Triggers are enigmatic, willful sort of things, don't you think? He asked me that once.
I remember the occasion. It was summer; barbecue weather. Between mannerisms and curiosities, he'd been nibbling at burger. I didn't pay much attention to what he was saying at first; instead, I had been focused on the way his soft, peach lips nuzzled the tip of the bun, one tiny, lucky nip at a time. I once let a horse eat a slice of bread out of the palm of my hand...I wondered whether the golden fuzz that covered his chin would be quite as silky, quite as lovely. But then he dropped a great dirty splotch of tomato sauce on his shirt, right over his heart, and I was distracted.
It blossomed out like a bullet wound. The starched white made the red seem deadly; infectious. He was embarrassed, of course. What is it about stains that repels us so?
It may have been the talk about triggers, and it may have been the sauce, but after that I simply couldn't stop thinking about abrasions. I could only stare at that big old stain, growing bigger by the moment.
A woman had broken his heart; he told me so, once. I don't know why he told me. But I remembered it that day, as he sat there dabbing away at his lapel with my soggy blue handkerchief. It seemed pertinent.
It's silly, I know, but what I wanted to do was plug up that void, that terrible heart-hole. I wanted to sew it up with ten thousand little stitches; knit it together with warm, pink wool. I wanted to make the bleeding stop.
That's what you do when you love somebody.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Dreaming of a White Christmas...
Icy breaths that flood the fine filagrees of my red veins blue; chest aflame from the stale lung-air of cold cadavers just out of the icebox. Oversized hands in too-small mittens that fray at the edges, pink skin scrambling to inch beneath the woolly warmth of coffee-stained palms.
A reindeer nose pressed to the wet pane of big city views; and white origami roofs that light up the constructed yellow night of a snow-swept metropolis trying to close it's eyes on the world. A fire that crackles in the grate like a stock whip; bed hair; white sheet togas that bandage around limbs imprisoned by limbs; a flesh knot held together by a common love for all things merry, bright and giving.
A gift-wrapped heart sits in wait at the foot of a towering pine dressed in his crystal best, while bejeweled emerald fingers stretch away from a five-point chapeau that dances with the brilliant reflection of firelight.
It keeps out my cold.
But then again, so does winter.
A reindeer nose pressed to the wet pane of big city views; and white origami roofs that light up the constructed yellow night of a snow-swept metropolis trying to close it's eyes on the world. A fire that crackles in the grate like a stock whip; bed hair; white sheet togas that bandage around limbs imprisoned by limbs; a flesh knot held together by a common love for all things merry, bright and giving.
A gift-wrapped heart sits in wait at the foot of a towering pine dressed in his crystal best, while bejeweled emerald fingers stretch away from a five-point chapeau that dances with the brilliant reflection of firelight.
It keeps out my cold.
But then again, so does winter.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Adeste fideles
I twirl the ornament on my left index finger, watching the red glitter catch the light.
If I close my eyes I can even smell Christmas- mangoes, a slight dusty smell of cardboard and tinsel and that something else- that magic something that clings to Christmas and makes you feel warm and tingly.
Or maybe that's just the oppressive heat of an Australian Summer?
Whatever it is- I adore Christmas. The decorations, the carols, the lights on houses, the shopping, the wrapping, the cards, the countdown, the brandy cream, the Christmas teevee specials, the creepy old santa dude's in shopping centres who wave and offer practiced joy and merriment. I love it all.
I like spending Christmas eve in a fit of anticipation, I like being woken at dawn to see the presents and the tree in lovely half light, I like the wrapping paper that litters the living room floor, I like christmas lunch and the too-much food, I like the feeling of being completely stuffed and sleepy, I like having the family around- messing with the gifts, laughing about nothing really.
Christmas is fast approaching and I can already tell I'm going to miss it once it's gone- but years are passing by so quickly, it'll be here again in all it's gift-wrapped, commercialised glory.
I can't wait.
If I close my eyes I can even smell Christmas- mangoes, a slight dusty smell of cardboard and tinsel and that something else- that magic something that clings to Christmas and makes you feel warm and tingly.
Or maybe that's just the oppressive heat of an Australian Summer?
Whatever it is- I adore Christmas. The decorations, the carols, the lights on houses, the shopping, the wrapping, the cards, the countdown, the brandy cream, the Christmas teevee specials, the creepy old santa dude's in shopping centres who wave and offer practiced joy and merriment. I love it all.
I like spending Christmas eve in a fit of anticipation, I like being woken at dawn to see the presents and the tree in lovely half light, I like the wrapping paper that litters the living room floor, I like christmas lunch and the too-much food, I like the feeling of being completely stuffed and sleepy, I like having the family around- messing with the gifts, laughing about nothing really.
Christmas is fast approaching and I can already tell I'm going to miss it once it's gone- but years are passing by so quickly, it'll be here again in all it's gift-wrapped, commercialised glory.
I can't wait.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Invite.
The invite. It made her... something.
Not angry. Red had nothing to do with it. Red would have been welcome; welcoming. Her envelope, the yellow cream of month-old milk, was stamped, instead, with a sludgy grey that made her name look hateful. Vile.
The package was lumpy; soft, and sealed with a plastic sticker printed over with the ill-matched coupling of purple and orange. Almost as ill-matched as they were. It didn't even tear - instead, it peeled off slimily, with the brilliantine resignation of a five-a-throw whore pulling her dress over her head.
The content was confusing. Three strips of paper and a piece of rope? No. It was a folded cardboard card tied with a mustard yellow shoe string. Only it wasn't a shoe string. It was cheap, flammable hemp drowned in artificial dye, and had sticky tape rolled around the edges to keep them from fraying.
Tying the knot. As though the metaphor wasn't tacky enough. How appropriate for them. They should have tied the knot a long time ago...
.
.
a noose.
The tawdry seal emblem was replicated on the opening flaps. The purple glared at her; it made her want to squint. Instead, she glared back. The knee-jerk reaction.
Inside, she found herself faced with a sunset - the Kodak kind that sells for a few bob on the front of a thrift store postcard. Everything was golden. She drew her hand back swiftly, worried that the colour was contagious. The lettering had already fallen victim, and she strained to read it. In so many ways.
A wedding. After all this time. That they had intended to scour her face with it, there could be no doubt. She'd look quite the fool with such a garish blush. Perhaps that's why they made the invitation so foul.
No. It didn't make her angry.
Red had nothing to do with it.
Not angry. Red had nothing to do with it. Red would have been welcome; welcoming. Her envelope, the yellow cream of month-old milk, was stamped, instead, with a sludgy grey that made her name look hateful. Vile.
The package was lumpy; soft, and sealed with a plastic sticker printed over with the ill-matched coupling of purple and orange. Almost as ill-matched as they were. It didn't even tear - instead, it peeled off slimily, with the brilliantine resignation of a five-a-throw whore pulling her dress over her head.
The content was confusing. Three strips of paper and a piece of rope? No. It was a folded cardboard card tied with a mustard yellow shoe string. Only it wasn't a shoe string. It was cheap, flammable hemp drowned in artificial dye, and had sticky tape rolled around the edges to keep them from fraying.
Tying the knot. As though the metaphor wasn't tacky enough. How appropriate for them. They should have tied the knot a long time ago...
.
.
a noose.
The tawdry seal emblem was replicated on the opening flaps. The purple glared at her; it made her want to squint. Instead, she glared back. The knee-jerk reaction.
Inside, she found herself faced with a sunset - the Kodak kind that sells for a few bob on the front of a thrift store postcard. Everything was golden. She drew her hand back swiftly, worried that the colour was contagious. The lettering had already fallen victim, and she strained to read it. In so many ways.
A wedding. After all this time. That they had intended to scour her face with it, there could be no doubt. She'd look quite the fool with such a garish blush. Perhaps that's why they made the invitation so foul.
No. It didn't make her angry.
Red had nothing to do with it.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
.
Keyboards are abominable creations. The letters are too brazen. Stare by stare, we pass the time frowning at one another, each trying to provoke a reaction. The keys dare me to hit them, and I do. Dupable to the end.
Prints-first, my fingers tap, tap, tap away, not bothering to stop and take stock. Idiots. Every mindless digit. A carnage of A's E's and I's splay across the page. Consonants are scattered about; ink splattered dead on a red, red stage. Words. Who ever let me get a hold of them? Words are for wordsmiths; delicate, and to be used with care. When did I ever heed such a warning?
Do me a favour? Break my fingers?
Prints-first, my fingers tap, tap, tap away, not bothering to stop and take stock. Idiots. Every mindless digit. A carnage of A's E's and I's splay across the page. Consonants are scattered about; ink splattered dead on a red, red stage. Words. Who ever let me get a hold of them? Words are for wordsmiths; delicate, and to be used with care. When did I ever heed such a warning?
Do me a favour? Break my fingers?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Headed for a fallout.
I can't think of you without hearing something hiss.
You were always good at hissing. The air rushed through the walls of your teeth with a strange musicality; a soundscape of double-talk and betrayal. I don't know when it was that you became such a monumental hypocrite, but dear, such is life - say 'hello gorgeous' and greet the face in the mirror. We're taking bets on whether you can find yours.
I'm furious at you, really, I am. Bidding me to snap out of this and that - though you're surely an expert on snapping by now, I wish you would bite your tongue; bite it off and never bother me again with your fucking scolding.
Instead, you bray liberally about things that aren't important to either of us anymore. You take what's offered and use it as necessary, discarding the leftovers when they become too heavy for your featherlight loyalties.
The tea's done, the tea's done.
I think I hear the kettle boil.
You were always good at hissing. The air rushed through the walls of your teeth with a strange musicality; a soundscape of double-talk and betrayal. I don't know when it was that you became such a monumental hypocrite, but dear, such is life - say 'hello gorgeous' and greet the face in the mirror. We're taking bets on whether you can find yours.
I'm furious at you, really, I am. Bidding me to snap out of this and that - though you're surely an expert on snapping by now, I wish you would bite your tongue; bite it off and never bother me again with your fucking scolding.
Instead, you bray liberally about things that aren't important to either of us anymore. You take what's offered and use it as necessary, discarding the leftovers when they become too heavy for your featherlight loyalties.
The tea's done, the tea's done.
I think I hear the kettle boil.
myskine.
I can picture the tiny, black notebook- its flaccid elastic unable to deter prying eyes.
Shiny and square, gleaming against the lurid vinyl of the train seat.
"Ice-Cream for the Uninitiated.
Two scoops.
Ignorant Bliss.
A sprinkle of Nuts.
Cherry-on-top."
He was beyond ice-cream. He leaned with accusing grace.
Speaking to the girl in the candy stripe pinny and ridiculous hat, over his shoulder.
Who could blame him?
Who could blame me- standing there watching the train trundle away. My poor notebook halfway to someone else now.
Across from the station I was living life.
Weeks of glances, shy smiles, crooked grins (Thank you romance novels)
He was made of guttural sounds.
I was gutter-all.
Missing my train, in this unwholesome alley. One of his hands kept us propped against the wrought iron fence, the other moved up and down with practiced urgency. He was playing an instrument, begging for the right sound. (Oh, curse those romance novels!)
I was watching the air escape me. It unfurled like ribbons and disappeared into the cool night air.
Completely undone.
And all I can picture is the tiny. black notebook.
Shiny and square, gleaming against the lurid vinyl of the train seat.
"Ice-Cream for the Uninitiated.
Two scoops.
Ignorant Bliss.
A sprinkle of Nuts.
Cherry-on-top."
He was beyond ice-cream. He leaned with accusing grace.
Speaking to the girl in the candy stripe pinny and ridiculous hat, over his shoulder.
Who could blame him?
Who could blame me- standing there watching the train trundle away. My poor notebook halfway to someone else now.
Across from the station I was living life.
Weeks of glances, shy smiles, crooked grins (Thank you romance novels)
He was made of guttural sounds.
I was gutter-all.
Missing my train, in this unwholesome alley. One of his hands kept us propped against the wrought iron fence, the other moved up and down with practiced urgency. He was playing an instrument, begging for the right sound. (Oh, curse those romance novels!)
I was watching the air escape me. It unfurled like ribbons and disappeared into the cool night air.
Completely undone.
And all I can picture is the tiny. black notebook.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Of Night.
Deadly night, a shroud of stars upholding
Your pretence of loveliness – do efface yourself.
My ears guard the terrified
Heart, it-BEATS! it-BEATS! but the rhythm’s all wrong.
Paranoia whispers;
Sweet nothings with a savage zest thump
The wrong side of the drum, its pink skin
Straining to hear in the dark.
Dark. You’re always dark.
Pit of black, my eyes are blinded
And barred by lids fused closed,
Clever tyrant. What care you for voodoo
When, in me, you’ve your very own marionette
Swimming the crawl beneath
The covers in a bed-bath of cold sweat
And lachrymation; someone’s left the tap on.
Teeth clench on a pillow, the mouthful of down
Stifles screams that won’t
Stop until daybreak;
Certainly, something has broken.
Your pretence of loveliness – do efface yourself.
My ears guard the terrified
Heart, it-BEATS! it-BEATS! but the rhythm’s all wrong.
Paranoia whispers;
Sweet nothings with a savage zest thump
The wrong side of the drum, its pink skin
Straining to hear in the dark.
Dark. You’re always dark.
Pit of black, my eyes are blinded
And barred by lids fused closed,
Clever tyrant. What care you for voodoo
When, in me, you’ve your very own marionette
Swimming the crawl beneath
The covers in a bed-bath of cold sweat
And lachrymation; someone’s left the tap on.
Teeth clench on a pillow, the mouthful of down
Stifles screams that won’t
Stop until daybreak;
Certainly, something has broken.
The New Pen
It began with fresh sheets.
The soft blue cotton smoothed over the shape of us. I had the windows open, and the breeze made the curtains roll like waves. Everything was so pefectly clichéd.
I turned the music up. The Drifters, Solomon Burke, Otis Redding. I couldn't bring myself to listen to anything else. I still can't.
You put the tea cups down on the windowsill and took my hands in yours. Twirling us into the afternoon glow.
Later, laughing, I fell into the closest chair and you handed me a pen. Blue ink, fine tip. Tiny birds scattered along the shaft. Completely tacky, incredibly lovely. I felt an itch to write with it.
To write something. Anything.
So I did.
Your simple gesture was like fixing the washer in the bathroom tap.
Suddenly there's water.
The soft blue cotton smoothed over the shape of us. I had the windows open, and the breeze made the curtains roll like waves. Everything was so pefectly clichéd.
I turned the music up. The Drifters, Solomon Burke, Otis Redding. I couldn't bring myself to listen to anything else. I still can't.
You put the tea cups down on the windowsill and took my hands in yours. Twirling us into the afternoon glow.
Later, laughing, I fell into the closest chair and you handed me a pen. Blue ink, fine tip. Tiny birds scattered along the shaft. Completely tacky, incredibly lovely. I felt an itch to write with it.
To write something. Anything.
So I did.
Your simple gesture was like fixing the washer in the bathroom tap.
Suddenly there's water.
Monday, September 28, 2009
That's the luck of the draw.
We have always been a one-way street.
Red carpeted. Plush.
Just the way you wanted it.
Even so
You would hurl stones through your plate glass windows
leaving me to clean up the mess.
you blamed it on me anyway.
It's getting too hard to take you.
I don't really know how to stand anymore. Propped up against this wall. It's probably asbestos.
but then again, maybe it's you.
I'll bite my tongue. I'll bite my tongue and wait,
that's the luck of the draw right?
Red carpeted. Plush.
Just the way you wanted it.
Even so
You would hurl stones through your plate glass windows
leaving me to clean up the mess.
you blamed it on me anyway.
It's getting too hard to take you.
I don't really know how to stand anymore. Propped up against this wall. It's probably asbestos.
but then again, maybe it's you.
I'll bite my tongue. I'll bite my tongue and wait,
that's the luck of the draw right?
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The True Lady Luck.
I bear no resemblance to sunrise or starlight,
nor could lamp luster hold to me a candle.
Lightning, lambent embers, a radiant match -
each blaze black unremarkably.
Nothing ever lit up as brightly as I.
You bring that out in me. The shine.
Two years ago, a word from you
lit the day like an oil-bathed wick.
It's a wonder night ever managed to fall.
Nothing has changed.
nor could lamp luster hold to me a candle.
Lightning, lambent embers, a radiant match -
each blaze black unremarkably.
Nothing ever lit up as brightly as I.
You bring that out in me. The shine.
Two years ago, a word from you
lit the day like an oil-bathed wick.
It's a wonder night ever managed to fall.
Nothing has changed.
Monday, September 21, 2009
I ache...
to be able to write again.
I want to let the words spill from every conceivable place.
but they don't. They won't. I ache to know why.
I have to be the kettle today. I have no handle. On any of it.
_____
Dear Diary. Mood: Apathetic.
_____
I just recently read(for the second time) and watched (for the first time) Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist.
It made me miss New York, and I've never even been there.
The book is fantastic. I think I could read it and read it and read it and never tire of it.
The movie- was good too. Michael Cera(!!!) and Kat Dennings were the perfect Nick & Norah, but I didn't like what the writers/producers/directors/whoevers did to the screen play.
If they had translated the book to the screen exactly- It would have been creamed-honey-fan-fucking-tastic.
Oh well.
---------
'I shouldn't want the song to end. I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I'm seeing we don't live in a sinle song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It's an infinite playlist.'
--------
Well, that's all folks.
All I have to offer. A wishy-washy non-excuse and some kind of film/book review.
Better luck next time eh?
I want to let the words spill from every conceivable place.
but they don't. They won't. I ache to know why.
I have to be the kettle today. I have no handle. On any of it.
_____
Dear Diary. Mood: Apathetic.
_____
I just recently read(for the second time) and watched (for the first time) Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist.
It made me miss New York, and I've never even been there.
The book is fantastic. I think I could read it and read it and read it and never tire of it.
The movie- was good too. Michael Cera(!!!) and Kat Dennings were the perfect Nick & Norah, but I didn't like what the writers/producers/directors/whoevers did to the screen play.
If they had translated the book to the screen exactly- It would have been creamed-honey-fan-fucking-tastic.
Oh well.
---------
'I shouldn't want the song to end. I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I'm seeing we don't live in a sinle song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It's an infinite playlist.'
--------
Well, that's all folks.
All I have to offer. A wishy-washy non-excuse and some kind of film/book review.
Better luck next time eh?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Shut the fuck up and leave me alone.
I ache for silence; for wet stockings, dripping hair and the joy of catching cold without interruption. I ache for the hungry stomach that goes unchallenged; for sunrise bedtimes that evade comment, and for tapered cigarette smoke out of my kitchen window.
Breeze-whipped ankles and bare feet on footpaths after dark strike me with longing. I ache for solitude; for pajamas rendered useless and for candlelit blackouts at 3am. I ache for the tin rooves that sizzled in summer; for mornings heralded by 100 watt windows that venetians merely decorated, and for concrete stairs that climbed high as my pulse.
I ache for warm evenings that fell like stars; for the plants that withered under my dutiful attention, and for the jubilance of hailing a cab at first light.
I ache for the weekends that passed without words; for unplugged phone lines and for doors locked against the world. I ache for a shower with the light turned off; for hardwood floors on sticky nights, and for eating straight from the pan.
I ache for lights left lit and dripping taps; for too-loud music and silence, silence, silence in spite of the noise.
Breeze-whipped ankles and bare feet on footpaths after dark strike me with longing. I ache for solitude; for pajamas rendered useless and for candlelit blackouts at 3am. I ache for the tin rooves that sizzled in summer; for mornings heralded by 100 watt windows that venetians merely decorated, and for concrete stairs that climbed high as my pulse.
I ache for warm evenings that fell like stars; for the plants that withered under my dutiful attention, and for the jubilance of hailing a cab at first light.
I ache for the weekends that passed without words; for unplugged phone lines and for doors locked against the world. I ache for a shower with the light turned off; for hardwood floors on sticky nights, and for eating straight from the pan.
I ache for lights left lit and dripping taps; for too-loud music and silence, silence, silence in spite of the noise.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Reality Bites.
Sometimes it's better not to ask. I laugh as I think it, but the sound is short-lived and hedged with bitterness. There's nothing funny about incapacitation.
Nervously, I slip a fingernail between my teeth. It's snack time for the panicked. I've been thinking. Plotting. Trying to find a way to have things work out for the best - best for me, of course. I know your mind far too well to expect success here. You think me erratic and baleful - too volatile for the pink-tinted world that you work tirelessly to manipulate. You are your own god, and yet you believe in nothing - not even yourself. Certainly not in me.
The thought of it - of escaping with you - nothing ever sustained anybody so completely. It is all that has been keeping me going. I dine nightly on my own misery, desperate to make it disappear - but it's bad for the system and always resurfaces in the morning.
Sometimes it's better not to know. I can almost hear your answer now. Only it wouldn't be an answer, really. It would be an amused sort of incredulity, sharp and silver, the final nail in my heavy, wooden sleeping bag. A perpetual resting place. I can picture you shaking your head, just as you did last time...the last idea. The need wasn't nearly so pronounced that time - the straight-faced no, a kick to the gut, it didn't hurt so much. Not as much as this would. Not nearly as much. I caught my breath that time.
No. Sometimes it's better to pretend. If I can keep myself selfishly believing that one day, things will be just as unbearable for you...if I can keep myself clinging to the thought of you, my freshly-painted life-saver, a bright patch bobbing merrily along the surface, maybe then I'll manage to keep myself together.
But the pieces are falling fast. I only have two hands, each as inept as the other at holding onto anything at all. I never could juggle. I have to get away before I drop everything...let go...
A bird in a cage, I can't stand being here. Upon reflection, it was stupid. Coming here, wanting this. I am my own special plague, hungry to conquer; incapable of leaving anything but destruction behind. Things are different with you.
You won't want to. I know it, and I know I'll hate you for it. And I couldn't bear to hate you. So I won't ask. Not yet. Maybe never.
We'll see.
Nervously, I slip a fingernail between my teeth. It's snack time for the panicked. I've been thinking. Plotting. Trying to find a way to have things work out for the best - best for me, of course. I know your mind far too well to expect success here. You think me erratic and baleful - too volatile for the pink-tinted world that you work tirelessly to manipulate. You are your own god, and yet you believe in nothing - not even yourself. Certainly not in me.
The thought of it - of escaping with you - nothing ever sustained anybody so completely. It is all that has been keeping me going. I dine nightly on my own misery, desperate to make it disappear - but it's bad for the system and always resurfaces in the morning.
Sometimes it's better not to know. I can almost hear your answer now. Only it wouldn't be an answer, really. It would be an amused sort of incredulity, sharp and silver, the final nail in my heavy, wooden sleeping bag. A perpetual resting place. I can picture you shaking your head, just as you did last time...the last idea. The need wasn't nearly so pronounced that time - the straight-faced no, a kick to the gut, it didn't hurt so much. Not as much as this would. Not nearly as much. I caught my breath that time.
No. Sometimes it's better to pretend. If I can keep myself selfishly believing that one day, things will be just as unbearable for you...if I can keep myself clinging to the thought of you, my freshly-painted life-saver, a bright patch bobbing merrily along the surface, maybe then I'll manage to keep myself together.
But the pieces are falling fast. I only have two hands, each as inept as the other at holding onto anything at all. I never could juggle. I have to get away before I drop everything...let go...
A bird in a cage, I can't stand being here. Upon reflection, it was stupid. Coming here, wanting this. I am my own special plague, hungry to conquer; incapable of leaving anything but destruction behind. Things are different with you.
You won't want to. I know it, and I know I'll hate you for it. And I couldn't bear to hate you. So I won't ask. Not yet. Maybe never.
We'll see.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Institutionalised.
Hand in hand. Eyes closed. It's what she wanted all along.
The others had laughed. They were the type for it. Or perhaps they weren't, and that was the problem. Either way, she saw them as straight-road people. The type of road you can see along for miles and miles and miles until the horizon cuts in; a purple faced hopeful who never did manage to print his name on the dance card.
She couldn't bear the thought of it. Of that type of life. Fuzzy, street-cam scenery set on a five year loop, only each time the film is worse...more difficult to decipher. Everybody looks older. In fact, everybody gets older. They have aspirations. Cook, clean, sit and die. It's just a piece of paper. Why complicate life with living?
She wanted it if only for the distraction. Death. A perpetual deadline. It would come for her eventually. Perhaps suddenly, with a bang and a clatter...perhaps not for a while - a sigh on the stalk, ready to volunteer itself as the last in a long, long line. She didn't know - couldn't know anything other than that there was no avoiding it. Experience wouldn't buy her immortality - not the valuable brand of it, anyway - but it would buy her satisfaction. Better yet, it put a few bends in the road; a left turn here and there, and she could duck out of grim sight, even if only for a moment or two.
Hand in hand. Eyes closed. It's what she wanted all along. It's just a piece of paper. She knows it - she barely glanced when they asked her to sign. But it wasn't the paper that mattered - not the paper, the dress...not even the ring.
It was the excitement. The difference. Time is cruel - a year, tedious. One must suffer through 365 days, most very similar to the one before, and so it goes and goes and goes until ring around the rosie, we all fall down. An engagement gave her something to differentiate from simply being. To look forward to.
Besides, it conjured a fantastic sensibility. The happiness was heroin to her - something to be abused until supply ran out, or else, until it damn near killed her. She was hooked - wired by the planning, by the panic. To imagine missing out on it! Gold coins slipping through invisible fingers that grabbed and missed angrily. Eyes closed to falling snow. The absurdity was nauseating!
And at the same time she was terrified. A steady lead-up of nervous flutter and pedantic organisation and it would be done with - over in a brilliant crescendo of white taffeta and violets. She would be back to where she started - searching for another distraction; a career; a baby - anything to magic her world of impermanency and farce into a more durable existence. To make it mean something. She frowned at the thought of it.
But as he smiled at her over the three-tiered cake, she was very suddenly at ease. No. The others, they were wrong. They, the have-alls, were content with being, because it jeopardised nothing. They valued monotony.
Right then, she didn't care that marriage was a cliche. She had gone tree-climbing in purple silk dresses, hooked rod in hand, and the hope in mind that perhaps, if only for a day, her world might spin in a different direction.
She would throw the wedding certificate out. It wasn't important.
Everything else had been.
The others had laughed. They were the type for it. Or perhaps they weren't, and that was the problem. Either way, she saw them as straight-road people. The type of road you can see along for miles and miles and miles until the horizon cuts in; a purple faced hopeful who never did manage to print his name on the dance card.
She couldn't bear the thought of it. Of that type of life. Fuzzy, street-cam scenery set on a five year loop, only each time the film is worse...more difficult to decipher. Everybody looks older. In fact, everybody gets older. They have aspirations. Cook, clean, sit and die. It's just a piece of paper. Why complicate life with living?
She wanted it if only for the distraction. Death. A perpetual deadline. It would come for her eventually. Perhaps suddenly, with a bang and a clatter...perhaps not for a while - a sigh on the stalk, ready to volunteer itself as the last in a long, long line. She didn't know - couldn't know anything other than that there was no avoiding it. Experience wouldn't buy her immortality - not the valuable brand of it, anyway - but it would buy her satisfaction. Better yet, it put a few bends in the road; a left turn here and there, and she could duck out of grim sight, even if only for a moment or two.
Hand in hand. Eyes closed. It's what she wanted all along. It's just a piece of paper. She knows it - she barely glanced when they asked her to sign. But it wasn't the paper that mattered - not the paper, the dress...not even the ring.
It was the excitement. The difference. Time is cruel - a year, tedious. One must suffer through 365 days, most very similar to the one before, and so it goes and goes and goes until ring around the rosie, we all fall down. An engagement gave her something to differentiate from simply being. To look forward to.
Besides, it conjured a fantastic sensibility. The happiness was heroin to her - something to be abused until supply ran out, or else, until it damn near killed her. She was hooked - wired by the planning, by the panic. To imagine missing out on it! Gold coins slipping through invisible fingers that grabbed and missed angrily. Eyes closed to falling snow. The absurdity was nauseating!
And at the same time she was terrified. A steady lead-up of nervous flutter and pedantic organisation and it would be done with - over in a brilliant crescendo of white taffeta and violets. She would be back to where she started - searching for another distraction; a career; a baby - anything to magic her world of impermanency and farce into a more durable existence. To make it mean something. She frowned at the thought of it.
But as he smiled at her over the three-tiered cake, she was very suddenly at ease. No. The others, they were wrong. They, the have-alls, were content with being, because it jeopardised nothing. They valued monotony.
Right then, she didn't care that marriage was a cliche. She had gone tree-climbing in purple silk dresses, hooked rod in hand, and the hope in mind that perhaps, if only for a day, her world might spin in a different direction.
She would throw the wedding certificate out. It wasn't important.
Everything else had been.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Despite what They say, you can judge a book by its cover.
Cold hands and football socks.
A stack of books and piles of papers. French doors. White curtains. Milky coffee. Hair that goes on and on and on.
Listening to Blondie does not make you edgy.
Your hand, his hand. I couldn't tell anymore.
'Hollow and glamorous. It was ironic really, the way she took in cigarettes as though her life depended on it. She was a perfect mix of contradictions. How she managed to pull off those red, sequined stilettos with even half the grace she did is still beyond me. Vulgar and gorgeous all at once. She carried men like handbags, on the arm and never the heart. The way I remember her changes a little every time. She's always on the balcony though. It is always twilight and it always the tiny glowing end of the smoke in her hand that makes her real. It was too easy to confuse her with the images on the wall. '
Things fell apart, he left with a suitcase you couldn't fit inisde. He took you anyway.
A stack of books and piles of papers. French doors. White curtains. Milky coffee. Hair that goes on and on and on.
Listening to Blondie does not make you edgy.
Your hand, his hand. I couldn't tell anymore.
Your cool indifference never seemed so practiced. Pretty young things like you stand, waving glowing embers in the semi-darkness and hurling hyena cackles at the cars that pass. You’re too uncovered to keep it in. Your regrowth, your too-white thighs, you grin and bare it all. Oh dear. Mascara never looked so much like liquid eyeliner.
'Hollow and glamorous. It was ironic really, the way she took in cigarettes as though her life depended on it. She was a perfect mix of contradictions. How she managed to pull off those red, sequined stilettos with even half the grace she did is still beyond me. Vulgar and gorgeous all at once. She carried men like handbags, on the arm and never the heart. The way I remember her changes a little every time. She's always on the balcony though. It is always twilight and it always the tiny glowing end of the smoke in her hand that makes her real. It was too easy to confuse her with the images on the wall. '
Things fell apart, he left with a suitcase you couldn't fit inisde. He took you anyway.
It was harder to look up to you then. Mostly I stayed behind half closed doors.
The glass was half empty. The milk was out of date.
You sit with your cigarette [why is that image so inextricably linked to you?] and your blossoming Moleskine playing Peter Sarstedt over again.
Dangerously close to your edge. I dangle with chipped nails and jagged teeth, clawing at nothing.
Gravity will let me down when you do. Again.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Literary Damnation.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Words as water. They
leak from the open mouth of
a red-crusted pipe;
leaving filthy, orange
scum rings on the brittle,
grey walls of my skull.
Thought interrupts thought;
each snide interjection
the white-hot brand upon
Redundancy's ripe rear.
Wait your turn!
Selfish girl! Selfish girl!
A flash in the pan, little
poem, little poet - that's
all you ever were and will be;
boiled potluck in
old Medusa's cauldron
full of muck and madness.
An ovum untouched,
my mind rots; the bloated
head of a putrid cow floating
along the river.
Dead water. Dead water.
This poet's done for.
Drip.
Drip.
Words as water. They
leak from the open mouth of
a red-crusted pipe;
leaving filthy, orange
scum rings on the brittle,
grey walls of my skull.
Thought interrupts thought;
each snide interjection
the white-hot brand upon
Redundancy's ripe rear.
Wait your turn!
Selfish girl! Selfish girl!
A flash in the pan, little
poem, little poet - that's
all you ever were and will be;
boiled potluck in
old Medusa's cauldron
full of muck and madness.
An ovum untouched,
my mind rots; the bloated
head of a putrid cow floating
along the river.
Dead water. Dead water.
This poet's done for.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Fishtail.
Relevance has little to do with it.
I wish I could put on another pair shoes.
I think mine are too comfortable. I like to look down and see my white capped sneakers. My feet feel safe wrapped up in the familiarity of the blue cotton.
But...is there such a thing as too safe?
I'm 19 now. A year older and none the wiser.
Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer.
I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void.
So goodnight, dear void.
I wish I could put on another pair shoes.
I think mine are too comfortable. I like to look down and see my white capped sneakers. My feet feel safe wrapped up in the familiarity of the blue cotton.
But...is there such a thing as too safe?
I'm 19 now. A year older and none the wiser.
Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer.
I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void.
So goodnight, dear void.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Feels Like Autumn Again.
Nothing ever felt so perfect.
Pulling on a worn, knitted beanie. 5 shades of content. maybe more- it's quite loved.
Taking your hand in mind. Cold, but okay. Refreshing, like the breeze that tangles what little of my hair it can get at.
Your sneakered feet take on the leaf litter. You are the king of the world and every satisfying crunch only confirms it.
I feel like your smile. I am the mirror image of your laugh.
I can feel my heart swelling and I love it all the more.
The small black notebok sits open on my lap as I watch you wandering away. Aimlessly- lost inside some other world you have created. The weak autumn sun falls through the diminishing trees. It illuminates you. You illuminate. The sun here is so strong- I can feel every line of you.
And my words don't make sense. The only things that make sense anymore are you,
And this beanie,
And the sound of the leaves revelling in our bliss.
Pulling on a worn, knitted beanie. 5 shades of content. maybe more- it's quite loved.
Taking your hand in mind. Cold, but okay. Refreshing, like the breeze that tangles what little of my hair it can get at.
Your sneakered feet take on the leaf litter. You are the king of the world and every satisfying crunch only confirms it.
I feel like your smile. I am the mirror image of your laugh.
I can feel my heart swelling and I love it all the more.
The small black notebok sits open on my lap as I watch you wandering away. Aimlessly- lost inside some other world you have created. The weak autumn sun falls through the diminishing trees. It illuminates you. You illuminate. The sun here is so strong- I can feel every line of you.
And my words don't make sense. The only things that make sense anymore are you,
And this beanie,
And the sound of the leaves revelling in our bliss.
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