that my life fell apart so that I could be standing here, my head pounding and my jaw aching from the laughter.
Monday, May 31, 2004
Sunday, May 30, 2004
A LETTER
Call Me – Petula Clark (oh don’t ask)
Dear reader,
Today was uneventful. Nothing happened. However I managed to burn away the hours and consign this day to the past with minimal effort.
I sat on the balcony drinking lime cordial watching the children across the road playing.
One of the children, a girl of about eight, sat on the front fence swinging her feet. The fence, with its brick pillars and white 50s fashioned zig-zag design, covered in shadow. She was singing, off key, Richard Marx’s Right Here Waiting. Her brother, a boy of about 11, was bashing a stick onto the fence without rhythm.
The houses across from me are all single storey homes. The windows stare out like vacant eyes, flanking a crooked smile of a door. Late at night you can see the odd light come on or switch off and I wonder about the lives of the families inside.
Another neighbour, a man of about 20 dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, was washing his maroon car on the grass in front of his house and being abused by an elderly man in a blue sweater and beige pants with a walking stick for his actions. “Don’t you know there’s water restrictions?” He nodded and smiled and explained he was only doing a quick wash and would be careful. His politeness silencing the elderly man who then walked off.
The woman on the balcony adjacent to mine hanged clothes so they would catch the sun that clipped the corner of the tiny outdoors area. We nodded at each other but said nothing. I don’t even know here name after all this time simply because I’ve need had a need to call it.
My street, my temporary home, is a hive of activity for a Sunday afternoon. People flow up and down the street as they come from the nearby train station. A mass of colour and cacophony of sounds as children run through their yards and play with neighbouring families. They are laughing and screaming and crying as they go.
A dog from across the road growls like the rumbling of distant thunder but doesn’t follow through with a bark. This time.
Couples, some in matching clothes others contrasting, cling to each other as they walk to a nearby park. Some pushing prams with boisterious children inside.
And the cars stream up and down the street. Some driving way too fast for an area littered with children, some cruising suspiciously slowly.
It’s such a beautiful, sunny day. The sky a clear blue so deep that I almost doubt the existence of black behind it. The winter sun, bright but powerless, doesn’t take the chill out of the air and my fingers go numb sitting here in the shadows.
I’m going back to bed.
I hope your day was a lot more interesting.
Love,
Boswell.
Call Me – Petula Clark (oh don’t ask)
Dear reader,
Today was uneventful. Nothing happened. However I managed to burn away the hours and consign this day to the past with minimal effort.
I sat on the balcony drinking lime cordial watching the children across the road playing.
One of the children, a girl of about eight, sat on the front fence swinging her feet. The fence, with its brick pillars and white 50s fashioned zig-zag design, covered in shadow. She was singing, off key, Richard Marx’s Right Here Waiting. Her brother, a boy of about 11, was bashing a stick onto the fence without rhythm.
The houses across from me are all single storey homes. The windows stare out like vacant eyes, flanking a crooked smile of a door. Late at night you can see the odd light come on or switch off and I wonder about the lives of the families inside.
Another neighbour, a man of about 20 dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, was washing his maroon car on the grass in front of his house and being abused by an elderly man in a blue sweater and beige pants with a walking stick for his actions. “Don’t you know there’s water restrictions?” He nodded and smiled and explained he was only doing a quick wash and would be careful. His politeness silencing the elderly man who then walked off.
The woman on the balcony adjacent to mine hanged clothes so they would catch the sun that clipped the corner of the tiny outdoors area. We nodded at each other but said nothing. I don’t even know here name after all this time simply because I’ve need had a need to call it.
My street, my temporary home, is a hive of activity for a Sunday afternoon. People flow up and down the street as they come from the nearby train station. A mass of colour and cacophony of sounds as children run through their yards and play with neighbouring families. They are laughing and screaming and crying as they go.
A dog from across the road growls like the rumbling of distant thunder but doesn’t follow through with a bark. This time.
Couples, some in matching clothes others contrasting, cling to each other as they walk to a nearby park. Some pushing prams with boisterious children inside.
And the cars stream up and down the street. Some driving way too fast for an area littered with children, some cruising suspiciously slowly.
It’s such a beautiful, sunny day. The sky a clear blue so deep that I almost doubt the existence of black behind it. The winter sun, bright but powerless, doesn’t take the chill out of the air and my fingers go numb sitting here in the shadows.
I’m going back to bed.
I hope your day was a lot more interesting.
Love,
Boswell.
Saturday, May 29, 2004
THE INTERNET DANCE
Running With Scissors – Ben Lee
The Internet is an intimate dance where no one touches.
I’ve been a little shy of message boards until last week but the anonymity of it all means you could be talking with someone you really want to speak to, you’re holding out to speak to, and not have the faintest idea.
It’s like a fairytale really. Right now I’m dancing on two boards with a couple of people and I wonder who my partner is, if they aren’t royalty in disguise.
But I don’t really want to know. You can be uninhibited when you’re in disguise and it’s only fair that everyone should be allowed to take advantage of this freedom.
That is, after all, the nature of this world. It’s not real, it’s a mystical place with pseudonyms so that people can go on living their real lives while living their honest or fantasy life as well.
And I’m here every night trying to tell the difference.
I’ve just taken up message board dancing but until then I’ve been a lurker in the lives of a number of bloggers, only commenting from time to time and all the while in my disguise. Only once have I said my real name in this realm but they were unusual circumstances (although I know a few do know my name it’s still not mentioned here and I’ve appreciated that).
As a result of my ongoing advances in this realm, I’m becoming more comfortable in my disguise. Boswell was a fitting choice for me now that I consider it more thoroughly. An almost hero who finally comes to denounce all that’s he’s held on to.
tOOleS is also evolving into the world in which I intend to play out my story. The setting. Sure, I’d love to be able to do something fantastic with the design and I have grand visions but I have no skills in that field so it’s plain and simple. Violating basic principals of design as it goes.
Today I got to meet a fellow blogger face to face, Rod from Corrosive Journalism. It was great to have a face and a voice to put to the writing I’ve been enjoying for some time.
But it made me think a little more about my anonymity. That he is now the sixth person to know the name behind the disguise.
I’ve been so intent on keeping my identity a secret but the truth is having the name won’t help you. It is, after all, just a name. I could be called Michelle, Anne, Amanda, Carol, Elizabeth or Susan. My name means nothing.
So I’m Boswell. Not because I want to keep myself hidden from my dance partners but because it’s a name that means something to me.
It is who I am.
Running With Scissors – Ben Lee
The Internet is an intimate dance where no one touches.
I’ve been a little shy of message boards until last week but the anonymity of it all means you could be talking with someone you really want to speak to, you’re holding out to speak to, and not have the faintest idea.
It’s like a fairytale really. Right now I’m dancing on two boards with a couple of people and I wonder who my partner is, if they aren’t royalty in disguise.
But I don’t really want to know. You can be uninhibited when you’re in disguise and it’s only fair that everyone should be allowed to take advantage of this freedom.
That is, after all, the nature of this world. It’s not real, it’s a mystical place with pseudonyms so that people can go on living their real lives while living their honest or fantasy life as well.
And I’m here every night trying to tell the difference.
I’ve just taken up message board dancing but until then I’ve been a lurker in the lives of a number of bloggers, only commenting from time to time and all the while in my disguise. Only once have I said my real name in this realm but they were unusual circumstances (although I know a few do know my name it’s still not mentioned here and I’ve appreciated that).
As a result of my ongoing advances in this realm, I’m becoming more comfortable in my disguise. Boswell was a fitting choice for me now that I consider it more thoroughly. An almost hero who finally comes to denounce all that’s he’s held on to.
tOOleS is also evolving into the world in which I intend to play out my story. The setting. Sure, I’d love to be able to do something fantastic with the design and I have grand visions but I have no skills in that field so it’s plain and simple. Violating basic principals of design as it goes.
Today I got to meet a fellow blogger face to face, Rod from Corrosive Journalism. It was great to have a face and a voice to put to the writing I’ve been enjoying for some time.
But it made me think a little more about my anonymity. That he is now the sixth person to know the name behind the disguise.
I’ve been so intent on keeping my identity a secret but the truth is having the name won’t help you. It is, after all, just a name. I could be called Michelle, Anne, Amanda, Carol, Elizabeth or Susan. My name means nothing.
So I’m Boswell. Not because I want to keep myself hidden from my dance partners but because it’s a name that means something to me.
It is who I am.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
NOTHING
There’s a palm tree dancing on the horizon and a million thoughts dancing through my head. I’ve got a brain that’s finally thawing and a soul that’s eager to begin.
Tonight the beast has complete control. At times like these I can see everything but it fragments and I’m unable to process it.
Here are my dreams spilled into the public domain – ending journalism; paying all my bills; freeing a good friend of the burdens that I have placed on his shoulders; going back to school; writing; America.
It’s taking so long. Generally I’m not a patient person, I like to get in and do what needs to be done. But I can’t control this. I’m relying on other people to get part of the job done (my real estate agent, my temping agency, the mechanic, Centrelink).
So after three months it feels as though I’m largely in the same position I was in Canberra – perhaps a lot less psychotic and with a few problems resolved. But all that I’ve achieved in the past couple of months is like training for some kind of race. Essentially I’ve done nothing, I’m going nowhere.
Until it begins I am treading water, out at sea. I can see the shore but no matter how hard I swim it doesn’t get any closer. The constant battle is exhausting and the beast can be stronger than I am so I surrender control into its destructive hands for the time being. At least for tonight and maybe tomorrow.
I need to rest.
You can only be positive and upbeat for so long. The self-talk helps but after constant repetition it loses its effectiveness.
Tonight, I’ve got nothing to say.
There’s a palm tree dancing on the horizon and a million thoughts dancing through my head. I’ve got a brain that’s finally thawing and a soul that’s eager to begin.
Tonight the beast has complete control. At times like these I can see everything but it fragments and I’m unable to process it.
Here are my dreams spilled into the public domain – ending journalism; paying all my bills; freeing a good friend of the burdens that I have placed on his shoulders; going back to school; writing; America.
It’s taking so long. Generally I’m not a patient person, I like to get in and do what needs to be done. But I can’t control this. I’m relying on other people to get part of the job done (my real estate agent, my temping agency, the mechanic, Centrelink).
So after three months it feels as though I’m largely in the same position I was in Canberra – perhaps a lot less psychotic and with a few problems resolved. But all that I’ve achieved in the past couple of months is like training for some kind of race. Essentially I’ve done nothing, I’m going nowhere.
Until it begins I am treading water, out at sea. I can see the shore but no matter how hard I swim it doesn’t get any closer. The constant battle is exhausting and the beast can be stronger than I am so I surrender control into its destructive hands for the time being. At least for tonight and maybe tomorrow.
I need to rest.
You can only be positive and upbeat for so long. The self-talk helps but after constant repetition it loses its effectiveness.
Tonight, I’ve got nothing to say.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
MENTOR MOMENT
Pinch Me – Barenaked Ladies
“So, when are you coming back to the fold?” My journalism mentor, a woman with more than 15 years experience in the field, says. Her bubbly voice bringing back memories of the good times I had when I was one of them. When I was part of the great gatekeeper community.
“Um, I don’t really have any burning desire to return.” It wasn’t exactly true, I’m still torn between wanting to run to the safe haven of my first profession and the terror of following a new and insecure path.
At this stage I’m too exhausted to fight any more. It’s right about now that I want to simply fall into a heap and give up. Slowly crawl back to my old miserable life.
“Why not?” her shrill voice carried down the line. “Isn’t the whole ‘I’m through with journalism’ out of your system yet? I mean you had your say and sure it’s pretty much pissed off most of that publication but there are other papers.”
Yes, there are other papers. Australia with its three major newspaper networks has lots and lots of papers but they’re all saying the same thing. They monitor each other and the press releases religiously. Doing the necessary data entry to fill the pages.
I can’t speak for the rest of the world and I’m tempted to seek an over seas assignment. Something like that I would happily embrace. But without sponsorship America is out of the question and I simply don’t have enough connections in Canada to make it work.
Perhaps it’s not journalism I’m through with but Australia’s media landscape. As horrific as this may sound the Australian media landscape is the result of years of metaphoric inbreeding. One paper stripped to the core with its journalists flowing to the opposition and then when that papers dies down they flow back.
“I’m not saying never.” Pause, breathe. “I just need a break.” What else can I say? I’ve honestly got nothing to say. Nothing is black and white any more.
“Well, It’s just a shame to throw away the past five years and a promising career because you made one stupid mistake.”
Huh? Why is everyone so determined to make this my fault?
“Look, I don’t regret what I said. Journalists on a whole are complacent and fail to thoroughly research their subjects. They are simply trying to keep up with each other and the idea of finding and original story is well beyond their grasp. And the reason for that is the cheap bastards who own the paper who aren’t content to make a decent profit it has to be an obscene profit at the expense of quality,” I pause and she’s quiet.
I lower my tone that has been working its way up from a barely audible apology to a forceful roar. “You know as well as I do, you’ve got the same number of journalists working for you that they had 20 years ago because of these staff freezes. The paper’s tripled in size and they’re struggling to produce enough to fill the pages. They are doing a fantastic job considering the demands put on them but it’s not journalism anymore, it’s just data entry.”
She’s spluttering. In the background I can hear paper shuffling and I know that she’s trying to get a handle on the moment. For the past five years I have been the student at her side. Once upon a time I was eager to learn and keen to toe the party line. I don’t think she was prepared for the “sudden” turn around.
“That’s what journalism is, it’s about deadlines and pressure and making sure that people get all the information they need to make an informed decision. You knew that when you began.” I'm not really listening anymore. I've heard this excuse and I stopped buying it a couple of years ago.
“How can journalists give people all the information they need when to make their work loads they’re relying on press releases and two minute phone calls to verify facts?”
“Well, you’ll come to your senses sooner or later,” her voice sour with disappointment.
The topic changes uncomfortably as we shift gears to talk about other things. But the clumsy transition made it difficult to leave the issue behind and the conversation ended with things unsaid, with the issue unresolved.
And even now it’s unresolved. I don’t know what I’m going to do and I don’t know how I feel about the one undeniable fact that has been eating away at me for the past three months.
No matter where I’m employed - I’m a journalist.
Pinch Me – Barenaked Ladies
“So, when are you coming back to the fold?” My journalism mentor, a woman with more than 15 years experience in the field, says. Her bubbly voice bringing back memories of the good times I had when I was one of them. When I was part of the great gatekeeper community.
“Um, I don’t really have any burning desire to return.” It wasn’t exactly true, I’m still torn between wanting to run to the safe haven of my first profession and the terror of following a new and insecure path.
At this stage I’m too exhausted to fight any more. It’s right about now that I want to simply fall into a heap and give up. Slowly crawl back to my old miserable life.
“Why not?” her shrill voice carried down the line. “Isn’t the whole ‘I’m through with journalism’ out of your system yet? I mean you had your say and sure it’s pretty much pissed off most of that publication but there are other papers.”
Yes, there are other papers. Australia with its three major newspaper networks has lots and lots of papers but they’re all saying the same thing. They monitor each other and the press releases religiously. Doing the necessary data entry to fill the pages.
I can’t speak for the rest of the world and I’m tempted to seek an over seas assignment. Something like that I would happily embrace. But without sponsorship America is out of the question and I simply don’t have enough connections in Canada to make it work.
Perhaps it’s not journalism I’m through with but Australia’s media landscape. As horrific as this may sound the Australian media landscape is the result of years of metaphoric inbreeding. One paper stripped to the core with its journalists flowing to the opposition and then when that papers dies down they flow back.
“I’m not saying never.” Pause, breathe. “I just need a break.” What else can I say? I’ve honestly got nothing to say. Nothing is black and white any more.
“Well, It’s just a shame to throw away the past five years and a promising career because you made one stupid mistake.”
Huh? Why is everyone so determined to make this my fault?
“Look, I don’t regret what I said. Journalists on a whole are complacent and fail to thoroughly research their subjects. They are simply trying to keep up with each other and the idea of finding and original story is well beyond their grasp. And the reason for that is the cheap bastards who own the paper who aren’t content to make a decent profit it has to be an obscene profit at the expense of quality,” I pause and she’s quiet.
I lower my tone that has been working its way up from a barely audible apology to a forceful roar. “You know as well as I do, you’ve got the same number of journalists working for you that they had 20 years ago because of these staff freezes. The paper’s tripled in size and they’re struggling to produce enough to fill the pages. They are doing a fantastic job considering the demands put on them but it’s not journalism anymore, it’s just data entry.”
She’s spluttering. In the background I can hear paper shuffling and I know that she’s trying to get a handle on the moment. For the past five years I have been the student at her side. Once upon a time I was eager to learn and keen to toe the party line. I don’t think she was prepared for the “sudden” turn around.
“That’s what journalism is, it’s about deadlines and pressure and making sure that people get all the information they need to make an informed decision. You knew that when you began.” I'm not really listening anymore. I've heard this excuse and I stopped buying it a couple of years ago.
“How can journalists give people all the information they need when to make their work loads they’re relying on press releases and two minute phone calls to verify facts?”
“Well, you’ll come to your senses sooner or later,” her voice sour with disappointment.
The topic changes uncomfortably as we shift gears to talk about other things. But the clumsy transition made it difficult to leave the issue behind and the conversation ended with things unsaid, with the issue unresolved.
And even now it’s unresolved. I don’t know what I’m going to do and I don’t know how I feel about the one undeniable fact that has been eating away at me for the past three months.
No matter where I’m employed - I’m a journalist.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
MORTAL HANDS
Save My Soul – Alex Lloyd
I wasn’t going to write tonight. It’s been a miserable couple of days and I didn’t want the share that. In two days I will have officially defaulted on my home loan and it’ll be on my permanent credit record. Financially I’m ruined.
But tonight, Trevor came home and we walked the 30 minutes to our local supermarket. Talking, airing our woes.
Both of us are now in pretty dark places.
But when we got home he parked himself in front of the piano to escape his frustrations and concerns. I curled in the chair beside him and watched his hands as they skimmed across the piano keys. First a sing along to Jewel’s Foolish Games followed by a couple of tunes from our youth such as Don’t You Forget About me.
Those hands had me mesmerized. I’ve known those hands for 13 years and only then did I notice how much they’ve changed, how much my own hands have changed. They’re aged. Weathered.
Both of us have held on to so many things, touched so much history with these feeble, seeming inadequate instruments. And so much has also slipped through our weak or inexperienced fingers. Between the two of us a lot of time has passed, we’re not the same people we were when we first met and it amazes me that our friendship has survived. In the past year it has strengthened despite my misgivings and concerns. If I have to leave it’s only because I love him more than I ever have and don’t want to lose that.
With all that’s going on it’s been an amazing experience to have someone who cares about me, someone to watch over me when things were going horribly wrong. Someone who knows I’m lying when I say I’m handling all that’s been going on.
I’ve never had that before and it has been incredibly hard learning to accept the help on offer.
I’ve treated him terribly in the past. In the past he was timid and insecure but now he’s a strong man who’s grown into a confident, focused individual. I was always hard, strong and independent – the ice maiden – now I’ve cried more than I care to admit.
Through it all we seem to have balanced each other out.
During high school I didn’t talk for two years. I had nothing to say. In that time he was patient and understanding, even though he didn’t understand. In those days the beast was my master and I would shield myself from every sign of kindness keeping people at bay. But he hung around and took my abuse with patience and tolerance. No doubt with justified frustration that he never showed to me.
When his life fell apart I tried to be a rock but he was no longer the timid man I once knew but striking out for his own independence. I spent hours listening to him talk and wondering if I could be of any use to him. But I was there at those times, silently offering what help I could.
In between these extremes we either spent every weekend together doing something semi-destructive or we didn’t talk at all. At one stage we didn’t see or speak to each other for more than a year. But on reuniting it was as though nothing had changed.
Now it’s different again. Now I’m the timid one, I’m learning to accept help and admit that I’m vulnerable. He’s the strong, independent one teaching me to accept it.
And there are those hands that I have seen a million times but never really looked at.
“Ok, listen, listen, this is my favourite bit” He interrupts my writing and I look up. His hands are dancing across the keys quickly until he makes a loud “ahhhhh” at the satisfaction of reaching the climax of Moonlight Sonata’s crescendo. We laugh manically at the thinly veiled double entendre of his sigh, showing Beethoven no respect what so ever.
I’m going to be ok. I know that. I just have to learn to admit that I’m stressed and afraid and confused.
There are hands out there that will catch me as I fall.
Save My Soul – Alex Lloyd
I wasn’t going to write tonight. It’s been a miserable couple of days and I didn’t want the share that. In two days I will have officially defaulted on my home loan and it’ll be on my permanent credit record. Financially I’m ruined.
But tonight, Trevor came home and we walked the 30 minutes to our local supermarket. Talking, airing our woes.
Both of us are now in pretty dark places.
But when we got home he parked himself in front of the piano to escape his frustrations and concerns. I curled in the chair beside him and watched his hands as they skimmed across the piano keys. First a sing along to Jewel’s Foolish Games followed by a couple of tunes from our youth such as Don’t You Forget About me.
Those hands had me mesmerized. I’ve known those hands for 13 years and only then did I notice how much they’ve changed, how much my own hands have changed. They’re aged. Weathered.
Both of us have held on to so many things, touched so much history with these feeble, seeming inadequate instruments. And so much has also slipped through our weak or inexperienced fingers. Between the two of us a lot of time has passed, we’re not the same people we were when we first met and it amazes me that our friendship has survived. In the past year it has strengthened despite my misgivings and concerns. If I have to leave it’s only because I love him more than I ever have and don’t want to lose that.
With all that’s going on it’s been an amazing experience to have someone who cares about me, someone to watch over me when things were going horribly wrong. Someone who knows I’m lying when I say I’m handling all that’s been going on.
I’ve never had that before and it has been incredibly hard learning to accept the help on offer.
I’ve treated him terribly in the past. In the past he was timid and insecure but now he’s a strong man who’s grown into a confident, focused individual. I was always hard, strong and independent – the ice maiden – now I’ve cried more than I care to admit.
Through it all we seem to have balanced each other out.
During high school I didn’t talk for two years. I had nothing to say. In that time he was patient and understanding, even though he didn’t understand. In those days the beast was my master and I would shield myself from every sign of kindness keeping people at bay. But he hung around and took my abuse with patience and tolerance. No doubt with justified frustration that he never showed to me.
When his life fell apart I tried to be a rock but he was no longer the timid man I once knew but striking out for his own independence. I spent hours listening to him talk and wondering if I could be of any use to him. But I was there at those times, silently offering what help I could.
In between these extremes we either spent every weekend together doing something semi-destructive or we didn’t talk at all. At one stage we didn’t see or speak to each other for more than a year. But on reuniting it was as though nothing had changed.
Now it’s different again. Now I’m the timid one, I’m learning to accept help and admit that I’m vulnerable. He’s the strong, independent one teaching me to accept it.
And there are those hands that I have seen a million times but never really looked at.
“Ok, listen, listen, this is my favourite bit” He interrupts my writing and I look up. His hands are dancing across the keys quickly until he makes a loud “ahhhhh” at the satisfaction of reaching the climax of Moonlight Sonata’s crescendo. We laugh manically at the thinly veiled double entendre of his sigh, showing Beethoven no respect what so ever.
I’m going to be ok. I know that. I just have to learn to admit that I’m stressed and afraid and confused.
There are hands out there that will catch me as I fall.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Ah crap. Shit. Fuck.
It doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m getting screwed around by Leader Real Estate in Kingston, Canberra. Delays in finding a tenant and bond screw ups that have sent me to the brink of bankruptcy.
Earlier this week, after doing the math, I would have been up $1200 and out of financial trouble. Today, after some monumental blunders, I don’t have enough to pay my rent, my morgage or buy food.
Here’s the process. I tell them I want out of lease. They don’t advertise for three weeks – not even by word of mouth through the office itself (so that’s $750 outgoing and $0 incoming). Fair enough, these things happen.
Finally, after two months, they find a tenant. That was three weeks ago and I’m grateful because they did put in a lot of effort re-renting the place (probably because I told them – that’s it, no more money. You’ll have to take me to court). So I was set to get back $750 in back rent. That’s $1750 I was owed with the bond. Cool, enough to fix all my woes and get the indicators fixed on the car.
However, they had to get the lawn mowed and that was fair, the place had been empty for more than a month and I knew it would be overgrown. I completely agreed to that and said I was happy to pay for it.
Oh, but wait a second. The new tenants said not to worry about getting the lawn mowed, instead, because everyone was moving in a week earlier then I’d been told they had to replace the lock on the back door.
Oh well, I’m told today, it costs as much as getting the lawn done.
Fuck that. If I had been told they were moving in, which I wasn’t, then it wouldn’t have cost me a cent. And they change their story once again to – you were responsible until the keys were returned. A completely different story to you were responsible until a new lease was signed.
Still my bond money hasn’t come through even though it only takes two days to process! What the…? I wasn’t even told there was a claim and they’ve got my number, they’ve spoken to me since then. Several times in fact because I’ve called them.
That aside – where’s my $750? Apparently it’s somewhere in the ether. It’s coming, but then again Jesus is set to return too and I’m wondering which will come first.
So I’ve left messages. Lots of messages. And the silence is deafening.
I’m counting down the days until I default on my home loan and I’m exhausted.
I hadn't intended on writing this, I had another piece all lined up. But I'm angry and frustrated and depressed. I figure I've earned a vent today. Still, I'm sure I'll be unhappy with this and post something else later.
All I can think is, God it would be so nice if just one thing went right. If there was one thing I could set a date for, know for a fact that it was happening, and look forward to.
Until then...
It doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m getting screwed around by Leader Real Estate in Kingston, Canberra. Delays in finding a tenant and bond screw ups that have sent me to the brink of bankruptcy.
Earlier this week, after doing the math, I would have been up $1200 and out of financial trouble. Today, after some monumental blunders, I don’t have enough to pay my rent, my morgage or buy food.
Here’s the process. I tell them I want out of lease. They don’t advertise for three weeks – not even by word of mouth through the office itself (so that’s $750 outgoing and $0 incoming). Fair enough, these things happen.
Finally, after two months, they find a tenant. That was three weeks ago and I’m grateful because they did put in a lot of effort re-renting the place (probably because I told them – that’s it, no more money. You’ll have to take me to court). So I was set to get back $750 in back rent. That’s $1750 I was owed with the bond. Cool, enough to fix all my woes and get the indicators fixed on the car.
However, they had to get the lawn mowed and that was fair, the place had been empty for more than a month and I knew it would be overgrown. I completely agreed to that and said I was happy to pay for it.
Oh, but wait a second. The new tenants said not to worry about getting the lawn mowed, instead, because everyone was moving in a week earlier then I’d been told they had to replace the lock on the back door.
Oh well, I’m told today, it costs as much as getting the lawn done.
Fuck that. If I had been told they were moving in, which I wasn’t, then it wouldn’t have cost me a cent. And they change their story once again to – you were responsible until the keys were returned. A completely different story to you were responsible until a new lease was signed.
Still my bond money hasn’t come through even though it only takes two days to process! What the…? I wasn’t even told there was a claim and they’ve got my number, they’ve spoken to me since then. Several times in fact because I’ve called them.
That aside – where’s my $750? Apparently it’s somewhere in the ether. It’s coming, but then again Jesus is set to return too and I’m wondering which will come first.
So I’ve left messages. Lots of messages. And the silence is deafening.
I’m counting down the days until I default on my home loan and I’m exhausted.
I hadn't intended on writing this, I had another piece all lined up. But I'm angry and frustrated and depressed. I figure I've earned a vent today. Still, I'm sure I'll be unhappy with this and post something else later.
All I can think is, God it would be so nice if just one thing went right. If there was one thing I could set a date for, know for a fact that it was happening, and look forward to.
Until then...
Sunday, May 23, 2004
BITCH AND MOAN
You Were Meant for Me - Jewel
Trevor’s moaning, again, about not having someone special in his life. Again.
“I just want someone I can go out to dinner with, someone to curl up with,” he sighs heavily. “Someone to think about when I’m all alone.”
I want to tell him that I’m sick to death of hearing it. That I’m in exactly the same position and his constant moaning only reminds me of my own empty bed.
G calls and I think about him, a lot less than I used to. J emails and he’s like a ghost haunting me from the other side of the globe. These far away men, who are still very much part of my life, were once that someone special. I used to think about them constantly.
I unravel the disasters. Dissect them, looking for the key fault that means my relationships always end the same way. I promise myself I’ll stick to a rigid selection criteria so it doesn't happen again.
No men who are still “friends” with their ex-girlfriends.
No men who have children with other women (unless that woman is dead or married to someone else).
No men with brown hair and blue eyes.
No men obsessed with cars.
No men with explosive tempers.
No suits.
My list gets longer and longer but I know that it makes no difference how many times I make these promises, I will become entangled again despite my best intentions.
I also know that the common flaw in my past relationships has always been me. I chose to enter them, I chose to stay, I chose the wrong person because I thought it was the right, logical thing. But I didn’t focus on how it felt.
It's not about the criteria, it's not about them. This is about me.
For the past 20 years everything has had to be so thoroughly controlled and mapped out. I have fought hard to hold together a strict order not only in my own life but in the lives of my family and friends.
No more. I’m going to sit back and not be in charge. I am not responsible for anyone else’s life and I refuse to expend all of my energy trying to hold it all together. I don't want to know what will happen next.
I am not going to think about it.
“Trevor,” he’s pottering in the kitchen and I’ve taken my position here, in front of the computer.
“What?” He’s still sighing, as though he alone is bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. As though he is the most lonesome creature on this earth.
“Shut up.”
You Were Meant for Me - Jewel
Trevor’s moaning, again, about not having someone special in his life. Again.
“I just want someone I can go out to dinner with, someone to curl up with,” he sighs heavily. “Someone to think about when I’m all alone.”
I want to tell him that I’m sick to death of hearing it. That I’m in exactly the same position and his constant moaning only reminds me of my own empty bed.
G calls and I think about him, a lot less than I used to. J emails and he’s like a ghost haunting me from the other side of the globe. These far away men, who are still very much part of my life, were once that someone special. I used to think about them constantly.
I unravel the disasters. Dissect them, looking for the key fault that means my relationships always end the same way. I promise myself I’ll stick to a rigid selection criteria so it doesn't happen again.
No men who are still “friends” with their ex-girlfriends.
No men who have children with other women (unless that woman is dead or married to someone else).
No men with brown hair and blue eyes.
No men obsessed with cars.
No men with explosive tempers.
No suits.
My list gets longer and longer but I know that it makes no difference how many times I make these promises, I will become entangled again despite my best intentions.
I also know that the common flaw in my past relationships has always been me. I chose to enter them, I chose to stay, I chose the wrong person because I thought it was the right, logical thing. But I didn’t focus on how it felt.
It's not about the criteria, it's not about them. This is about me.
For the past 20 years everything has had to be so thoroughly controlled and mapped out. I have fought hard to hold together a strict order not only in my own life but in the lives of my family and friends.
No more. I’m going to sit back and not be in charge. I am not responsible for anyone else’s life and I refuse to expend all of my energy trying to hold it all together. I don't want to know what will happen next.
I am not going to think about it.
“Trevor,” he’s pottering in the kitchen and I’ve taken my position here, in front of the computer.
“What?” He’s still sighing, as though he alone is bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. As though he is the most lonesome creature on this earth.
“Shut up.”
Saturday, May 22, 2004
EMPTY SHIRTS
Saturn Return - REM
There were 228 of them. Two hundred and twenty eight. The yellow, white and black shirts in a tangled mass, a soft fluffy meringue-like mountain of carefully stitched polyester and cotton blends.
But I wasn't prepared for the extent of the task when I gleefully took it on.
"It's a really, really, really fun job," he said late Friday afternoon. And I could tell he was over-selling, the mockery clear in his voice. "I mean really fun." He pointed to a small bundle of a dozen shirts on the floor next to his desk. "'Could you just hang these up for me."
"Yeah, not a problem."
He handed me the key to the storeroom and I almost skipped with joy at the simplicity of the task. "Oh," he called after me, "can you also hang up the shirts that are in the middle of the store room floor too."
And then there I was preparing to climb a massive mountain of shirts. To be completely honest all I wanted to do was jump on the pile and roll around a bit but then the reality of what they were stopped me.
Rather than fresh, new shirts they were second-hand shirts worn by sweaty workers and while they had all been washed only recently the once bright yellow, crisp white or stark black blends took on an ominous grey, faded hue.
For the first few shirts I struggled with small neck button, preventing a. simple slinging onto the coat hanger. Instead, I would fumble with the small bit of plastic until the neck was wide enough to slip the shaped metal through.
But only few prior owners had bothered to do up the buttons and before long I was able to pick up and shirt by the collar and simply hook it onto the coat hanger in one fluid motion. Swirling the shirt open like a fan and scooping it around the bare wire.
As I sorted the shirts I thought about the men inside them, the history written on the cloth. I wondered about the stories each shirt would have to tell and whether or not I had seen that shirt, not one of its siblings but that particular shirt, before and not noticed the man inside it.
The task stopped being joyful simplicity and became a funeral-like retrospective of the people who have passed through these doors.
Size XL, yellow shirt, six-months. Size S, black shirt, 18-months. Size M, white shirt, eight-years
Staff that came and were part of this machine, their lives linked, only to disappear again. Just like me.
Yesterday, I was working with the most amazing people. Going to work was sheer joy that I would be part of their lives and that they were part of mine.
Today, all that remains of me in their lives is an empty shirt on the storeroom floor.
Saturn Return - REM
There were 228 of them. Two hundred and twenty eight. The yellow, white and black shirts in a tangled mass, a soft fluffy meringue-like mountain of carefully stitched polyester and cotton blends.
But I wasn't prepared for the extent of the task when I gleefully took it on.
"It's a really, really, really fun job," he said late Friday afternoon. And I could tell he was over-selling, the mockery clear in his voice. "I mean really fun." He pointed to a small bundle of a dozen shirts on the floor next to his desk. "'Could you just hang these up for me."
"Yeah, not a problem."
He handed me the key to the storeroom and I almost skipped with joy at the simplicity of the task. "Oh," he called after me, "can you also hang up the shirts that are in the middle of the store room floor too."
And then there I was preparing to climb a massive mountain of shirts. To be completely honest all I wanted to do was jump on the pile and roll around a bit but then the reality of what they were stopped me.
Rather than fresh, new shirts they were second-hand shirts worn by sweaty workers and while they had all been washed only recently the once bright yellow, crisp white or stark black blends took on an ominous grey, faded hue.
For the first few shirts I struggled with small neck button, preventing a. simple slinging onto the coat hanger. Instead, I would fumble with the small bit of plastic until the neck was wide enough to slip the shaped metal through.
But only few prior owners had bothered to do up the buttons and before long I was able to pick up and shirt by the collar and simply hook it onto the coat hanger in one fluid motion. Swirling the shirt open like a fan and scooping it around the bare wire.
As I sorted the shirts I thought about the men inside them, the history written on the cloth. I wondered about the stories each shirt would have to tell and whether or not I had seen that shirt, not one of its siblings but that particular shirt, before and not noticed the man inside it.
The task stopped being joyful simplicity and became a funeral-like retrospective of the people who have passed through these doors.
Size XL, yellow shirt, six-months. Size S, black shirt, 18-months. Size M, white shirt, eight-years
Staff that came and were part of this machine, their lives linked, only to disappear again. Just like me.
Yesterday, I was working with the most amazing people. Going to work was sheer joy that I would be part of their lives and that they were part of mine.
Today, all that remains of me in their lives is an empty shirt on the storeroom floor.
Friday, May 21, 2004
SURREPTITIOUS INTERVIEWS
Black Tongue – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
It occurred to me, sitting in my tiny reception area, how a simple conversation is just like an interview. So, continuing with my desire to keep those journalism muscles flexed, I’ve been conducting surreptitious interviews. The names and locations have been changed – to protect the innocent – but the quotes are accurate and the stories the same. Here’s edition one:
Simon Nottellingyou says his job is to catch stupid people.
A security guard at Fictitious, Guildford, Simon began his career more than eight years ago when he went looking for a job that would guarantee employment for most of his working life.
"There will always be stupid people and that's why I'll always have a job," the 6ft3" Nigerian-born guard said.
"And the people I catch are stupid. They think they're going to get away with it or they think they need the things they're stealing."
"I once had a woman try to steal a pram by putting her child in it and attempting to walk out of the store. But I remembered her walking in with her little boy because she was wearing a bright red dress. Some thieves just aren't that smart in the first place to be wearing a bright dress like that means you'll be noticed. They must think everyone IS a stupid as they are."
Simon said the most common things stolen weren't expensive products or, as you'd think, computer games and CDs by light fingered teenagers, but people in their mid-twenties stealing obscure household items or chocolate bars.
"People steal odd things when you think about it," he said.
"Not expensive stuff like you’d think but things like one woman tried to steal towels. I caught one guys with cutlery m his pockets and another man who put chocolate bars down his pants.
“It doesn't make sense. People can do without a lot of stuff that they buy so I can't understand why they'd be so desperate to have it that they'd steal.
"I could understand if it were food and they were poor but they're stealing stuff just because it's pretty and that just doesn't make sense. I mean it's home decoration, is it really worth getting a criminal record because you want to coordinate the bathroom?
Overall Simon said being a security guard had been a rewarding experience.
"Some days it's hard, when you have really horrible people who treat you like you're the enemy because you're doing your job. Like somehow asking them to open their bags is accusing them of being a thief or something.
"But I've met some pretty interesting characters though. You sort of have the two kinds of people. There are people, a lot of them lonely older people, who stop and want to have a chat about the weather or politics or kids today. Then there are the people who just ignore you, like you're invisible. The funny thing is that you don't want too many of either.
"It's nice to have a chat but you can't do your job properly if you're talking all the time but on the other hand it can get kind of lonely to have all these people pushing past you and pretending like you're not there."
Black Tongue – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
It occurred to me, sitting in my tiny reception area, how a simple conversation is just like an interview. So, continuing with my desire to keep those journalism muscles flexed, I’ve been conducting surreptitious interviews. The names and locations have been changed – to protect the innocent – but the quotes are accurate and the stories the same. Here’s edition one:
Simon Nottellingyou says his job is to catch stupid people.
A security guard at Fictitious, Guildford, Simon began his career more than eight years ago when he went looking for a job that would guarantee employment for most of his working life.
"There will always be stupid people and that's why I'll always have a job," the 6ft3" Nigerian-born guard said.
"And the people I catch are stupid. They think they're going to get away with it or they think they need the things they're stealing."
"I once had a woman try to steal a pram by putting her child in it and attempting to walk out of the store. But I remembered her walking in with her little boy because she was wearing a bright red dress. Some thieves just aren't that smart in the first place to be wearing a bright dress like that means you'll be noticed. They must think everyone IS a stupid as they are."
Simon said the most common things stolen weren't expensive products or, as you'd think, computer games and CDs by light fingered teenagers, but people in their mid-twenties stealing obscure household items or chocolate bars.
"People steal odd things when you think about it," he said.
"Not expensive stuff like you’d think but things like one woman tried to steal towels. I caught one guys with cutlery m his pockets and another man who put chocolate bars down his pants.
“It doesn't make sense. People can do without a lot of stuff that they buy so I can't understand why they'd be so desperate to have it that they'd steal.
"I could understand if it were food and they were poor but they're stealing stuff just because it's pretty and that just doesn't make sense. I mean it's home decoration, is it really worth getting a criminal record because you want to coordinate the bathroom?
Overall Simon said being a security guard had been a rewarding experience.
"Some days it's hard, when you have really horrible people who treat you like you're the enemy because you're doing your job. Like somehow asking them to open their bags is accusing them of being a thief or something.
"But I've met some pretty interesting characters though. You sort of have the two kinds of people. There are people, a lot of them lonely older people, who stop and want to have a chat about the weather or politics or kids today. Then there are the people who just ignore you, like you're invisible. The funny thing is that you don't want too many of either.
"It's nice to have a chat but you can't do your job properly if you're talking all the time but on the other hand it can get kind of lonely to have all these people pushing past you and pretending like you're not there."
Thursday, May 20, 2004
FIELD OF PLAY
My Obsession - Icehouse
Shopping with Michael at Woolworths has always been a game of Survivor -outwit, outlast, outplay.
I'm a single woman, he's a single gay man. Neither of us are seriously on the lookout but it's fun to consider the options.
"My team," he'll mutter.
"He's your's," I'll admit.
"That is definitely mine," I lay claim.
"Uh, I don't think so," he'll counter.
Occasionally we'd have to find some middle ground on the poor, innocent targets of our attention. "Bi."
During the past two weeks there has been one unresolved issue between us. Robert the checkout operator. Robert is in his mid to late 20s with blonde hair and a fit build.
I'd only seen him once before while shopping with Michael and for the entire time he was checking us out. I caught him looking at me at least four times during that period and thought maybe he was on my team. Michael was convinced he played for the opposition.
Yesterday, through sheer luck, we managed to find an excuse to talk with our favourite checkout operator. I pulled my trolley up to the conveyor belt and began to unload Expecting that when I reached the register I'd receive my standard "how are vou" cloned greeting. Instead - nothing. A complete and utter snub. He wouldn't even look at me.
The cold shoulder continued through the first two bags of my groceries and I could see what was going on. I winked at Michael.
"So, are you ok with me using the apartment on Friday? I can't really take Andrew back to my place with everyone around," I was careful to keep my voice low enough that it sounded like a personal conversation but loud enough that Robert could hear.
Michael blinked. "Andrew who?"
I thought the ship was sinking. "My date, Friday night. You don't pay any attention when I tell you about my love life."
Luckily Michael picked up the thread. "That's fine, but you can't use my bed and give me half-an-hour's warning that you're coming over."
The air changed. Like clouds breaking apart to reveal a star studded sky and a massive full moon.
Robert looked up and smiled at Michael and then me, even though I was standing in front of him. "So, how's your day been?' he asked both of us. And the conversation flowed, as conversations do. Michael and Robert talked about work and shopping and their lives, occasionally throwing me the odd conversational bone such as "yeah, Bos is going to work for Woo lies too but that's just a night job until she's back on her feet," and Robert would nod, telling me it's ok for making a little extra money.
Eventually I patted Michael on the shoulder, said good bye to Robert, and walked off to the bottle shop where I would meet up with Michael later. Proud of myself.
In situations like these it's pretty clear that I'm the one playing for the opposition and I didn't want to clutter the field.
My Obsession - Icehouse
Shopping with Michael at Woolworths has always been a game of Survivor -outwit, outlast, outplay.
I'm a single woman, he's a single gay man. Neither of us are seriously on the lookout but it's fun to consider the options.
"My team," he'll mutter.
"He's your's," I'll admit.
"That is definitely mine," I lay claim.
"Uh, I don't think so," he'll counter.
Occasionally we'd have to find some middle ground on the poor, innocent targets of our attention. "Bi."
During the past two weeks there has been one unresolved issue between us. Robert the checkout operator. Robert is in his mid to late 20s with blonde hair and a fit build.
I'd only seen him once before while shopping with Michael and for the entire time he was checking us out. I caught him looking at me at least four times during that period and thought maybe he was on my team. Michael was convinced he played for the opposition.
Yesterday, through sheer luck, we managed to find an excuse to talk with our favourite checkout operator. I pulled my trolley up to the conveyor belt and began to unload Expecting that when I reached the register I'd receive my standard "how are vou" cloned greeting. Instead - nothing. A complete and utter snub. He wouldn't even look at me.
The cold shoulder continued through the first two bags of my groceries and I could see what was going on. I winked at Michael.
"So, are you ok with me using the apartment on Friday? I can't really take Andrew back to my place with everyone around," I was careful to keep my voice low enough that it sounded like a personal conversation but loud enough that Robert could hear.
Michael blinked. "Andrew who?"
I thought the ship was sinking. "My date, Friday night. You don't pay any attention when I tell you about my love life."
Luckily Michael picked up the thread. "That's fine, but you can't use my bed and give me half-an-hour's warning that you're coming over."
The air changed. Like clouds breaking apart to reveal a star studded sky and a massive full moon.
Robert looked up and smiled at Michael and then me, even though I was standing in front of him. "So, how's your day been?' he asked both of us. And the conversation flowed, as conversations do. Michael and Robert talked about work and shopping and their lives, occasionally throwing me the odd conversational bone such as "yeah, Bos is going to work for Woo lies too but that's just a night job until she's back on her feet," and Robert would nod, telling me it's ok for making a little extra money.
Eventually I patted Michael on the shoulder, said good bye to Robert, and walked off to the bottle shop where I would meet up with Michael later. Proud of myself.
In situations like these it's pretty clear that I'm the one playing for the opposition and I didn't want to clutter the field.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
HOLDING PATTERN
New York State of Mind – Billy Joel
It's a beautiful sunny day here in Sydney. The sky is blue, there's a slight breeze and streaking silver birds roaring over my head. I'm still near the airport, the office is being circled continuously by taxis and cars and I'm serenaded by the tooting of horns.
From my window I can see lost passengers spilling out of the terminal, meandering like cows across the footpaths dragging their brightly coloured bags behind them and corralling at taxi ranks. The businessmen and women are all dressed the same, as though planes were actually cloning machines in disguise, and drip slowly through the taxi rank barricades like oil squeezed through a syringe.
I've been walking among them during my lunch breaks with no real destination. Riding the escalators up to the second story of the Ansett terminal and passing through security like a ghost. :Bemused, slightly, by the guard ~ eyeing my tiny MP3 player with suspicion (either that or he was shopping on the job) and laughing at the thought my nail scissors, identical to that woman's whose bag's contents is now spilled out onto the table, are a threat to anyone.
The people don't seem to see each other as they pass through the corridors, focused on the gates and milling in food halls. Once in the food halls they find their position and gather their belongings around~ them as though building a fortress to ward of territorial invaders. They're focused, but not on their food. They are already somewhere else. Already on the plane occupying the next slot of time in cramped conditions. Some are already at their destinations preparing for adventure or bracing for a sad reunion. Others are heading home and: already beginning to sense the bliss and comfort of being in their own bed.
A handful of travellers are always standing before the screens detailing departure times and flight information, paying undue attention as though they themselves don't believe the information to be real or that it may change if they were to look away, cutting short the time available for heartfelt goodbyes. Their bags are forever clutched in firm grips or perched high on their shoulders. They are going somewhere, they just don't know where and when (and part of me thinks if).
There is the scattered few who are sitting in the lounges waiting, seemingly in the same daydream state as those in the food halls. Perhaps the food hall territorial disputes have forced them out and now they dwell close to their gates, looking for a quick escape. And a handful of shoppers fondling the overpriced junk that is always available.
But these seem to be the only options for the traveller at an airport. They're going somewhere, they're herding themselves towards their gates and preparing to be squashed into massive tin cans. Only to land somewhere else and be herded away. For now I'm eating my lunch in a room filled with anticipation.
It's hard not to be infected by the hopefulness of it all.
New York State of Mind – Billy Joel
It's a beautiful sunny day here in Sydney. The sky is blue, there's a slight breeze and streaking silver birds roaring over my head. I'm still near the airport, the office is being circled continuously by taxis and cars and I'm serenaded by the tooting of horns.
From my window I can see lost passengers spilling out of the terminal, meandering like cows across the footpaths dragging their brightly coloured bags behind them and corralling at taxi ranks. The businessmen and women are all dressed the same, as though planes were actually cloning machines in disguise, and drip slowly through the taxi rank barricades like oil squeezed through a syringe.
I've been walking among them during my lunch breaks with no real destination. Riding the escalators up to the second story of the Ansett terminal and passing through security like a ghost. :Bemused, slightly, by the guard ~ eyeing my tiny MP3 player with suspicion (either that or he was shopping on the job) and laughing at the thought my nail scissors, identical to that woman's whose bag's contents is now spilled out onto the table, are a threat to anyone.
The people don't seem to see each other as they pass through the corridors, focused on the gates and milling in food halls. Once in the food halls they find their position and gather their belongings around~ them as though building a fortress to ward of territorial invaders. They're focused, but not on their food. They are already somewhere else. Already on the plane occupying the next slot of time in cramped conditions. Some are already at their destinations preparing for adventure or bracing for a sad reunion. Others are heading home and: already beginning to sense the bliss and comfort of being in their own bed.
A handful of travellers are always standing before the screens detailing departure times and flight information, paying undue attention as though they themselves don't believe the information to be real or that it may change if they were to look away, cutting short the time available for heartfelt goodbyes. Their bags are forever clutched in firm grips or perched high on their shoulders. They are going somewhere, they just don't know where and when (and part of me thinks if).
There is the scattered few who are sitting in the lounges waiting, seemingly in the same daydream state as those in the food halls. Perhaps the food hall territorial disputes have forced them out and now they dwell close to their gates, looking for a quick escape. And a handful of shoppers fondling the overpriced junk that is always available.
But these seem to be the only options for the traveller at an airport. They're going somewhere, they're herding themselves towards their gates and preparing to be squashed into massive tin cans. Only to land somewhere else and be herded away. For now I'm eating my lunch in a room filled with anticipation.
It's hard not to be infected by the hopefulness of it all.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
MOVING OUT
Full of Grace – Sarah McLachlan
“Well that’s why I always put the freezer brick under the other things.”
Ok, I screwed up, I just put a dint in Trevor’s four-month-old, pristine, fridge. While opening the door a massive blue freezer brick slid out and I attempted to catch it. But the icy object slipped from my hands, the ice melting on contact and creating the perfect projectile.
The inference is that something like that would never happen to him. He could never possibly make a mistake like placing a freezer brick on top of the frozen vegetables. He would never have a dint in his fridge.
He is always so careful with his things. This phrase has been repeated no fewer than 20 times since my arrival. I choose to believe he’s always anal with his things. Of course I only think that when I’ve screwed up. I, too, would like to be able to care for nice things but it never works out.
For some reason he doesn’t understand that it’s not through carelessness that I do these things. It’s not that I don’t take particular care of the things around me.
It’s that some of the time, just some, I’m not really here. I seem to be half doing what I’m doing and half trying to grasp the nature of the reality I’m being thrown into. A reality that I just can’t grasp all of the time.
But the dint isn’t the problem. It’s a series of things. Water marks on the saucepans (“I always polish them afterwards so the spots don’t appear”); an empty toilet paper roll left in the bathroom (“if you put it in the bin straight away then it doesn’t happen”); and an incident only referred to as the tragedy.
On Saturday, while Trevor was out, I was doing the laundry. While walking into the laundry the towel I was carrying barely clipped a jacket on the hatstand. The hatstand, already unsteady on its feet, toppled over striking and obliterating his grandmother’s 80-year-old pitcher.
I was numbed and stood for a solid five minutes just staring at what had just happened. I couldn't believe that the corner of a towel lightly touching a jacket could trigger such a cascade of events.
The pitcher was massive. It’s glaze cracked by age. The once bright red rose faded and browned over the years. It had survived no fewer than five moves.
When he came home, Trevor scanned the carpet for his history. The pitcher had smashed into five large chunks that he picked up with care, the ancient porcelain clunking together in his hands. He said nothing and carried them into his bedroom.
But his silence spoke volumes. I have to find somewhere else to live if only out of respect for him.
So I'm completely money focused. Fuck having a life, I have to raise $2000 as quickly as possible.
Full of Grace – Sarah McLachlan
“Well that’s why I always put the freezer brick under the other things.”
Ok, I screwed up, I just put a dint in Trevor’s four-month-old, pristine, fridge. While opening the door a massive blue freezer brick slid out and I attempted to catch it. But the icy object slipped from my hands, the ice melting on contact and creating the perfect projectile.
The inference is that something like that would never happen to him. He could never possibly make a mistake like placing a freezer brick on top of the frozen vegetables. He would never have a dint in his fridge.
He is always so careful with his things. This phrase has been repeated no fewer than 20 times since my arrival. I choose to believe he’s always anal with his things. Of course I only think that when I’ve screwed up. I, too, would like to be able to care for nice things but it never works out.
For some reason he doesn’t understand that it’s not through carelessness that I do these things. It’s not that I don’t take particular care of the things around me.
It’s that some of the time, just some, I’m not really here. I seem to be half doing what I’m doing and half trying to grasp the nature of the reality I’m being thrown into. A reality that I just can’t grasp all of the time.
But the dint isn’t the problem. It’s a series of things. Water marks on the saucepans (“I always polish them afterwards so the spots don’t appear”); an empty toilet paper roll left in the bathroom (“if you put it in the bin straight away then it doesn’t happen”); and an incident only referred to as the tragedy.
On Saturday, while Trevor was out, I was doing the laundry. While walking into the laundry the towel I was carrying barely clipped a jacket on the hatstand. The hatstand, already unsteady on its feet, toppled over striking and obliterating his grandmother’s 80-year-old pitcher.
I was numbed and stood for a solid five minutes just staring at what had just happened. I couldn't believe that the corner of a towel lightly touching a jacket could trigger such a cascade of events.
The pitcher was massive. It’s glaze cracked by age. The once bright red rose faded and browned over the years. It had survived no fewer than five moves.
When he came home, Trevor scanned the carpet for his history. The pitcher had smashed into five large chunks that he picked up with care, the ancient porcelain clunking together in his hands. He said nothing and carried them into his bedroom.
But his silence spoke volumes. I have to find somewhere else to live if only out of respect for him.
So I'm completely money focused. Fuck having a life, I have to raise $2000 as quickly as possible.
Monday, May 17, 2004
DYING STARS
Here’s to the Future – Ken Stringfellow
While I was at university my co-inhabitants at the University of Canberra's Reid House spent the wee hours of the morning philosophising.
"There's no such thing as the future," P, stoned again, declared in a moment's silence.
No one from the group of four responded for a few moments, chewing on the
proposal. Or perhaps the sentence was taking some time to reshape itself in their heads like floating puzzle fragments.
"How's that?" Someone asked, the comment’s author lost in the silence.
Time, at moments like these, stretches itself almost infinitely. Even the most profound thought can fail to find words strong enough, or rather worthy enough, of invading this space.
"Well," P inhaled deeply and another eon passed. "By the time the future's here, it's the present but even the present is the past in a micro-second."
What was most disturbing about this thought was our status at university. We had only just begun planning our futures. We were looking down the barrel of three years study to reach a future that P was now telling us didn't exist.
"We're all living in the past?" I was particularly disturbed by the notion.
Time for me had always been a universal truth. What happened was the past, what was happening now was the present and what was to come was the future. I mapped my life by this truth. I believed I could lose my past and leave it behind. That time was like shedding your skin.
I understood there were exceptions to my accepted belief on time. For example it takes years, sometimes hundreds of years, for light from stars to reach us. I was able to comprehend that the stars I regularly gaze at may already be long dead - their astral bodies projecting themselves through time and space until fading in some distant future. But until that moment I had never thought it applied to the five of us sitting here. That we were the light - a projection of something that had already happened.
"A huh," a somehow anticlimactic response to one of the most profound thing I'd heard.
I watched him move. Rising from his seat to get a glass of water and then moving back to his chair and concentrating hard to raise the glass from the table, as though it were filled with lead.
B wasn't convinced. "Drinking that water's in your future."
"You're predicting. It hasn't happened yet so it doesn't exist. I could spill it onto the floor or spit it out. The second that happens it’s in the past.” P seemed to inspect the glass for some sign of significance before bringing it to his lips and taking a mouthful.
The time was slipping by us, already in the short space of this single conversation we had lost more than 45 minutes. I couldn't take my eyes from the clock, the seconds hand jumped an irregular beat.
Two quick ticks and three lagging tocks.
If what P was saying was true then I would never escape who I was because I was always in the past tense.
"Bos," K's voice broke through my thoughts. "Are you going to stay up all night?" Somehow the room had emptied while I was lost in time, my brain spanning out through space and searching for some sort of escape from my circular thinking.
"Weren't you listening K?" She lifted an eyebrow and waited. Another eon of silence, time enough for one more star to die.
"I'm already gone."
Here’s to the Future – Ken Stringfellow
While I was at university my co-inhabitants at the University of Canberra's Reid House spent the wee hours of the morning philosophising.
"There's no such thing as the future," P, stoned again, declared in a moment's silence.
No one from the group of four responded for a few moments, chewing on the
proposal. Or perhaps the sentence was taking some time to reshape itself in their heads like floating puzzle fragments.
"How's that?" Someone asked, the comment’s author lost in the silence.
Time, at moments like these, stretches itself almost infinitely. Even the most profound thought can fail to find words strong enough, or rather worthy enough, of invading this space.
"Well," P inhaled deeply and another eon passed. "By the time the future's here, it's the present but even the present is the past in a micro-second."
What was most disturbing about this thought was our status at university. We had only just begun planning our futures. We were looking down the barrel of three years study to reach a future that P was now telling us didn't exist.
"We're all living in the past?" I was particularly disturbed by the notion.
Time for me had always been a universal truth. What happened was the past, what was happening now was the present and what was to come was the future. I mapped my life by this truth. I believed I could lose my past and leave it behind. That time was like shedding your skin.
I understood there were exceptions to my accepted belief on time. For example it takes years, sometimes hundreds of years, for light from stars to reach us. I was able to comprehend that the stars I regularly gaze at may already be long dead - their astral bodies projecting themselves through time and space until fading in some distant future. But until that moment I had never thought it applied to the five of us sitting here. That we were the light - a projection of something that had already happened.
"A huh," a somehow anticlimactic response to one of the most profound thing I'd heard.
I watched him move. Rising from his seat to get a glass of water and then moving back to his chair and concentrating hard to raise the glass from the table, as though it were filled with lead.
B wasn't convinced. "Drinking that water's in your future."
"You're predicting. It hasn't happened yet so it doesn't exist. I could spill it onto the floor or spit it out. The second that happens it’s in the past.” P seemed to inspect the glass for some sign of significance before bringing it to his lips and taking a mouthful.
The time was slipping by us, already in the short space of this single conversation we had lost more than 45 minutes. I couldn't take my eyes from the clock, the seconds hand jumped an irregular beat.
Two quick ticks and three lagging tocks.
If what P was saying was true then I would never escape who I was because I was always in the past tense.
"Bos," K's voice broke through my thoughts. "Are you going to stay up all night?" Somehow the room had emptied while I was lost in time, my brain spanning out through space and searching for some sort of escape from my circular thinking.
"Weren't you listening K?" She lifted an eyebrow and waited. Another eon of silence, time enough for one more star to die.
"I'm already gone."
Sunday, May 16, 2004
PUPPY
Dog - Ben Folds
I wrote this on my last day in Canberra. I miss having her around (she's with my parents now, an hour away):
I’m watching my dog sleep. I think she was bitten by a spider today and I’m worried. It was a massive beast that I saw rearing up and baring its fangs against her black nub of a nose.
I know she’s ok. I’ve done my research and I’m pretty sure it was only a huntsman spider which isn’t venomous (just a massive, ugly eight-legged beast). Still. These are the things that worry me and I won't be happy until a couple of days have passed.
She’s curled up peacefully on the floor beside my computer desk. I don’t know why she’s here. I didn’t call her and didn’t acknowledge when she entered the room. No pats, no words, no indication what-so-ever that she was welcome. She just walked in and curled herself into place.
I’ve never understood that. For some reason she simply follows me around the house and sits quietly in any room I’m in. There’s a comfortable bed made for her out in the dining room but she’s not there, she’s here. On bare carpet in what looks like an uncomfortable position.
Perhaps she’s lonely, perhaps she senses I am.
Every time I make a move to look at her I’m disturbing her. She rolls her dark eyes up to me and looks more concerned than I do.
What is it about dogs that they know something’s going on? She just seems to know when I need her around and equally so when I don’t. Me, I never know when she needs me. Essentially I’m a bad owner at times, complacent. I’ve never had the depth of instinct that she’s had, nor the emotional maturity.
She’s a minor molehill of a dog. Barely coming halfway up my calf. A cream, caramel colour so I chose to call her Fudge. Dark eyes, black highlighted snout and a button black nose. She’s silent most of the time with a deceptively deep bark. You’d think she was twice the size at least from her protective boom.
It’s been an hour. All seems to be OK. But I still worry. It’d be so empty here without her. But you don’t want to think about those things, even though you know they’re inevitable. In only four years she’s already older and wiser than I am.
My dog, a formidable presence.
Dog - Ben Folds
I wrote this on my last day in Canberra. I miss having her around (she's with my parents now, an hour away):
I’m watching my dog sleep. I think she was bitten by a spider today and I’m worried. It was a massive beast that I saw rearing up and baring its fangs against her black nub of a nose.
I know she’s ok. I’ve done my research and I’m pretty sure it was only a huntsman spider which isn’t venomous (just a massive, ugly eight-legged beast). Still. These are the things that worry me and I won't be happy until a couple of days have passed.
She’s curled up peacefully on the floor beside my computer desk. I don’t know why she’s here. I didn’t call her and didn’t acknowledge when she entered the room. No pats, no words, no indication what-so-ever that she was welcome. She just walked in and curled herself into place.
I’ve never understood that. For some reason she simply follows me around the house and sits quietly in any room I’m in. There’s a comfortable bed made for her out in the dining room but she’s not there, she’s here. On bare carpet in what looks like an uncomfortable position.
Perhaps she’s lonely, perhaps she senses I am.
Every time I make a move to look at her I’m disturbing her. She rolls her dark eyes up to me and looks more concerned than I do.
What is it about dogs that they know something’s going on? She just seems to know when I need her around and equally so when I don’t. Me, I never know when she needs me. Essentially I’m a bad owner at times, complacent. I’ve never had the depth of instinct that she’s had, nor the emotional maturity.
She’s a minor molehill of a dog. Barely coming halfway up my calf. A cream, caramel colour so I chose to call her Fudge. Dark eyes, black highlighted snout and a button black nose. She’s silent most of the time with a deceptively deep bark. You’d think she was twice the size at least from her protective boom.
It’s been an hour. All seems to be OK. But I still worry. It’d be so empty here without her. But you don’t want to think about those things, even though you know they’re inevitable. In only four years she’s already older and wiser than I am.
My dog, a formidable presence.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME
Gotta Love this City - Whitlams
I’m sitting on the balcony, sipping my tea when one of the neighbour’s guests stumbles onto the footpath. Obviously it had been a pretty good gathering because the man was clearly inebriated. He swerves from the path and pats a car gently, feeling it out. Then leans against it, his unsteady form bent back over the vehicle’s curve.
Finally he pulls himself to a standing position on the grass beside the car. Undoes his fly and begins to urinate. I hadn’t been paying him much attention, let alone looking at his crouch, so it was the sound of running water that made me actually focus my gaze on him alone. He looks up at me but the alcohol has made him impervious to my moralistic scowl.
Done, he packs himself away neatly and does up the fly. Giving me one last look he slurs. “You’re just jealous you can’t pee standing up.”
I want to make some witty comeback. I’m tempted to tell him that any woman could pee standing up if they put their mind to it. I wanted to laugh at the disproportionately small penis.
Instead I simply smiled. This would never happen in Canberra. There the people are all suits. Canberra was always silent. A city for the dead fitted only with the War Memorial, markers of thousands of dead soldiers; the art gallery, home to dead artists’ work; and the National Library – dead authors unread by the passionless inhabitant. But its memorials to the dead were not only in these ancient repositories but the residents’ homes themselves.
Not all, I’m not someone who's ever comfortable saying "all" when refering to people, but hidden away in Gordon I felt like I was trapped in a tomb. People were so quite they seemed like ghosts and my isolation made me bitter.
God I love being back in Sydney.
Gotta Love this City - Whitlams
I’m sitting on the balcony, sipping my tea when one of the neighbour’s guests stumbles onto the footpath. Obviously it had been a pretty good gathering because the man was clearly inebriated. He swerves from the path and pats a car gently, feeling it out. Then leans against it, his unsteady form bent back over the vehicle’s curve.
Finally he pulls himself to a standing position on the grass beside the car. Undoes his fly and begins to urinate. I hadn’t been paying him much attention, let alone looking at his crouch, so it was the sound of running water that made me actually focus my gaze on him alone. He looks up at me but the alcohol has made him impervious to my moralistic scowl.
Done, he packs himself away neatly and does up the fly. Giving me one last look he slurs. “You’re just jealous you can’t pee standing up.”
I want to make some witty comeback. I’m tempted to tell him that any woman could pee standing up if they put their mind to it. I wanted to laugh at the disproportionately small penis.
Instead I simply smiled. This would never happen in Canberra. There the people are all suits. Canberra was always silent. A city for the dead fitted only with the War Memorial, markers of thousands of dead soldiers; the art gallery, home to dead artists’ work; and the National Library – dead authors unread by the passionless inhabitant. But its memorials to the dead were not only in these ancient repositories but the residents’ homes themselves.
Not all, I’m not someone who's ever comfortable saying "all" when refering to people, but hidden away in Gordon I felt like I was trapped in a tomb. People were so quite they seemed like ghosts and my isolation made me bitter.
God I love being back in Sydney.
Friday, May 14, 2004
DRY CHICKEN
Any Major Dude Will Tell You - Wilco
Men take massive risks when they’re asking out a woman. I respect that. But Christine doesn’t always see things through my eyes.
“You could have just rooted him,” Christine is reclining on the lounge.
She’s referring to the fact I got hit on today. Not your subtle kind of flirting. I mean “you’ve got beautiful eyes” “I love your smile” “do you want to go out to dinner some time” hit on.
“You know I can’t do that,” I’m cooking dinner. Tonight it’s a passionless, skinless half a chicken breast.
“Why not, it’s been almost a month.”
I’m aware of how long it’s been. She doesn’t need to remind me. And not being among the beautiful my chances are limited. I’m expecting a dry spell of a lot longer than a month.
“I wasn’t attracted to him at all.” The man who hit on me was good looking. About 5ft9in, dark hair, dark eyes. He was well built and well out of my league. Yet here he was in the middle of my reception room hitting on me.
And when he hit on me I blushed and smiled broadly. I was understandably flattered. A fat woman with overgrown hair that’s threatening to turn into a female mullet I don’t see any reason why he liked me. But he did. And, oddly, I didn’t like him. So I lied, to spare the feelings of this amazing man, and told him I was already involved.
But I was disappointed. I wasn’t attracted and I don’t know why. From everything I've been told he was everything I should have wanted. But something was missing. That nameless something.
“So, you don’t have to be attracted to have really hot sex,” Christine calls from the depths of the lounge room.
“I didn’t want to mislead him, I didn’t want to lie,” and it’s true, he was a nice guy and I’ve been there before. Been selfish enough to think little of the man who had taken that leap. Who had jumped into treacherous waters and asked me out. Only to be cast aside because all we had in common was timing.
“Maybe he was just looking for a root,” she’s coarse and at times nothing short of annoying.
“I’d still feel guilty, like he was expecting more than a one night stand,” my dinner’s ready by now and I slide it onto a plate. The chicken’s too dry and the few vegetables I’ve thrown together in my laziness are only half cooked. But I don’t care. I’m starving and ready to eat anything. “Anyway, guilt always gets in the way of a good orgasm.”
Christine laughs and leaves me alone, soaking in yet another predictable TV program, while I chew away.
Passionless.
Any Major Dude Will Tell You - Wilco
Men take massive risks when they’re asking out a woman. I respect that. But Christine doesn’t always see things through my eyes.
“You could have just rooted him,” Christine is reclining on the lounge.
She’s referring to the fact I got hit on today. Not your subtle kind of flirting. I mean “you’ve got beautiful eyes” “I love your smile” “do you want to go out to dinner some time” hit on.
“You know I can’t do that,” I’m cooking dinner. Tonight it’s a passionless, skinless half a chicken breast.
“Why not, it’s been almost a month.”
I’m aware of how long it’s been. She doesn’t need to remind me. And not being among the beautiful my chances are limited. I’m expecting a dry spell of a lot longer than a month.
“I wasn’t attracted to him at all.” The man who hit on me was good looking. About 5ft9in, dark hair, dark eyes. He was well built and well out of my league. Yet here he was in the middle of my reception room hitting on me.
And when he hit on me I blushed and smiled broadly. I was understandably flattered. A fat woman with overgrown hair that’s threatening to turn into a female mullet I don’t see any reason why he liked me. But he did. And, oddly, I didn’t like him. So I lied, to spare the feelings of this amazing man, and told him I was already involved.
But I was disappointed. I wasn’t attracted and I don’t know why. From everything I've been told he was everything I should have wanted. But something was missing. That nameless something.
“So, you don’t have to be attracted to have really hot sex,” Christine calls from the depths of the lounge room.
“I didn’t want to mislead him, I didn’t want to lie,” and it’s true, he was a nice guy and I’ve been there before. Been selfish enough to think little of the man who had taken that leap. Who had jumped into treacherous waters and asked me out. Only to be cast aside because all we had in common was timing.
“Maybe he was just looking for a root,” she’s coarse and at times nothing short of annoying.
“I’d still feel guilty, like he was expecting more than a one night stand,” my dinner’s ready by now and I slide it onto a plate. The chicken’s too dry and the few vegetables I’ve thrown together in my laziness are only half cooked. But I don’t care. I’m starving and ready to eat anything. “Anyway, guilt always gets in the way of a good orgasm.”
Christine laughs and leaves me alone, soaking in yet another predictable TV program, while I chew away.
Passionless.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
WAITING FOR SUPERMAN
Insert song here
This isn’t a real entry, I’m really tired and just made it home from a dinner party (again) so it’s more of my first official request.
I am currently collecting Superman songs. That is any song that has a reference to Superman in the lyrics.
Why you ask? If I had a dollar for every time someone assumed I had a reason for the things I do then I’d be able to pay my bills.
I, as you will find out, often have no reason for some of the things I do. This is a new addition to my character – I’m going to do things because I want to and try not to understand why I want to in the first place.
I’m sick of tying myself into knots trying to understand my actions. The plan is to just go with the flow.
So, if you have any suggestions as to what would make a suitable addition to my collection then let me know either on the comment board or through the email. So far I’ve got Waiting for Superman by the Flaming Lips; I’m no Superman; It’s Not Easy; and Superman by Eminem.
Thanks…
Insert song here
This isn’t a real entry, I’m really tired and just made it home from a dinner party (again) so it’s more of my first official request.
I am currently collecting Superman songs. That is any song that has a reference to Superman in the lyrics.
Why you ask? If I had a dollar for every time someone assumed I had a reason for the things I do then I’d be able to pay my bills.
I, as you will find out, often have no reason for some of the things I do. This is a new addition to my character – I’m going to do things because I want to and try not to understand why I want to in the first place.
I’m sick of tying myself into knots trying to understand my actions. The plan is to just go with the flow.
So, if you have any suggestions as to what would make a suitable addition to my collection then let me know either on the comment board or through the email. So far I’ve got Waiting for Superman by the Flaming Lips; I’m no Superman; It’s Not Easy; and Superman by Eminem.
Thanks…
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
JOURNEY
The World Ain’t Slowin’ Down – Ellis Paul
My new assignment has me close to Mascot Airport and here I am parked on the top of a six-storey parking lot. My dirty white Excel slotted between a shiny new BMW and a Mercedes. I’m confidant if I stood on top of my car I could reach up and touch the planes as they come and go.
The great machines sail overhead, their engines roaring, and in their gleaming underbellies I can catch a quick glimpse of my reflection. The image is distorted. It’s stretched and elongated along the plane’s shiny exoskeleton. And I know it’s me. My blonde hair, my black shirt and my white car shimmering like a mirage.
In the belly of this great creature, a white whale, businessmen and women, tourists, and families destined for long-overdue reunions are heading elsewhere. They are relying on this creature, which from all appearances looks clumsy and inoperable, to help them reach their destination.
But there is a grace in the way they move, in the gentle ascension of the gleaming shells. And I imagine the lives of those inside, whether they are even aware of the significance of what they’re taking part in.
This creature and its occupants are defying the laws of gravity, violating a fundamental principal of physics. Traversing oceans and continents without the slightest bit of effort. The passengers are passing the time skimming through magazines and watching average movies. They are eating average food and cursing a lack of space. All the while, they are largely oblivious to the worlds and lives, including me, miles below them.
And it’s a dangerous thing they’re doing. These men, women and children are placing their lives in the hands of steel, petrol, pilots and traffic controllers. It is these things that stand between life and death at 30,000ft.
Despite the danger of flying the real risk these people are taking is the risk of faith. Not their faith in the aircraft but their faith that taking such a dangerous risk is justified.
They have faith that their destination, whether they’re going abroad or coming home, is worth putting their lives in the hands of fallible things.
The World Ain’t Slowin’ Down – Ellis Paul
My new assignment has me close to Mascot Airport and here I am parked on the top of a six-storey parking lot. My dirty white Excel slotted between a shiny new BMW and a Mercedes. I’m confidant if I stood on top of my car I could reach up and touch the planes as they come and go.
The great machines sail overhead, their engines roaring, and in their gleaming underbellies I can catch a quick glimpse of my reflection. The image is distorted. It’s stretched and elongated along the plane’s shiny exoskeleton. And I know it’s me. My blonde hair, my black shirt and my white car shimmering like a mirage.
In the belly of this great creature, a white whale, businessmen and women, tourists, and families destined for long-overdue reunions are heading elsewhere. They are relying on this creature, which from all appearances looks clumsy and inoperable, to help them reach their destination.
But there is a grace in the way they move, in the gentle ascension of the gleaming shells. And I imagine the lives of those inside, whether they are even aware of the significance of what they’re taking part in.
This creature and its occupants are defying the laws of gravity, violating a fundamental principal of physics. Traversing oceans and continents without the slightest bit of effort. The passengers are passing the time skimming through magazines and watching average movies. They are eating average food and cursing a lack of space. All the while, they are largely oblivious to the worlds and lives, including me, miles below them.
And it’s a dangerous thing they’re doing. These men, women and children are placing their lives in the hands of steel, petrol, pilots and traffic controllers. It is these things that stand between life and death at 30,000ft.
Despite the danger of flying the real risk these people are taking is the risk of faith. Not their faith in the aircraft but their faith that taking such a dangerous risk is justified.
They have faith that their destination, whether they’re going abroad or coming home, is worth putting their lives in the hands of fallible things.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
SACRED COWS
Sad Dress - Belly
Only a short entry tonight. Boswell is very, very tired after her first real day at work.
Yesterday I spent nine hours typing in thousands of little pieces of information. A rote process that required no effort and allowed me to think a lot but made me too tired to put those thoughts into words.
But today I rose at 5am, drove through peak hour traffic and into my first major assignment. If you don't hear from me, then I’m just adjusting. But I'll make the effort because I'm pretty certain writing in tOOleS is the only thing that makes any sense to me. Just don't expect too much.
Anyway, I'm going to be a receptionist for a busy company that I will be calling home for the next two weeks. The money's good but will take a while to come through, as all agency work does.
I'm grateful though. Not only do I get to keep my computer and pay my mortgage and rent but it meant that tonight, for the first time in three months, I could splurged the last of my resources and cook a real meal.
Steak. Sweet and juicy it was cooked to perfection - Medium rare and as soft and tender as a cloud. "Trevor," I leant back in my chair and closed my eyes. Contented. "I think they slaughtered the sacred cow because that was divine." He doesn't share my love for a good steak. Instead he's all pasta and rice and stir-fry with stringy, flavourless meats. We've been sharing meals and stretching our budget as far as possible.
Sure steak is a less than feminine meal but I wasn't on a date. I wasn't out to impress. I had my steak and my beer and right now, as I write this, I'm eating chocolate ice cream. The ice cream was crammed right to the base of the cone until it threatened to give way.
There's plenty of time in my future for a passionless, skinless half a breast of chicken, salad and no dessert.
However the splurge has brought me to the end of my financial resources. Tomorrow I have a grand total of $3.35 to my name and the bank balance will stay that way until next Tuesday. But I’m making plans for the money that's destined to come in. Over my steak and beer I wrote a list of things still needed to be done and which should be covered by the next fortnight's work and my returned bond money.
But there are two old faithfuls at risk of being lost to this crisis.
My car desperately needs a service. It's spitting oil, the indicators only work when they feel like it and it’s generally resisting the accelerator. But it's on hold until the money comes in, or it dies an early death.
And then there's my beloved computer. It's slowly dying before my eyes. It's coughing and spluttering when it starts, sluggish, uncooperative and shutting down at a whim. A service may be all it needs unfortunately that's out of my reach for the time being.
But that's ok. I hold on to the belief it'll all work out. I cling to the notion that there's something big and exciting around the corner and that all of this stress and loss is building to some sort of climax. That the purpose for all of this will become clear.
Such notions keep the beast at bay.
I just wish it would hurry up an get here though - I can't hold on forever.
Sad Dress - Belly
Only a short entry tonight. Boswell is very, very tired after her first real day at work.
Yesterday I spent nine hours typing in thousands of little pieces of information. A rote process that required no effort and allowed me to think a lot but made me too tired to put those thoughts into words.
But today I rose at 5am, drove through peak hour traffic and into my first major assignment. If you don't hear from me, then I’m just adjusting. But I'll make the effort because I'm pretty certain writing in tOOleS is the only thing that makes any sense to me. Just don't expect too much.
Anyway, I'm going to be a receptionist for a busy company that I will be calling home for the next two weeks. The money's good but will take a while to come through, as all agency work does.
I'm grateful though. Not only do I get to keep my computer and pay my mortgage and rent but it meant that tonight, for the first time in three months, I could splurged the last of my resources and cook a real meal.
Steak. Sweet and juicy it was cooked to perfection - Medium rare and as soft and tender as a cloud. "Trevor," I leant back in my chair and closed my eyes. Contented. "I think they slaughtered the sacred cow because that was divine." He doesn't share my love for a good steak. Instead he's all pasta and rice and stir-fry with stringy, flavourless meats. We've been sharing meals and stretching our budget as far as possible.
Sure steak is a less than feminine meal but I wasn't on a date. I wasn't out to impress. I had my steak and my beer and right now, as I write this, I'm eating chocolate ice cream. The ice cream was crammed right to the base of the cone until it threatened to give way.
There's plenty of time in my future for a passionless, skinless half a breast of chicken, salad and no dessert.
However the splurge has brought me to the end of my financial resources. Tomorrow I have a grand total of $3.35 to my name and the bank balance will stay that way until next Tuesday. But I’m making plans for the money that's destined to come in. Over my steak and beer I wrote a list of things still needed to be done and which should be covered by the next fortnight's work and my returned bond money.
But there are two old faithfuls at risk of being lost to this crisis.
My car desperately needs a service. It's spitting oil, the indicators only work when they feel like it and it’s generally resisting the accelerator. But it's on hold until the money comes in, or it dies an early death.
And then there's my beloved computer. It's slowly dying before my eyes. It's coughing and spluttering when it starts, sluggish, uncooperative and shutting down at a whim. A service may be all it needs unfortunately that's out of my reach for the time being.
But that's ok. I hold on to the belief it'll all work out. I cling to the notion that there's something big and exciting around the corner and that all of this stress and loss is building to some sort of climax. That the purpose for all of this will become clear.
Such notions keep the beast at bay.
I just wish it would hurry up an get here though - I can't hold on forever.
Monday, May 10, 2004
MIA
Is She Weird - Pixies
“Boswell, is that you?” T’s voice was distant. An echo.
“Yeah, ah, hi?”
“Where are you?” The traffic crawled forward and I edged closer to the bumper of the scraped and dented red Suzuki Sierra in front of me.
“Sydney, I left.”
T had been a rather nice neighbour I lived next door to in Canberra. We’d spend hours drinking coffee on Saturday mornings, bitching about what we’d read in the newspaper I had worked for. She was one of the many people I didn’t say goodbye to when I packed up and left in a mad overnight dash.
“What happened?”
What answer to give? I went quietly insane from sleep deprivation, lost almost everything I owned and was abandoned by the few people I relied on? I fucked everything up? It all went to hell and me along with it and now I’m living on the charity of friends?
People don’t really want to know that crap. Not really. They want to hear the upside.
I went insane and was abandoned but I met this new guy when I came back to Sydney and we’re getting married in September. My life got absolutely trashed and I was so lost and confused but now I’ve found Jesus it’s all shiny and new. It all went to hell but I found a million dollars on the street – how’s that for luck. That’s what they want.
So what answer got give?
“I got really sick and had to move away pretty quickly.”
I apologized for not calling and we chatted for a couple of minutes as the traffic crept slowly forward. But she began to ask detailed questions and I cut the conversation short, telling her it was “getting a little dangerous to talk”.
She was in real danger of getting to the truth.
Is She Weird - Pixies
“Boswell, is that you?” T’s voice was distant. An echo.
“Yeah, ah, hi?”
“Where are you?” The traffic crawled forward and I edged closer to the bumper of the scraped and dented red Suzuki Sierra in front of me.
“Sydney, I left.”
T had been a rather nice neighbour I lived next door to in Canberra. We’d spend hours drinking coffee on Saturday mornings, bitching about what we’d read in the newspaper I had worked for. She was one of the many people I didn’t say goodbye to when I packed up and left in a mad overnight dash.
“What happened?”
What answer to give? I went quietly insane from sleep deprivation, lost almost everything I owned and was abandoned by the few people I relied on? I fucked everything up? It all went to hell and me along with it and now I’m living on the charity of friends?
People don’t really want to know that crap. Not really. They want to hear the upside.
I went insane and was abandoned but I met this new guy when I came back to Sydney and we’re getting married in September. My life got absolutely trashed and I was so lost and confused but now I’ve found Jesus it’s all shiny and new. It all went to hell but I found a million dollars on the street – how’s that for luck. That’s what they want.
So what answer got give?
“I got really sick and had to move away pretty quickly.”
I apologized for not calling and we chatted for a couple of minutes as the traffic crept slowly forward. But she began to ask detailed questions and I cut the conversation short, telling her it was “getting a little dangerous to talk”.
She was in real danger of getting to the truth.
Sunday, May 09, 2004
MOTHER'S DAY
Speed of Life - Duncan James
"Didn't anyone tell you?" dad answered the phone. Mum was off doing mum things or possibly just screening her calls.
"No, no one told me. Aren't I invited?" My voice strained and rose at least an octave. The words grating against the back of my throat.
It was a family breakfast at my brother's house that, apparently, had been planned for weeks. Dad hesitates and I wait for his response. Nervous. Concerned I may have inadvertently offended someone and simply not been told (as is often the case). Angry. Face flushed with frustration.
There's quiet talk and I can clearly hear dad asking mum if I can come. Mum's barely muffled response is that she doesn't know. There's a pause as though mum's trying to tell my father something through silent gestures.
"Yeah, I guess it's ok." I want to hang up. Sick to death of the teeth pulling that's necessary to know where I stand in this family. Wondering if my plans to flee can be fulfilled after my next two-week assignment.
"You guess it's ok? Well maybe I won't come. Maybe, just maybe, I'd like to be asked like you've been asked and mum's been asked."
Silence and I'm generating a few hand gestures of my own. My grip on the phone tightens. IÂ’ve got sweaty palms and knuckles balking against the strain.
"Well, it's up to you."
Despite the anger I wake early the next morning, dress and drag myself to the family function. The hour drive soothes my nerves as I indulge in my love of the open road. Speeding, more than I should and less than I'd like to. Engrossed as I sway into sweeping corners and drive to the beat of a carefully selected song.
And all is well. My brother opens the door, completely oblivious to my discomfort. He's unaware that I've spent the night, again, wondering if I was welcome to visit my own family. Through the door I curse the stress and strain of the assumption I would just turn up, that I didn't need to be invited because someone would tell me.
Still I put on a good show. Buoyed by the love and enthusiasm of my nieces and nephew who grab onto my legs or offer big hugs as I walk through the door. For them I am the life of the party. Draped in a mangy black wig I break into a rather convincing Cher impersonation and spend the day rummaging through their dress-up box. Making them, along with my sister-in-law, laugh until tears pool in their eyes.
I raise my concerns with my sister-in-law, who is more like my sister, and she shrugs it off.
"What's your name again?" It's a joke, but she's not far off the mark. I've been invisible for a good part of the past 15 years. Or, more accurately, I've been the assumption.
"It's just that no one thinks to invite you. We know you'll always hear about it somehow and that you'll be here."
But things are changing. I'm no longer content to invisibleble. I'm no longer willing to be who I was, to do what I've always done. One day I'll stop living up to their expectations. One day I won't ring to find out what's going on and where I stand.
One day I won't be there.
Speed of Life - Duncan James
"Didn't anyone tell you?" dad answered the phone. Mum was off doing mum things or possibly just screening her calls.
"No, no one told me. Aren't I invited?" My voice strained and rose at least an octave. The words grating against the back of my throat.
It was a family breakfast at my brother's house that, apparently, had been planned for weeks. Dad hesitates and I wait for his response. Nervous. Concerned I may have inadvertently offended someone and simply not been told (as is often the case). Angry. Face flushed with frustration.
There's quiet talk and I can clearly hear dad asking mum if I can come. Mum's barely muffled response is that she doesn't know. There's a pause as though mum's trying to tell my father something through silent gestures.
"Yeah, I guess it's ok." I want to hang up. Sick to death of the teeth pulling that's necessary to know where I stand in this family. Wondering if my plans to flee can be fulfilled after my next two-week assignment.
"You guess it's ok? Well maybe I won't come. Maybe, just maybe, I'd like to be asked like you've been asked and mum's been asked."
Silence and I'm generating a few hand gestures of my own. My grip on the phone tightens. IÂ’ve got sweaty palms and knuckles balking against the strain.
"Well, it's up to you."
Despite the anger I wake early the next morning, dress and drag myself to the family function. The hour drive soothes my nerves as I indulge in my love of the open road. Speeding, more than I should and less than I'd like to. Engrossed as I sway into sweeping corners and drive to the beat of a carefully selected song.
And all is well. My brother opens the door, completely oblivious to my discomfort. He's unaware that I've spent the night, again, wondering if I was welcome to visit my own family. Through the door I curse the stress and strain of the assumption I would just turn up, that I didn't need to be invited because someone would tell me.
Still I put on a good show. Buoyed by the love and enthusiasm of my nieces and nephew who grab onto my legs or offer big hugs as I walk through the door. For them I am the life of the party. Draped in a mangy black wig I break into a rather convincing Cher impersonation and spend the day rummaging through their dress-up box. Making them, along with my sister-in-law, laugh until tears pool in their eyes.
I raise my concerns with my sister-in-law, who is more like my sister, and she shrugs it off.
"What's your name again?" It's a joke, but she's not far off the mark. I've been invisible for a good part of the past 15 years. Or, more accurately, I've been the assumption.
"It's just that no one thinks to invite you. We know you'll always hear about it somehow and that you'll be here."
But things are changing. I'm no longer content to invisibleble. I'm no longer willing to be who I was, to do what I've always done. One day I'll stop living up to their expectations. One day I won't ring to find out what's going on and where I stand.
One day I won't be there.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
LYRICAL WARS
I Will Survive - Cake
Running on only three hours sleep I was called in to my first temporary assignment on Friday. As my insomnia dictates the last time I had looked at the clock before falling asleep was 4.45am but the surprising phone call had me leaping from bed, into the shower and out the door by 8.30am.
I survived on adrenalin alone in the bubbling office. But the nicest surprise of the day was when I dragged myself back in the door after a 45 minute battle with the peak hour traffic. Trevor had cooked dinner, poured me a wine and had it waiting on the table. The evening spilled on with more wine, more food than I normally consume, and more and more talk. Eventually Trevor pulled out a handful of CDs.
“Listen to this, listen to this. It’s so deep.” He proclaims, bouncing around the room like a puppy. He reads me the lyrics of Tina Cousins’ The Fool is Me.
You’re a melanoma
and you burn so sweetly’ so deeply
you hurt
Why are people never who they seem
So sweetly, so cheaply, the fool is me
I winced. I wince a lot when Trevor pulls out his CD collection. Apart from the odd shining star stacked on the shelf, we don’t really have music taste in common.
I’ve got diverse tastes, you’ve seen the list with each entry. Actually there’s not that much out there that I can’t enjoy on some level. Unfortunately Trevor’s taste has resulted in a collection of pretty much everything guaranteed to grate on my nerves.
“Trev, that’s not deep,” I smirk. “That’s crap. She’s comparing someone she loved to skin cancer.”
“No, it’s deep. Listen.” He pulls open the CD cover and begins to read along to the poppy beat and predictable melody.
Tell me why do lovers have to leave
I know it happens all the time
And it’s so sad’ cos this time its you and me
I know I’m losing you but I just can’t believe it baby.
If this is going to be war then I’m woefully ill-equipped. My CD collection was descimated when I sold half of it while I was still in Canberra. The remainder is in storage. I rattle around in my memory trying to pull a string of lyrics together to throw back at him but my brain is fuzzy and already doing its utmost to defend itself against Trevor’s flood of “deep” revelations about life and love.
So I had no armament and was relying on what I could pull from Trevor’s collection to defend myself. Finding something to argue depth from a collection that features Tina Cousins was no easy feat.
In a desperate bid to prove my point I armed myself with Dido, hoping she would provide enough depth to counter Tina. And the war took on the appearance of bad performance poetry as we recited lyrics at each other from opposite ends of the room. Our inflections gave the randomly plucked phrases added meaning.
I don't want to call my friends,
They might wake me from this dream
And I can't leave this bed,
Risk forgetting all that's been
You give me strength when I am weak
You mellow my soul with your sanctuary
What else could I do
When all I am is you
You set me free and now I fly again
It's been three years, one night apart, but in that night you tore my heart
If only you had slept alone, if those seeds had not been sown
Oh you could come home and you could know that
If I could get over you
then I could get away from here
it’s such a lonely place
I only have myself to blame
and if I make it through
the wasteland of my mind
maybe then I’ll find a way
to find a brighter day
If you tell me that I can't, I will, I will, I'll try all night
And if say I'm coming home, I'll probably be out all night
I know I can be afraid but I'm alive
And I hope that you trust this heart behind my tired eyes
You made me whole you made me complete
The song of your soul echoes in me
What else could it do
When I find myself in you
You give me hope and I shine again
“I still think Tina’s deep,” Trevor’s collapsed onto the lounge. Our performance in the dimly lit room coming to a close.
“Trevor, we’re deep.”
I Will Survive - Cake
Running on only three hours sleep I was called in to my first temporary assignment on Friday. As my insomnia dictates the last time I had looked at the clock before falling asleep was 4.45am but the surprising phone call had me leaping from bed, into the shower and out the door by 8.30am.
I survived on adrenalin alone in the bubbling office. But the nicest surprise of the day was when I dragged myself back in the door after a 45 minute battle with the peak hour traffic. Trevor had cooked dinner, poured me a wine and had it waiting on the table. The evening spilled on with more wine, more food than I normally consume, and more and more talk. Eventually Trevor pulled out a handful of CDs.
“Listen to this, listen to this. It’s so deep.” He proclaims, bouncing around the room like a puppy. He reads me the lyrics of Tina Cousins’ The Fool is Me.
You’re a melanoma
and you burn so sweetly’ so deeply
you hurt
Why are people never who they seem
So sweetly, so cheaply, the fool is me
I winced. I wince a lot when Trevor pulls out his CD collection. Apart from the odd shining star stacked on the shelf, we don’t really have music taste in common.
I’ve got diverse tastes, you’ve seen the list with each entry. Actually there’s not that much out there that I can’t enjoy on some level. Unfortunately Trevor’s taste has resulted in a collection of pretty much everything guaranteed to grate on my nerves.
“Trev, that’s not deep,” I smirk. “That’s crap. She’s comparing someone she loved to skin cancer.”
“No, it’s deep. Listen.” He pulls open the CD cover and begins to read along to the poppy beat and predictable melody.
Tell me why do lovers have to leave
I know it happens all the time
And it’s so sad’ cos this time its you and me
I know I’m losing you but I just can’t believe it baby.
If this is going to be war then I’m woefully ill-equipped. My CD collection was descimated when I sold half of it while I was still in Canberra. The remainder is in storage. I rattle around in my memory trying to pull a string of lyrics together to throw back at him but my brain is fuzzy and already doing its utmost to defend itself against Trevor’s flood of “deep” revelations about life and love.
So I had no armament and was relying on what I could pull from Trevor’s collection to defend myself. Finding something to argue depth from a collection that features Tina Cousins was no easy feat.
In a desperate bid to prove my point I armed myself with Dido, hoping she would provide enough depth to counter Tina. And the war took on the appearance of bad performance poetry as we recited lyrics at each other from opposite ends of the room. Our inflections gave the randomly plucked phrases added meaning.
I don't want to call my friends,
They might wake me from this dream
And I can't leave this bed,
Risk forgetting all that's been
You give me strength when I am weak
You mellow my soul with your sanctuary
What else could I do
When all I am is you
You set me free and now I fly again
It's been three years, one night apart, but in that night you tore my heart
If only you had slept alone, if those seeds had not been sown
Oh you could come home and you could know that
If I could get over you
then I could get away from here
it’s such a lonely place
I only have myself to blame
and if I make it through
the wasteland of my mind
maybe then I’ll find a way
to find a brighter day
If you tell me that I can't, I will, I will, I'll try all night
And if say I'm coming home, I'll probably be out all night
I know I can be afraid but I'm alive
And I hope that you trust this heart behind my tired eyes
You made me whole you made me complete
The song of your soul echoes in me
What else could it do
When I find myself in you
You give me hope and I shine again
“I still think Tina’s deep,” Trevor’s collapsed onto the lounge. Our performance in the dimly lit room coming to a close.
“Trevor, we’re deep.”
Friday, May 07, 2004
BODIES
Gloria – Laura Brannighan (because Trevor’s playing it on the piano)
I have no idea what made me think of this. But here goes:
I saw my first dead body when I was nine.
Our local swimming hole was a dive of a location. The sand was dirty with broken bottles and rubbish from careless, or rather thoughtless, visitors. But the hole provided no end of adventure. Children would gather together and explore the trees that, in places, provided enclosed forts in which to build allegiances. Many an imaginary war was fought in those sands. And not far from the beach there was a bridge under which the swallows and pigeons built their nests and you could search for chicks to marvel at or find the remnants of some sweet blue egg.
On a 40-degree day it was the only option. Because my parent’s car was a Datsun 120Y without air conditioning it was impossible to travel the more than an hour to the sea without the constant threat of heat exhaustion.
The small white box of a car, which I had called Cara (because I thought the signs that said Turn Left with Care actually meant turn left with Cara), always smelt of melting plastic and burning skin on these days when my brother and I were squashed into the small back seat with a collection of inflatable toys. Our legs sticking on the fry pan of a back seat.
On this particular day only my father had taken my brother and I to the swimming hole. From memory my mother always avoided these journeys – surrounding herself instead with the duties of cleaning the spotless house. Glad to have us all from under her feet.
And there’s a hole in my memory about here. I recall playing under the bridge with other children my age, a blue eggshell and hearing sirens descending on the area. I recall the firm grip of my father on my shoulder asking me frantically and shaking me “did you see him?” and then repeating the action with my brother.
Adults scattered around us, calling their children from the water and clutching them tightly all the while gathering their things. And I got an odd sensation this was just like Jaws. Something was going on and the water had turned against us. I was disturbed but rushed with adrenaline and eager to get a handle on the situation.
I wanted to see the beast for myself.
Cars abandoned the site with stunned children crying or passing each other puzzled glances as the summer friendships were severed without warning. Within minutes the car park was a ghost town. The water was silent, dark and eerily still. But we were still there; the ambulance and police were still there and only three other cars sat unattended in the previously packed lot.
And I recall one phrase rather vividly. “If he went under then he couldn’t be under for more than 5 minutes. There’s still a chance.”
My father pushed my brother and I over to a rough patch of grass and sat us down in searing full-sun. The grass was itchy and cut into my bare legs. Telling us to stay put he joined what turned into a three-hour search and occasionally I could see him craning his neck to check on us.
I remember a woman’s face distorted with tears pouring down her cheeks as she talked with police. It wasn’t her son but a neighbour’s boy she had invited to join their family for the trip. “Had anyone called his mother?” police had asked. “We can’t get a hold of her.” Someone’s response broken by anguish.
Finally my brother and I grew restless and went our separate ways. He joined the search and I lingered near the water’s edge. Searching, in my own way.
As police dragged the body of a boy, no older than 12 with brown hair plastered against his blue-hued face, I had been standing less than three metres away. Stunned. Hypnotised as paramedics made the futile attempt to resuscitate him. Rhythmically pushing on his small chest. But even at my young age I could see he was no longer there and he wouldn’t be coming back.
Then there was a sharp sting against the back of my legs as my father slapped me for my disobedience and he hustled my brother and I back to the near-deserted parking lot and back into the car
We drove home silently. Not a word uttered for the entire 15 minutes. My immature brain was trying to grapple the image of that boy and how he didn’t look real, that his skin seemed like plastic as the water beaded off it. Even without touching him I could see there was no life in that shell of a body.
I turned my thoughts to his family and how they must have been feeling, how the neighbours must have been suffering and put the image of the inanimate child, one of my peers, from my mind. I silently mourned the void in their lives as I watched the familiar streets streak by.
When we reached home we still weren’t talking and mum received only nods of exhaustion and responses of “it was ok” when she asked how our day had been.
All the time my arms stung violently and small white blisters began to form.
I recall I couldn’t go to school and had to wear the same dress for the next three days to avoid agitating the painful sunburn and that on explaining my absence my father spoke about the incident in hushed tones.
But after that, we never spoke of it and it was the last time we went to the local swimming hole.
Gloria – Laura Brannighan (because Trevor’s playing it on the piano)
I have no idea what made me think of this. But here goes:
I saw my first dead body when I was nine.
Our local swimming hole was a dive of a location. The sand was dirty with broken bottles and rubbish from careless, or rather thoughtless, visitors. But the hole provided no end of adventure. Children would gather together and explore the trees that, in places, provided enclosed forts in which to build allegiances. Many an imaginary war was fought in those sands. And not far from the beach there was a bridge under which the swallows and pigeons built their nests and you could search for chicks to marvel at or find the remnants of some sweet blue egg.
On a 40-degree day it was the only option. Because my parent’s car was a Datsun 120Y without air conditioning it was impossible to travel the more than an hour to the sea without the constant threat of heat exhaustion.
The small white box of a car, which I had called Cara (because I thought the signs that said Turn Left with Care actually meant turn left with Cara), always smelt of melting plastic and burning skin on these days when my brother and I were squashed into the small back seat with a collection of inflatable toys. Our legs sticking on the fry pan of a back seat.
On this particular day only my father had taken my brother and I to the swimming hole. From memory my mother always avoided these journeys – surrounding herself instead with the duties of cleaning the spotless house. Glad to have us all from under her feet.
And there’s a hole in my memory about here. I recall playing under the bridge with other children my age, a blue eggshell and hearing sirens descending on the area. I recall the firm grip of my father on my shoulder asking me frantically and shaking me “did you see him?” and then repeating the action with my brother.
Adults scattered around us, calling their children from the water and clutching them tightly all the while gathering their things. And I got an odd sensation this was just like Jaws. Something was going on and the water had turned against us. I was disturbed but rushed with adrenaline and eager to get a handle on the situation.
I wanted to see the beast for myself.
Cars abandoned the site with stunned children crying or passing each other puzzled glances as the summer friendships were severed without warning. Within minutes the car park was a ghost town. The water was silent, dark and eerily still. But we were still there; the ambulance and police were still there and only three other cars sat unattended in the previously packed lot.
And I recall one phrase rather vividly. “If he went under then he couldn’t be under for more than 5 minutes. There’s still a chance.”
My father pushed my brother and I over to a rough patch of grass and sat us down in searing full-sun. The grass was itchy and cut into my bare legs. Telling us to stay put he joined what turned into a three-hour search and occasionally I could see him craning his neck to check on us.
I remember a woman’s face distorted with tears pouring down her cheeks as she talked with police. It wasn’t her son but a neighbour’s boy she had invited to join their family for the trip. “Had anyone called his mother?” police had asked. “We can’t get a hold of her.” Someone’s response broken by anguish.
Finally my brother and I grew restless and went our separate ways. He joined the search and I lingered near the water’s edge. Searching, in my own way.
As police dragged the body of a boy, no older than 12 with brown hair plastered against his blue-hued face, I had been standing less than three metres away. Stunned. Hypnotised as paramedics made the futile attempt to resuscitate him. Rhythmically pushing on his small chest. But even at my young age I could see he was no longer there and he wouldn’t be coming back.
Then there was a sharp sting against the back of my legs as my father slapped me for my disobedience and he hustled my brother and I back to the near-deserted parking lot and back into the car
We drove home silently. Not a word uttered for the entire 15 minutes. My immature brain was trying to grapple the image of that boy and how he didn’t look real, that his skin seemed like plastic as the water beaded off it. Even without touching him I could see there was no life in that shell of a body.
I turned my thoughts to his family and how they must have been feeling, how the neighbours must have been suffering and put the image of the inanimate child, one of my peers, from my mind. I silently mourned the void in their lives as I watched the familiar streets streak by.
When we reached home we still weren’t talking and mum received only nods of exhaustion and responses of “it was ok” when she asked how our day had been.
All the time my arms stung violently and small white blisters began to form.
I recall I couldn’t go to school and had to wear the same dress for the next three days to avoid agitating the painful sunburn and that on explaining my absence my father spoke about the incident in hushed tones.
But after that, we never spoke of it and it was the last time we went to the local swimming hole.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
I LOVE THE ALLSTARS
Commies for Christ – Doug Anthony Allstars
Since my job doesn’t start for another two weeks, I spent this morning rummaging through old boxes in the back of my father’s shed. During the search I came across old posters and curled up on the floor mapping out my life through my love of a particular musician or actor who had captivated my imagination.
But at the age of 17 I had taken down my last poster – The Doug Anthony Allstars.
For the unacquainted The Allstars were a comedy trio from the late 80s and early 90s who took philosophy, religion, art, politics and music and boiled these components down into short skits that mocked every firmly held belief imaginable.
Their work included lyrics such as:
We took the whacks from Kerouac's and dusty Dostoyevsky's,
And when all was said and done booze was all I had left me.
For all the world's great thinkers are all a load of pus!
And if you asked us how Zarathustra spoke,
He spoke thus.
Through them I learned about Sartre, Trotsky, Kirkegaard, Nitzche, Kerouac, Dostoyevsky, Marx, Van Gough, Bottachelli, Jackson Pollack, Krishna, Samuel Beckett, Australian politics and the list goes on and on.
These foreign terms were like a drug and I was swimming in the knowledge they bestowed upon me. I read and read and studied trying to understand the complex ideas put forth by these men. I was a 15-year-old existentialist – I read and understood, but it wasn’t until I was older that I really understood what they were saying.
At that time I thought they were “talking” to me. That they were laughing at the world with me. Somehow we had a common vision. The knowledge I was absorbing became a secret language my friends and family couldn’t understand. While I was laughing at jokes about Simone De Beouvoir and knee deep in the world of Voltaire my friends were more interested in The Baby Animals and spiking their fringes (I blame The Allstars for my lack of skill with hair).
After seeing several concerts I realised they were laughing at me, at the mindless mob that was following their every word as though they spoke some ultimate truth. At one stage they convinced a crowd to destroy their credit cards and the unquestioning fans obeyed. On completing the task The Allstars mocked them for being idiots and just doing what they were told. Regularly an audience would rise and fall with the raucous humour followed by a soulful song. They were hooked.
And that made me laugh all the harder, as though I had finally got the real joke. I stopped watching The Allstars and began watching the crowd. It’s something I tend to do to this day not only at concerts but everywhere I go people following the mindless fanaticism of careers, religion, music and television.
Because of The Allstars I have a love of philosophy, art, music, I studied politics at university and I’m fascinated by religion, cults and fandom (all of which have dangerous similarities).
Because of The Allstars I have come to some understanding of the world and the way it works, the way people work.
Now I don’t believe in anything – not even them. And I learned not to take anything too seriously.
That’s not to say I’m an atheist. Atheists, from what I understand, believe in nothing. I, on the other hand, believe in everything with equal parts faith and scepticism. I have found this middle ground for my beliefs all because I was a fan of a group that taught me to reject any kind of fanaticism, be it religious, political or artistic.
But I still have the poster safely tucked in a cardboard tube like an ancient religious scroll.
Commies for Christ – Doug Anthony Allstars
Since my job doesn’t start for another two weeks, I spent this morning rummaging through old boxes in the back of my father’s shed. During the search I came across old posters and curled up on the floor mapping out my life through my love of a particular musician or actor who had captivated my imagination.
But at the age of 17 I had taken down my last poster – The Doug Anthony Allstars.
For the unacquainted The Allstars were a comedy trio from the late 80s and early 90s who took philosophy, religion, art, politics and music and boiled these components down into short skits that mocked every firmly held belief imaginable.
Their work included lyrics such as:
We took the whacks from Kerouac's and dusty Dostoyevsky's,
And when all was said and done booze was all I had left me.
For all the world's great thinkers are all a load of pus!
And if you asked us how Zarathustra spoke,
He spoke thus.
Through them I learned about Sartre, Trotsky, Kirkegaard, Nitzche, Kerouac, Dostoyevsky, Marx, Van Gough, Bottachelli, Jackson Pollack, Krishna, Samuel Beckett, Australian politics and the list goes on and on.
These foreign terms were like a drug and I was swimming in the knowledge they bestowed upon me. I read and read and studied trying to understand the complex ideas put forth by these men. I was a 15-year-old existentialist – I read and understood, but it wasn’t until I was older that I really understood what they were saying.
At that time I thought they were “talking” to me. That they were laughing at the world with me. Somehow we had a common vision. The knowledge I was absorbing became a secret language my friends and family couldn’t understand. While I was laughing at jokes about Simone De Beouvoir and knee deep in the world of Voltaire my friends were more interested in The Baby Animals and spiking their fringes (I blame The Allstars for my lack of skill with hair).
After seeing several concerts I realised they were laughing at me, at the mindless mob that was following their every word as though they spoke some ultimate truth. At one stage they convinced a crowd to destroy their credit cards and the unquestioning fans obeyed. On completing the task The Allstars mocked them for being idiots and just doing what they were told. Regularly an audience would rise and fall with the raucous humour followed by a soulful song. They were hooked.
And that made me laugh all the harder, as though I had finally got the real joke. I stopped watching The Allstars and began watching the crowd. It’s something I tend to do to this day not only at concerts but everywhere I go people following the mindless fanaticism of careers, religion, music and television.
Because of The Allstars I have a love of philosophy, art, music, I studied politics at university and I’m fascinated by religion, cults and fandom (all of which have dangerous similarities).
Because of The Allstars I have come to some understanding of the world and the way it works, the way people work.
Now I don’t believe in anything – not even them. And I learned not to take anything too seriously.
That’s not to say I’m an atheist. Atheists, from what I understand, believe in nothing. I, on the other hand, believe in everything with equal parts faith and scepticism. I have found this middle ground for my beliefs all because I was a fan of a group that taught me to reject any kind of fanaticism, be it religious, political or artistic.
But I still have the poster safely tucked in a cardboard tube like an ancient religious scroll.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
PLEASE GOD, TELL ME, I’M STILL ASLEEP
Nothing Much to Lose - My Bloody Valentine
I’m trying to pretend like it’s good news. I got a job. I’m sure there’d be whoops and hollering from family and friends if I told them. But I won’t.
I will be gainfully employed as a nightfiller at my local supermarket. It’s a job I did while I was in high school and while the work itself doesn’t bother me I’m still woefully worried about money.
The pay is poor. Very poor. But it does mean that I get to keep the few possessions I have left. I get to keep my computer, I get to keep the internet connected and I get to keep a roof over my head without alienating a close friend.
So it’s all good. I guess.
Nothing Much to Lose - My Bloody Valentine
I’m trying to pretend like it’s good news. I got a job. I’m sure there’d be whoops and hollering from family and friends if I told them. But I won’t.
I will be gainfully employed as a nightfiller at my local supermarket. It’s a job I did while I was in high school and while the work itself doesn’t bother me I’m still woefully worried about money.
The pay is poor. Very poor. But it does mean that I get to keep the few possessions I have left. I get to keep my computer, I get to keep the internet connected and I get to keep a roof over my head without alienating a close friend.
So it’s all good. I guess.
NOTHING SPECTACULAR
Boss of Me – They Might Be Giants
Well the dinner party was largely uneventful. The evening began with D coming home early from work and fritting around the kitchen, tinkering with his creations.
I, acting very much like some sort of demented housewife, set the table. Dutifully wiping down the good crystal glasses, the special cutlery and folding napkins with the nimbleness of a drunken monkey.
“You still writing that blog thing?” he asks from out of nowhere.
“Yep,” I don’t look up from my task, which I’m doing incredibly poorly.
“What do you call me?”
“D. I didn’t want to give away who you were.”
“Ah, if you don’t go into too much detail about me then you can use my name.”
D, henceforth to be known as Trevor, doesn’t read this blog. Like many of my friends and family he doesn’t speak much about it but knows that it exists. Regularly he inquires after it but that’s where his interest ends.
“ok,” and the conversation turns to the affair at hand. We’re creating a sterling environment for our guests - the wife and her lying hubby.
Red wines in hand we cleaned the house. Vacuumed, dusted and placed everything in its appropriate spot. But by the time our guests arrived at 7pm we were already three sheets to the wind.
Wife and hubby turned up exactly on seven and we served a spectacular platter of olives, salami, crackers, cheese and other bits and pieces. We also began to ply them with alcohol. Hubby was driving so it was only wife who joined our merry celebration of deception.
Oddly enough the night moved quickly and without incident. We chatted our way through the lasagna about the fact Sydney was getting colder and how we were in for a nasty winter. We talked, at some lengths, about my situation. We talked about how great it was to be back in Sydney and what I should do now.
It was during desert that wife made the one treacherous comment of the evening. With a mouth full of the offending meringue her husband claimed to be an integral part of creating.
“You know what you need Boswell,” she smiled broadly through her alcohol haze. “You need a husband.” She clutched the arm of the man beside her tightly as though he were some life preserver instead of the dead weight he really is.
I'd been waiting for such a comment. With a quick glances to Trevor and hubby, letting them know that I could seriously do some damage, I clutched my wine and smiled sweetly. “Oh God, the last thing I need is one of them.”
Everyone laughed nervously and Trevor quickly changed to subject. Veering away from the path the conversation could have taken. Trevor knows me well, we've been friends for 14 years, and he knew I was looking for an open door to walk through and blow cheating hubby’s cover. But after three hours of talking and saying nothing we farewelled our guests without incident.
We stood blissful on the footpath waving and smiling as their car pulled into the street and disappeared around a corner.
The night ended with Trevor and I in the playground of a neighbouring block of units. After 10 minutes on the seesaw and Trevor’s failed attempt to use the kiddie slippery dip we fell back onto the thick carpet of grass, staring at the few stars that penetrate the city’s wash of lights.
“That went well,” he sighed.
“Yeah, I’m kind of disappointed though. I wanted fireworks.”
Boss of Me – They Might Be Giants
Well the dinner party was largely uneventful. The evening began with D coming home early from work and fritting around the kitchen, tinkering with his creations.
I, acting very much like some sort of demented housewife, set the table. Dutifully wiping down the good crystal glasses, the special cutlery and folding napkins with the nimbleness of a drunken monkey.
“You still writing that blog thing?” he asks from out of nowhere.
“Yep,” I don’t look up from my task, which I’m doing incredibly poorly.
“What do you call me?”
“D. I didn’t want to give away who you were.”
“Ah, if you don’t go into too much detail about me then you can use my name.”
D, henceforth to be known as Trevor, doesn’t read this blog. Like many of my friends and family he doesn’t speak much about it but knows that it exists. Regularly he inquires after it but that’s where his interest ends.
“ok,” and the conversation turns to the affair at hand. We’re creating a sterling environment for our guests - the wife and her lying hubby.
Red wines in hand we cleaned the house. Vacuumed, dusted and placed everything in its appropriate spot. But by the time our guests arrived at 7pm we were already three sheets to the wind.
Wife and hubby turned up exactly on seven and we served a spectacular platter of olives, salami, crackers, cheese and other bits and pieces. We also began to ply them with alcohol. Hubby was driving so it was only wife who joined our merry celebration of deception.
Oddly enough the night moved quickly and without incident. We chatted our way through the lasagna about the fact Sydney was getting colder and how we were in for a nasty winter. We talked, at some lengths, about my situation. We talked about how great it was to be back in Sydney and what I should do now.
It was during desert that wife made the one treacherous comment of the evening. With a mouth full of the offending meringue her husband claimed to be an integral part of creating.
“You know what you need Boswell,” she smiled broadly through her alcohol haze. “You need a husband.” She clutched the arm of the man beside her tightly as though he were some life preserver instead of the dead weight he really is.
I'd been waiting for such a comment. With a quick glances to Trevor and hubby, letting them know that I could seriously do some damage, I clutched my wine and smiled sweetly. “Oh God, the last thing I need is one of them.”
Everyone laughed nervously and Trevor quickly changed to subject. Veering away from the path the conversation could have taken. Trevor knows me well, we've been friends for 14 years, and he knew I was looking for an open door to walk through and blow cheating hubby’s cover. But after three hours of talking and saying nothing we farewelled our guests without incident.
We stood blissful on the footpath waving and smiling as their car pulled into the street and disappeared around a corner.
The night ended with Trevor and I in the playground of a neighbouring block of units. After 10 minutes on the seesaw and Trevor’s failed attempt to use the kiddie slippery dip we fell back onto the thick carpet of grass, staring at the few stars that penetrate the city’s wash of lights.
“That went well,” he sighed.
“Yeah, I’m kind of disappointed though. I wanted fireworks.”
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
DINNER PARTY FACADE
Life - Our Lady Peace
Tonight’s dinner party is a sham.
It began on Sunday with a phone call that had D talking in high-pitched tones. I was only privy to one side of the conversation.
“Why’d you tell her that?” he squeals. “God, she’ll never believe you. What. What. I can’t. I. Look man you messed up not me why should… Look, ok, but you owe me one.”
What followed was my first real experience with adultery.
A friend of D’s is cheating on his wife and the web of lies woven to cover his tracks involved not only D but a non-existent dinner party, a welcome home for your’s truly, and a lemon meringue pie.
D’s singing I Am Woman as he frits over his bubbling pots and pans.
An aromatic concoction with meat, mushrooms, capsicum and a rich tomato sauce dominates the top of the cooker. The sauce, he assures me, is a family tradition with a special blend of secret herbs and spices.
The jars of his brew are scattered across the bench. “There’s nothing secret about oregano, I’m pretty sure people have heard of it.”
I can’t help it, I’m laughing at him. I’m laughing at how absurd my life has become. Suddenly the world of Boswell is a tragic comedy filled with a depressed protagonist and a circle of diverse, decadent characters.
I’m laughing more than I’ve laughed in six months. Tears of a dark, disturbed joy that come from such an upheaval as I’ve experience in the past two months are spilling down my cheeks.
By now he’s panicking, it’s already 9.30 and he still has to make the cheese sauce.
The cheese sauce begins to thicken as I stir slowly making sure it doesn’t stick while D carefully places the layers of pasta into a baking dish and spoons the meat mixture onto the yellow sheets. He carefully pushes the meat into a flat, even layer. Then makes a grab for the cheese sauce.
He constructs layers of pasta, meat and sauce before sprinkling cheese across the top of his "fabulous lasagne". D steps back and surveys his creation before slipping it into the oven.
It’s a little after 10pm and I’m aching to jump back on the computer. But the preparation for the sham are far from over. seems D’s friend had told his partner he was helping D make a lemon meringue pie for the celebrations and that's why he didn't get home until late on Sunday.
It’s midnight and through the silent streets of Guidford you could hear D’s cries.
“I’m an idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. What in the hell am I doing.” D’s flattening out the yellow mucus-like contents of the meringue with a spatula. Pushing it with care into each crevice of the base he sculpted only moments ago. “I have to be at work at 6am tomorrow. 6. I am such a fucking idiot.”
Suddenly there’s trauma in the kitchen. D, twirling as he does through the kitchen utensils, knocks over the scales. In its wake the spoon in the filling bowl spirals onto the floor spraying yellow goo across the kitchen cupboard doors. Small gloups of goo pockmark the fine white doors.
Arms are flailing, there’s a tiz and I’m confident that had the situation been only slightly more severe there would have been tears.
“The amount of effort I’m going to to conceal an adulterer. It’s ridiculous,” he hisses as he wipes away the mess and brings together the egg whites for his fluffy meringue.
Still I’m laughing, certain that at any moment I’ll break into uncontrollable sobs that would confuse an already preoccupied D.
He hits the beaters at 12.14am, whipping the egg whites into a fluffy frenzy and cursing the angst he’s causing the neighbours. Muttering, his voice drowned out by the whine of his hand tool.
Finally he builds the white froth onto the pie, his own tower of Babel. Massive mounds of white that make me miss the Rocky Mountains. Shaping the mound with a knife it’s placed in the oven to give the careful peaks a caramel glaze.
Then he’s off to bed and I’m wide-awake, as always, trying to calm myself enough to sleep.
Life - Our Lady Peace
Tonight’s dinner party is a sham.
It began on Sunday with a phone call that had D talking in high-pitched tones. I was only privy to one side of the conversation.
“Why’d you tell her that?” he squeals. “God, she’ll never believe you. What. What. I can’t. I. Look man you messed up not me why should… Look, ok, but you owe me one.”
What followed was my first real experience with adultery.
A friend of D’s is cheating on his wife and the web of lies woven to cover his tracks involved not only D but a non-existent dinner party, a welcome home for your’s truly, and a lemon meringue pie.
D’s singing I Am Woman as he frits over his bubbling pots and pans.
An aromatic concoction with meat, mushrooms, capsicum and a rich tomato sauce dominates the top of the cooker. The sauce, he assures me, is a family tradition with a special blend of secret herbs and spices.
The jars of his brew are scattered across the bench. “There’s nothing secret about oregano, I’m pretty sure people have heard of it.”
I can’t help it, I’m laughing at him. I’m laughing at how absurd my life has become. Suddenly the world of Boswell is a tragic comedy filled with a depressed protagonist and a circle of diverse, decadent characters.
I’m laughing more than I’ve laughed in six months. Tears of a dark, disturbed joy that come from such an upheaval as I’ve experience in the past two months are spilling down my cheeks.
By now he’s panicking, it’s already 9.30 and he still has to make the cheese sauce.
The cheese sauce begins to thicken as I stir slowly making sure it doesn’t stick while D carefully places the layers of pasta into a baking dish and spoons the meat mixture onto the yellow sheets. He carefully pushes the meat into a flat, even layer. Then makes a grab for the cheese sauce.
He constructs layers of pasta, meat and sauce before sprinkling cheese across the top of his "fabulous lasagne". D steps back and surveys his creation before slipping it into the oven.
It’s a little after 10pm and I’m aching to jump back on the computer. But the preparation for the sham are far from over. seems D’s friend had told his partner he was helping D make a lemon meringue pie for the celebrations and that's why he didn't get home until late on Sunday.
It’s midnight and through the silent streets of Guidford you could hear D’s cries.
“I’m an idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. What in the hell am I doing.” D’s flattening out the yellow mucus-like contents of the meringue with a spatula. Pushing it with care into each crevice of the base he sculpted only moments ago. “I have to be at work at 6am tomorrow. 6. I am such a fucking idiot.”
Suddenly there’s trauma in the kitchen. D, twirling as he does through the kitchen utensils, knocks over the scales. In its wake the spoon in the filling bowl spirals onto the floor spraying yellow goo across the kitchen cupboard doors. Small gloups of goo pockmark the fine white doors.
Arms are flailing, there’s a tiz and I’m confident that had the situation been only slightly more severe there would have been tears.
“The amount of effort I’m going to to conceal an adulterer. It’s ridiculous,” he hisses as he wipes away the mess and brings together the egg whites for his fluffy meringue.
Still I’m laughing, certain that at any moment I’ll break into uncontrollable sobs that would confuse an already preoccupied D.
He hits the beaters at 12.14am, whipping the egg whites into a fluffy frenzy and cursing the angst he’s causing the neighbours. Muttering, his voice drowned out by the whine of his hand tool.
Finally he builds the white froth onto the pie, his own tower of Babel. Massive mounds of white that make me miss the Rocky Mountains. Shaping the mound with a knife it’s placed in the oven to give the careful peaks a caramel glaze.
Then he’s off to bed and I’m wide-awake, as always, trying to calm myself enough to sleep.
THE INTERVIEW - ACT 1, SCENE TWO.
Help Myself - Dave Matthews Band
Ok, the last entry was too much sarcasm and bitterness even for me. I guess I'm a little bit of bitter about the whole unemployment thing.
There was somewhere I was supposed to be this year. I was supposed to be someone else. I was following a path I had planned for the past five years and then whoosh, it's all over. I was supposed to be quitting at the end of the year to re-establish myself elsewhere in the world.
Well, obviously not. Still, here's my honest responses to employer questions:
So why did you leave journalism/your last job?
I was fired. In all honesty I don't think I really wanted to be there any more. I simply wasn't compatible with the sheer misery of my job, not only the stories themselves but also the workplace conditions. I would happily go back to journalism but I would have to be honest from the outset that I need a degree of freedom in my workplace habits. Otherwise I'll just hit the road or screw around.
What are you looking for?
I'm looking for a job that will use all of my strengths and make accommodation for my weaknesses. Something that's flexible and a workplace that trusts me to do my job. A place that's not looking over my shoulder every five minutes.
What are your strengths?
I can write, not here though. Here I spew forth more bullshit than 100 head of Hereford. No, once upon a time (in a galaxy far, far away), I could write. That's the one true and honest thing I could do.
And yes, I'm tenacious. That is one of my strengths. I can follow an idea through until the end and I very rarely give up on it until I'm satisfied I know all that I can know. Research is probably my greatest strength.
I can lie. Although rarely do I blatantly lie, I can bend the truth in such a way that the picture I've painted is infallible. I understand how people see the world and as a result I can feed into their own beliefs to create a "truth" that is not only palatable but also attractive. (I promise to only use this power for good). I hate this skill. It means that I can convince family and friends that everything is ok when in fact I'm falling apart. I'm learning to tell the truth on this level but I've been so good at it in the past that everyone's surprised that "suddenly" I'm not coping.
What are your weaknesses?
I like a challenge. If I'm not going to be challenged then I really don't see the point.
I also like flexibility. The idea of creativity on demand annoys me. Writing is not the product of a sausage factory. I need the flexibility to go with the flow and I understand there are time constraints but if I'm on deadline I need to be trusted to make that deadline even if it means on day I'm working 9am to 5pm and the next day it's 6pm to midnight. And I always make my deadlines but that comes back to being tenacious.
I am not a suit. I am uncomfortable taking out the nose ring and pretending to be someone I'm not. And I do not like an office. I like work in my own time and in my own space. For some reason I work really well in noisy public spaces. I hate working in silence. For some reason working in silence distracts me.
Where do you see yourself in five years?
Ideally I'd like to be elsewhere. I love to travel and in the future plan to base myself somewhere on the other side of the world. Not because I don't love Australia but because I want something more active, a city that doesn't sleep and where the people are diverse. Somewhere I will be surprised every day.
What would your last supervisor say about you?
He would say that I'm honest, that's no lie. He would also say that I was distracted and opinionated.
That's it, bitterness-free Boswell.
Help Myself - Dave Matthews Band
Ok, the last entry was too much sarcasm and bitterness even for me. I guess I'm a little bit of bitter about the whole unemployment thing.
There was somewhere I was supposed to be this year. I was supposed to be someone else. I was following a path I had planned for the past five years and then whoosh, it's all over. I was supposed to be quitting at the end of the year to re-establish myself elsewhere in the world.
Well, obviously not. Still, here's my honest responses to employer questions:
So why did you leave journalism/your last job?
I was fired. In all honesty I don't think I really wanted to be there any more. I simply wasn't compatible with the sheer misery of my job, not only the stories themselves but also the workplace conditions. I would happily go back to journalism but I would have to be honest from the outset that I need a degree of freedom in my workplace habits. Otherwise I'll just hit the road or screw around.
What are you looking for?
I'm looking for a job that will use all of my strengths and make accommodation for my weaknesses. Something that's flexible and a workplace that trusts me to do my job. A place that's not looking over my shoulder every five minutes.
What are your strengths?
I can write, not here though. Here I spew forth more bullshit than 100 head of Hereford. No, once upon a time (in a galaxy far, far away), I could write. That's the one true and honest thing I could do.
And yes, I'm tenacious. That is one of my strengths. I can follow an idea through until the end and I very rarely give up on it until I'm satisfied I know all that I can know. Research is probably my greatest strength.
I can lie. Although rarely do I blatantly lie, I can bend the truth in such a way that the picture I've painted is infallible. I understand how people see the world and as a result I can feed into their own beliefs to create a "truth" that is not only palatable but also attractive. (I promise to only use this power for good). I hate this skill. It means that I can convince family and friends that everything is ok when in fact I'm falling apart. I'm learning to tell the truth on this level but I've been so good at it in the past that everyone's surprised that "suddenly" I'm not coping.
What are your weaknesses?
I like a challenge. If I'm not going to be challenged then I really don't see the point.
I also like flexibility. The idea of creativity on demand annoys me. Writing is not the product of a sausage factory. I need the flexibility to go with the flow and I understand there are time constraints but if I'm on deadline I need to be trusted to make that deadline even if it means on day I'm working 9am to 5pm and the next day it's 6pm to midnight. And I always make my deadlines but that comes back to being tenacious.
I am not a suit. I am uncomfortable taking out the nose ring and pretending to be someone I'm not. And I do not like an office. I like work in my own time and in my own space. For some reason I work really well in noisy public spaces. I hate working in silence. For some reason working in silence distracts me.
Where do you see yourself in five years?
Ideally I'd like to be elsewhere. I love to travel and in the future plan to base myself somewhere on the other side of the world. Not because I don't love Australia but because I want something more active, a city that doesn't sleep and where the people are diverse. Somewhere I will be surprised every day.
What would your last supervisor say about you?
He would say that I'm honest, that's no lie. He would also say that I was distracted and opinionated.
That's it, bitterness-free Boswell.
Monday, May 03, 2004
THE INTERVIEW ACT
Opening the Mouth – Boards of Canada
They’re a predictable bunch. Just like journalists, employers haven’t got an original question to ask. So, I can prepare my answers in advance. They may not ask the question word for word but it’s pretty easy to guess the answers they want.
And remember, it pays to pretend that you’re stumped at least once in the interview because it makes you look thoughtful and serious. I would suggest the “what are your weaknesses” so that they think you’ve got a positive attitude. However looking stumped at the wrong time, like when they ask where you’re from, can make you look stupid. So use the stumped moment with discretion.
Anyhow, the day I’m surprised at a question either a journalist or employer asks is the day I strap on the ice skates and head for the rink in hell.
Question: So why did you leave journalism/your last job?
Answer: I was a little tired of meeting the same people and I’m looking for something more dynamic and a little more flexible. (bring up passion for travel here and discuss – everyone’s impressed with these stories).
Truth: I got my arse canned for fucking around on the computer and then sharing my opinion on the state of journalism in Australia.
Question: What are you looking for?
Answer: Something that will utilize all of my skills and where I get the opportunity to meet new people.
Truth: WTF? Money. Money. Money. No one works for love baby. It’s the cold hard cash that motivates me.
Question: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Answer: Well I’m hoping to settle in Sydney so I can be close to my family and friends. I’m looking for an office environment with an opportunity to advance.
Truth: As soon as I’ve got the money I’m out of here. I’m thinking six to twelve months tops. Then I’m on a plane and looking for a job on another continent.
Question: What would you say are your strongest characteristics?
Answer: I’d have to say my tenacity. I’m someone who, once they’ve got their mind set on doing something, doesn’t give up.
Truth: I’m starting to think my acting skills. I mean look at you, you’re actually buying this.
Question: What are your weaknesses?
Answer: Well, once again I’d say my tenacity is also a weakness. Like I said, I’m someone who’s not happy unless I’ve done something to the best of my ability so I won’t give up. I can be kind of stubborn like that. (Never say anything negative about yourself, turn your strength into a weakness and back into an employable strength).
Truth: You want the list? I hate staying in the one place. I have contempt for corporatism. I get bored very easily and once I’ve learnt everything I can I’m out of there. My feet are itchy 24-hours-a-day.
Question: What would your last supervisor say about you?
Answer: He would say that I’m honest. I think that’s probably the first thing that would come to his mind.
Truth: Honest, yep, that’s what he’d call me. Although I wonder if opinionated can be interpreted to mean honest. He’d probably also say a few other colourful things about my “attitude” too.
Opening the Mouth – Boards of Canada
They’re a predictable bunch. Just like journalists, employers haven’t got an original question to ask. So, I can prepare my answers in advance. They may not ask the question word for word but it’s pretty easy to guess the answers they want.
And remember, it pays to pretend that you’re stumped at least once in the interview because it makes you look thoughtful and serious. I would suggest the “what are your weaknesses” so that they think you’ve got a positive attitude. However looking stumped at the wrong time, like when they ask where you’re from, can make you look stupid. So use the stumped moment with discretion.
Anyhow, the day I’m surprised at a question either a journalist or employer asks is the day I strap on the ice skates and head for the rink in hell.
Question: So why did you leave journalism/your last job?
Answer: I was a little tired of meeting the same people and I’m looking for something more dynamic and a little more flexible. (bring up passion for travel here and discuss – everyone’s impressed with these stories).
Truth: I got my arse canned for fucking around on the computer and then sharing my opinion on the state of journalism in Australia.
Question: What are you looking for?
Answer: Something that will utilize all of my skills and where I get the opportunity to meet new people.
Truth: WTF? Money. Money. Money. No one works for love baby. It’s the cold hard cash that motivates me.
Question: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Answer: Well I’m hoping to settle in Sydney so I can be close to my family and friends. I’m looking for an office environment with an opportunity to advance.
Truth: As soon as I’ve got the money I’m out of here. I’m thinking six to twelve months tops. Then I’m on a plane and looking for a job on another continent.
Question: What would you say are your strongest characteristics?
Answer: I’d have to say my tenacity. I’m someone who, once they’ve got their mind set on doing something, doesn’t give up.
Truth: I’m starting to think my acting skills. I mean look at you, you’re actually buying this.
Question: What are your weaknesses?
Answer: Well, once again I’d say my tenacity is also a weakness. Like I said, I’m someone who’s not happy unless I’ve done something to the best of my ability so I won’t give up. I can be kind of stubborn like that. (Never say anything negative about yourself, turn your strength into a weakness and back into an employable strength).
Truth: You want the list? I hate staying in the one place. I have contempt for corporatism. I get bored very easily and once I’ve learnt everything I can I’m out of there. My feet are itchy 24-hours-a-day.
Question: What would your last supervisor say about you?
Answer: He would say that I’m honest. I think that’s probably the first thing that would come to his mind.
Truth: Honest, yep, that’s what he’d call me. Although I wonder if opinionated can be interpreted to mean honest. He’d probably also say a few other colourful things about my “attitude” too.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
PERSONAL AD
Sour Girl – Stone Temple Pilots
I haven’t thought seriously enough about tOOleS and its purpose. To me it’s a platform to write. I’ve been setting myself tasks each night to try and limber my brain. But Paul Ford refers to blogs as personal ads (find the relevant entry for yourself because I’m too tired to look) and I wonder what tOOleS is saying about me.
Misguided woman enduring a temporary psychotic episode seeking man who won’t buy her a watch.
Frustrated writer with no talent seeks man who doesn’t make her want to run for her life.
Then I think it really doesn’t matter. Not really. What I know and what you think you know are two different things. I’ve expressed my opinion on the subjective nature of truth before and there’s no point rehashing – you’ll always believe what you want to. But if this is my personal ad then the only time it’s going to be accurate is when its finished. When I’ve said all I have to say.
Ex-journalist looking for someone who will be around in times of trouble but equally leaves her the fuck alone.
Lousy writer seeks man who cares enough not to force her to drive home drunk.
And when have I said all I have to say? For as long as I hold back then I have not done what I came here to do. I may hint and allude as much as I like but until I can tell the whole story then the character I’m writing about is incomplete. Her story is untold. And I came to tell a story so I have to see it through.
Malcontent seeks man who won’t crack her ribs or black an eye.
Terrified insomniac seeks man who won’t spike her drink and doesn’t own a gun.
There is no such thing as the perfect personal ad. Even blogs can’t paint a perfect portrayal of who someone is. You, reader, have only a small portal into my life. You don’t even know my real name. Even if you do, that in itself is only a small part of who I am. There’s something to be said for actually meeting someone face to face. That’s never helped me but if all they’ve got to go on is my blog then I’m confident it’s probably better that they actually meet me. And that’s saying something.
I don’t know what tOOleS is but it’s not my personal ad. At least I hope not.
Chick who likes to wear leopard ears seeking man who’s willing to wear a tail.
Woman with a passion for trips to the zoo and hotdogs seeks man with love of childlike, not childish, pleasures.
There’s more to me than this.
Sour Girl – Stone Temple Pilots
I haven’t thought seriously enough about tOOleS and its purpose. To me it’s a platform to write. I’ve been setting myself tasks each night to try and limber my brain. But Paul Ford refers to blogs as personal ads (find the relevant entry for yourself because I’m too tired to look) and I wonder what tOOleS is saying about me.
Misguided woman enduring a temporary psychotic episode seeking man who won’t buy her a watch.
Frustrated writer with no talent seeks man who doesn’t make her want to run for her life.
Then I think it really doesn’t matter. Not really. What I know and what you think you know are two different things. I’ve expressed my opinion on the subjective nature of truth before and there’s no point rehashing – you’ll always believe what you want to. But if this is my personal ad then the only time it’s going to be accurate is when its finished. When I’ve said all I have to say.
Ex-journalist looking for someone who will be around in times of trouble but equally leaves her the fuck alone.
Lousy writer seeks man who cares enough not to force her to drive home drunk.
And when have I said all I have to say? For as long as I hold back then I have not done what I came here to do. I may hint and allude as much as I like but until I can tell the whole story then the character I’m writing about is incomplete. Her story is untold. And I came to tell a story so I have to see it through.
Malcontent seeks man who won’t crack her ribs or black an eye.
Terrified insomniac seeks man who won’t spike her drink and doesn’t own a gun.
There is no such thing as the perfect personal ad. Even blogs can’t paint a perfect portrayal of who someone is. You, reader, have only a small portal into my life. You don’t even know my real name. Even if you do, that in itself is only a small part of who I am. There’s something to be said for actually meeting someone face to face. That’s never helped me but if all they’ve got to go on is my blog then I’m confident it’s probably better that they actually meet me. And that’s saying something.
I don’t know what tOOleS is but it’s not my personal ad. At least I hope not.
Chick who likes to wear leopard ears seeking man who’s willing to wear a tail.
Woman with a passion for trips to the zoo and hotdogs seeks man with love of childlike, not childish, pleasures.
There’s more to me than this.
READY TO RUN
The Tourist - Radiohead
I am holding on.
That one sentence sat at the top of the blank page for 15 minutes, the usual amount of time I allot to write each entry. But tonight I allowed myself the luxury of simply writing what needs to be written without the constraints of a time limit.
I need to vent something, again. Still.
I am experiencing more loss in my life then I can handle right now, through no one’s fault but my own, and the resultant numbness makes it impossible to tell what I am really feeling.
One second it’s tears. For no apparent reason they come streaming down my face. My eyes sticky and my cheeks dirty with the wash.
I want to peel the skin from my body at times like these. I want to scream and break things because the frustration is so overwhelming. My blood boils and I feel as though I’m about to explode. The pressure is too much.
For this to make any sense you would have to be here now. Be in my skin. It’s not mine and I want so desperately to climb out of it.
Then I’m sitting calmly on the balcony and viewing the deserted streets of my neighbourhood for any signs of life.
A cat weaves between parked cars but the rest of the street is still. It’s dark and cool and I think of all the people tucked safely in their beds. Unaware there are ghosts in the world like me, who crave to inhabit their space.
I envy my neighbours. I envy the world asleep.
And I know this is just depression. I’ve felt this beast crawl from my belly and up my spine, constricting my throat, before. It seems to thrive in times of darkness and since losing my job I have felt it lurking in the shadows.
I know what it’s capable of and I fear it more than anything my over-active mind can conjure.
I also know that I don’t have an original thought in my head and that everyone has trodden this path before me. And I wonder why I bother with this, with searching for work, with getting up in the morning. I wonder if I'll ever stop missing being a journalist.
But I am holding on. Barely. The beast kept at bay by denial, lies, endless self-talk and alcohol.
I still walk the floors of a night though. I haven’t seen dawn since returning to Sydney but it is very unusual for me to go to bed before 3am. I write endlessly as though it’s a living thing scratching to get out of my brain. Not tOOleS but other things. An incomplete novel, short stories which will never see the light of day and my weak poetry. I walk the house as though I’m searching for something tangible but anyone who has seen this beast can tell you that what I’m really doing is fighting a losing battle.
Unless something changes I will curl up on my bed and stay there, disturbed only by my dreams. Either that or I will run, Ghost World style, packing a bag and disappearing. Repeating my Canada exodus. A repeat performance of my Canberra flight. Debris behind me.
Writing this I think that that is what I need to do. I need to keep running, if only for a little while. Go somewhere else, be someone else. Change my name, my hair and my past. If only temporarily.
And I plan my escape. I sell my car for a couple of thousand. I sell my bed and this computer. But that’s it for possessions after my flight from Canberra. So with that money in my pocket I could live for a couple of months on the road. Just me, a backpack stuffed with clothes and pictures of my nieces and nephew. I would use email to check-in from time to time so that I wouldn’t have to hear the disappointment in everyone’s voice.
And I know where I would go. I have an atlas before me. I have chosen my destination. I was supposed to go there in July with G for a Dave Matthews Band concert. So I spill the map before me nightly and stare longingly at it planning my one-day adventure.
But I have responsibilities that make it impossible to run. I have a unit I am trying to hold on to (because that debt it is the only thing that makes me feel normal). I have a future to map out.
I know what I must do. Like fighting this beast is a middle-ages quest.
There is a voice I must learn to use and there are answers I must find to plan my future. But this is no straightforward quest, both tasks are impossible right now because nobody can provide me with answers if I don’t ask the right questions.
At this stage I don’t know what I need to know. But every night I wear a trail in the carpet searching for something.
The Tourist - Radiohead
I am holding on.
That one sentence sat at the top of the blank page for 15 minutes, the usual amount of time I allot to write each entry. But tonight I allowed myself the luxury of simply writing what needs to be written without the constraints of a time limit.
I need to vent something, again. Still.
I am experiencing more loss in my life then I can handle right now, through no one’s fault but my own, and the resultant numbness makes it impossible to tell what I am really feeling.
One second it’s tears. For no apparent reason they come streaming down my face. My eyes sticky and my cheeks dirty with the wash.
I want to peel the skin from my body at times like these. I want to scream and break things because the frustration is so overwhelming. My blood boils and I feel as though I’m about to explode. The pressure is too much.
For this to make any sense you would have to be here now. Be in my skin. It’s not mine and I want so desperately to climb out of it.
Then I’m sitting calmly on the balcony and viewing the deserted streets of my neighbourhood for any signs of life.
A cat weaves between parked cars but the rest of the street is still. It’s dark and cool and I think of all the people tucked safely in their beds. Unaware there are ghosts in the world like me, who crave to inhabit their space.
I envy my neighbours. I envy the world asleep.
And I know this is just depression. I’ve felt this beast crawl from my belly and up my spine, constricting my throat, before. It seems to thrive in times of darkness and since losing my job I have felt it lurking in the shadows.
I know what it’s capable of and I fear it more than anything my over-active mind can conjure.
I also know that I don’t have an original thought in my head and that everyone has trodden this path before me. And I wonder why I bother with this, with searching for work, with getting up in the morning. I wonder if I'll ever stop missing being a journalist.
But I am holding on. Barely. The beast kept at bay by denial, lies, endless self-talk and alcohol.
I still walk the floors of a night though. I haven’t seen dawn since returning to Sydney but it is very unusual for me to go to bed before 3am. I write endlessly as though it’s a living thing scratching to get out of my brain. Not tOOleS but other things. An incomplete novel, short stories which will never see the light of day and my weak poetry. I walk the house as though I’m searching for something tangible but anyone who has seen this beast can tell you that what I’m really doing is fighting a losing battle.
Unless something changes I will curl up on my bed and stay there, disturbed only by my dreams. Either that or I will run, Ghost World style, packing a bag and disappearing. Repeating my Canada exodus. A repeat performance of my Canberra flight. Debris behind me.
Writing this I think that that is what I need to do. I need to keep running, if only for a little while. Go somewhere else, be someone else. Change my name, my hair and my past. If only temporarily.
And I plan my escape. I sell my car for a couple of thousand. I sell my bed and this computer. But that’s it for possessions after my flight from Canberra. So with that money in my pocket I could live for a couple of months on the road. Just me, a backpack stuffed with clothes and pictures of my nieces and nephew. I would use email to check-in from time to time so that I wouldn’t have to hear the disappointment in everyone’s voice.
And I know where I would go. I have an atlas before me. I have chosen my destination. I was supposed to go there in July with G for a Dave Matthews Band concert. So I spill the map before me nightly and stare longingly at it planning my one-day adventure.
But I have responsibilities that make it impossible to run. I have a unit I am trying to hold on to (because that debt it is the only thing that makes me feel normal). I have a future to map out.
I know what I must do. Like fighting this beast is a middle-ages quest.
There is a voice I must learn to use and there are answers I must find to plan my future. But this is no straightforward quest, both tasks are impossible right now because nobody can provide me with answers if I don’t ask the right questions.
At this stage I don’t know what I need to know. But every night I wear a trail in the carpet searching for something.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
PLUGGED INTO THE WALL
I’m No Superman – Lazlo Bane
You've got your love online and you think you're doing fine
But you're just plugged into the wall.
And that deck of tarot cards won't get you very far
There ain't no hand to break your fall
Well, I know what I've been told, you gotta know just when to fold
But I can't do this all on my own. No, I know, I'm no Superman.
The apartment’s empty tonight and I'm stone cold sober and alone so I decided to call on a lifeline. G. Far away, both physically and emotionally. Still. He’s something to break the silence.
My housemates have run interference to this point, neither allowing me to give in to this urge, but in the silence of a deserted house there’s no one to stop me picking up the phone and dialling the all too familiar number.
My fingers dance easily across the phone’s digits, as though they’ve traced this series of numbers a million times. Maybe they have – I wasn’t counting.
I’m cross-legged on the soft, cream coloured carpet. Clutching the phone with a firm grip until my palms are sweaty. The dial tone sounds a million miles away and by the third ring I breathe a sigh of relief. He mustn’t be home.
Fifth ring, click, and he picks up. I consider hanging up; consider telling him I rang the wrong number; consider simply asking if he’s seen a CD I think I left behind.
But I crumble with the first hello.
“Just wanted to see what you were up to,” I try to be as casual as possible but all my nerves are screaming. I’m screaming at him, even though he can’t hear it.
“Not much, how’s it going up there in Sydney?”
And the conversation goes on. We talk about our lives. He tells me about work and I tell him about my search for work. The conversation twists and turns, all the time we’re not saying what we’re thinking about. We’re not talking about the fight or my rapid departure.
Finally it lingers on the intimate details about how much we miss each other. How we miss having that shape in our beds. How we miss someone to confide in, to hide with.
He asks if we will still be friends. “Yeah, I think that’s all we ever were.” I lie.
I was never in love and I don’t want him back. These aren’t the type of phone calls you make to maintain a relationship and neither are they a desperate bid to reignite it. Merely the long drawn-out steps I take to smooth the edges of my life.
We won’t be friends and apart from these desperate cries during the silence of our lives I doubt very much that we’ll keep in touch.
I’m No Superman – Lazlo Bane
You've got your love online and you think you're doing fine
But you're just plugged into the wall.
And that deck of tarot cards won't get you very far
There ain't no hand to break your fall
Well, I know what I've been told, you gotta know just when to fold
But I can't do this all on my own. No, I know, I'm no Superman.
The apartment’s empty tonight and I'm stone cold sober and alone so I decided to call on a lifeline. G. Far away, both physically and emotionally. Still. He’s something to break the silence.
My housemates have run interference to this point, neither allowing me to give in to this urge, but in the silence of a deserted house there’s no one to stop me picking up the phone and dialling the all too familiar number.
My fingers dance easily across the phone’s digits, as though they’ve traced this series of numbers a million times. Maybe they have – I wasn’t counting.
I’m cross-legged on the soft, cream coloured carpet. Clutching the phone with a firm grip until my palms are sweaty. The dial tone sounds a million miles away and by the third ring I breathe a sigh of relief. He mustn’t be home.
Fifth ring, click, and he picks up. I consider hanging up; consider telling him I rang the wrong number; consider simply asking if he’s seen a CD I think I left behind.
But I crumble with the first hello.
“Just wanted to see what you were up to,” I try to be as casual as possible but all my nerves are screaming. I’m screaming at him, even though he can’t hear it.
“Not much, how’s it going up there in Sydney?”
And the conversation goes on. We talk about our lives. He tells me about work and I tell him about my search for work. The conversation twists and turns, all the time we’re not saying what we’re thinking about. We’re not talking about the fight or my rapid departure.
Finally it lingers on the intimate details about how much we miss each other. How we miss having that shape in our beds. How we miss someone to confide in, to hide with.
He asks if we will still be friends. “Yeah, I think that’s all we ever were.” I lie.
I was never in love and I don’t want him back. These aren’t the type of phone calls you make to maintain a relationship and neither are they a desperate bid to reignite it. Merely the long drawn-out steps I take to smooth the edges of my life.
We won’t be friends and apart from these desperate cries during the silence of our lives I doubt very much that we’ll keep in touch.
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