Dorothea had a wonderful sense of smell. She could smell everything with her little nose. A nose that could smell.
Dorothea smelt the world, the world of smells.
Dorothea’s nose was small and sat in the middle of her face. Her nose was small but her ambitions were grand. To smell all the world, the world of smells. Every scent, soft or pungent would be smelt by Dorothea’s nose.
Her desire to smell all the world, the world of smells, was coupled with the desire to learn how to dance. Dorothea’s desire however did not necessarily match with her talents, because although she could smell so wonderfully and succinctly, she could not dance no matter how hard she tried.
Her feet were not as well placed and well behaved as her nose. They did miss-matched things and had minds of their own. They would whisper, conspire and rally against Dorothea and her nose. They would talk to one another about Dorothea and plan against her desires to travel the world, the world of smells. She would plead and beg with them but to no avail. For they were set against her, Dorothea and her nose. They would only want what she did not want and what they wanted was to sit and do nothing. They would often have meetings to discuss how they would do this and as this involved sitting and doing nothing but thinking, they achieved their desires so easily.
After they took role call and assessed minute details of day to day business they would set about in conspiring. At first Dorothea would turn her head away in politeness and give them their privacy but also because the meetings were long and boring.
When the item of how to stop Dorothea from her dancing and smelling dreams came up however, she would listen silently and wait for a chance in the itinerary to object. But no chance would ever come up and when she tried to interject they would inform the general meeting that those persons not on the role call did not have a say in the meeting.
They would talk about her as if she wasn’t there. The girl and her nose, they would say, the girl and her nose want to travel and dance. The girl and her nose want to smell the world, the world of smells and dance the tango, the tango of life. The girl and her nose want to make some music, create some noise and stink up the house. “How silly she is to think that she can do this. How silly she is to think she can make and do and smell and dance without us. All those in favour say I.” And they would both agree and move on to the next item.
The girl and her nose would sniffle and cry and make believe like she did not need her legs and their consensus on her dreams. She would lean her nose out towards a new smell, a new smell of the world and hope that all the world would come to her, Dorothea and her nose.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Samson picks up his mail order bride from the airport
He wears a navy blue top and he holds a rose, a red rose, like they had planned. He smells of soap and fresh linen, masking his usual musty stench of cigarettes and grease. His hair has gel in it that also smells of the artificial and his hair is formed just so, sweeping to the side and allowing his whole face to beam out. He pats at it nervously, the action which could be attributed to an older lady with concerns of her perfectly coiffed hair. He sweats a little and the place on the stem that his hand holds is hot and darkened from the increasing and decreasing pressure of his nervously pulsating hand. The rose is dying and later when it is put in a vase, a preserved reminder of an ill suited relationship, it will wilt into itself quickly. Samson will note its rapid onset death but the metaphor will be lost on him.
He stands at the gate of the arrival lounge, directly in front of the passage way. She will have no way of leaving without him; he has made sure that he is the first person she sees. People around him, bustle and hive about in eager anticipation of meeting a loved one after so long. An observer of this scene would have noticed a woman with three children and a pram gazing longingly at the door, perhaps her husband, perhaps her lover. To the left of her is a young man with much the same mission as Samson, to meet his young partner, but here there is more sincerity, more love, more assuredness and the young man looks confident in his appearance and the knowledge of who will come through the gate. Close to Samson’s right is a large family, consisting of too many people, mother, father, sisters, brothers, husbands and wives, children and grandparents, all with the same mannerisms and looks, the nose and eyes the most significant common trait. They excitedly push and pull around Samson, unaware of the importance of this meeting, the meeting. All this Samson does not see, he does not see the nervous and anxious looks sent in his direction from the group that surrounds him, their sympathy for his plight highlighted by his transparency in his mission. He does not feel their collective vibe and interest as they wait with and around him. He does not hear the shallow whispers that gossip about his display. He sees, feels, hears only the doors, the gate, the departure way that will showcase his bride. He stands like a ballast, a statue, a proclamation of potentiality, of love, of fealty to his new mistress. People start to filter through the door, families weep, people gasp and sigh in wonderment over their long lost friend. Samson’s heart begins to speed up, his forehead glistens all the more from the renewed sweat of nervous tension, his eyes widen and gleam, the rose in his hand cries out “please stop this torture”.
Then the moment arrives, his heart bursts in song and his hand wave’s flurridly as he tries to gain her attention. There she is, there is his love, the one he picked, the one he chose, there she is. She pauses at the entrance of the gate and surveys the crowd, who watch under lowered eyelids in anticipation at the meeting. She sees him stand there, a most obvious display and she makes a show of looking again. She seeks the crowd in desperation at another option, another potential, there is none. She walks slowly towards him and he to her and stops short in front of him. He leans in to kiss at her cheek, an awkward and sloppy kiss. His excitement cannot contain itself any longer and he thrusts the rose heavily towards her and grins in love for her. She takes it with a nod and notices the sweat that has dampened the stem on the already wilting flower.
After they have collected her bags they move towards the exit, all the while he glances furtively at her in wonderment in need of assurance that she is finally arrived. His brief and momentary family consisting of the awaiting crowd watches this departure with interest and curiosity in what the future will hold for the sweaty man and the quiet woman.
He stands at the gate of the arrival lounge, directly in front of the passage way. She will have no way of leaving without him; he has made sure that he is the first person she sees. People around him, bustle and hive about in eager anticipation of meeting a loved one after so long. An observer of this scene would have noticed a woman with three children and a pram gazing longingly at the door, perhaps her husband, perhaps her lover. To the left of her is a young man with much the same mission as Samson, to meet his young partner, but here there is more sincerity, more love, more assuredness and the young man looks confident in his appearance and the knowledge of who will come through the gate. Close to Samson’s right is a large family, consisting of too many people, mother, father, sisters, brothers, husbands and wives, children and grandparents, all with the same mannerisms and looks, the nose and eyes the most significant common trait. They excitedly push and pull around Samson, unaware of the importance of this meeting, the meeting. All this Samson does not see, he does not see the nervous and anxious looks sent in his direction from the group that surrounds him, their sympathy for his plight highlighted by his transparency in his mission. He does not feel their collective vibe and interest as they wait with and around him. He does not hear the shallow whispers that gossip about his display. He sees, feels, hears only the doors, the gate, the departure way that will showcase his bride. He stands like a ballast, a statue, a proclamation of potentiality, of love, of fealty to his new mistress. People start to filter through the door, families weep, people gasp and sigh in wonderment over their long lost friend. Samson’s heart begins to speed up, his forehead glistens all the more from the renewed sweat of nervous tension, his eyes widen and gleam, the rose in his hand cries out “please stop this torture”.
Then the moment arrives, his heart bursts in song and his hand wave’s flurridly as he tries to gain her attention. There she is, there is his love, the one he picked, the one he chose, there she is. She pauses at the entrance of the gate and surveys the crowd, who watch under lowered eyelids in anticipation at the meeting. She sees him stand there, a most obvious display and she makes a show of looking again. She seeks the crowd in desperation at another option, another potential, there is none. She walks slowly towards him and he to her and stops short in front of him. He leans in to kiss at her cheek, an awkward and sloppy kiss. His excitement cannot contain itself any longer and he thrusts the rose heavily towards her and grins in love for her. She takes it with a nod and notices the sweat that has dampened the stem on the already wilting flower.
After they have collected her bags they move towards the exit, all the while he glances furtively at her in wonderment in need of assurance that she is finally arrived. His brief and momentary family consisting of the awaiting crowd watches this departure with interest and curiosity in what the future will hold for the sweaty man and the quiet woman.
Monday, September 7, 2009
This is a poem I wrote when I was little, I found it yesterday
There was a pony from wales
Who jumped on some bales
then he rested (this line is crossed out)
he jumped about all day
then he started to bray
There was a pony from ware
who had very long hair
he tried to grow it fat
so it rested well on his back
The pony was tired so he slept all day
he wanted to start fresh for the very next day
and he lived and he loved the sea
Who jumped on some bales
then he rested (this line is crossed out)
he jumped about all day
then he started to bray
There was a pony from ware
who had very long hair
he tried to grow it fat
so it rested well on his back
The pony was tired so he slept all day
he wanted to start fresh for the very next day
and he lived and he loved the sea
Monday, August 24, 2009
Brer Robert is a Master Cleaner
One day Brer Robert was at home in his cottage. A cottage that is small. A cottage that is cosy. He was at home in his cottage doing what he liked best to do, relaxing. Relaxing was hard to do because he was always busy, because he was always moving. He had stopped moving, fidgeting, stirring, shifting, budging and now he was still, relaxing. He was smiling a relaxing smile. A smile of relax. A smile of content. He had just finished cleaning his house, his cottage, cosy and small.
He had woken up early, stretched out a big yawn, prepared for the day, pinned back his ears and set to work.
He cleaned his room first. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, over the bed. Dusting, wiping, cleaning. When his room was clean, clean enough, clean clean, he moved onto the corridor.
Along the long wide path that led out of his room he cleaned, fastidiously. Every dust, grime, sand, dirt particle was wiped away. He was so into his job that he told himself a story, as he went, that followed this line – Captain Robert is strong, kind and handsome. He plows through his chores with ease and charisma. He entertains even the lowliest of minds. He is amazing! No bit of dirt is safe from his destroying path. They run and hide in fear at the mere thought of him. He is the master of clean! Let all who know his name bow down in awe at his cleaning capabilities. The cleanest of all the land. Brer Robert thought this story was particularly good because it had a protagonist in it, a hero. Someone that people can relate to. True, the story had little to no plot, but who needs plot when Captain Robert is the star of the show.
Through the corridor and into the living room he progressed, cleaning, cleaning enough, clean, clean. All the while he thought grandiosely of himself as the heroic and masterful cleaner. After a while he even begun to hum a few bars of what he thought would be a fantastic theme tune for this hero. Humming and smiling, a content cleaner.
When he finished his tidying he paused for reflection at the room around him. He lent against his broom handle and thought of how accomplishing things is satisfying, but perhaps more satisfying if you have a theme tune. His eyes took in his handy work and then drifted out the window. The garden was beginning to bloom and looked beautiful. It was a good garden. But whats this! Are they weeds Brer Robert has spied, and perhaps those trees need pruning. I think this job calls for Captain Robert! And with a woosh and a flurry Brer Robert seized his gardening tools and rushed out to his garden. Captain Robert was here to save the day.
He had woken up early, stretched out a big yawn, prepared for the day, pinned back his ears and set to work.
He cleaned his room first. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, over the bed. Dusting, wiping, cleaning. When his room was clean, clean enough, clean clean, he moved onto the corridor.
Along the long wide path that led out of his room he cleaned, fastidiously. Every dust, grime, sand, dirt particle was wiped away. He was so into his job that he told himself a story, as he went, that followed this line – Captain Robert is strong, kind and handsome. He plows through his chores with ease and charisma. He entertains even the lowliest of minds. He is amazing! No bit of dirt is safe from his destroying path. They run and hide in fear at the mere thought of him. He is the master of clean! Let all who know his name bow down in awe at his cleaning capabilities. The cleanest of all the land. Brer Robert thought this story was particularly good because it had a protagonist in it, a hero. Someone that people can relate to. True, the story had little to no plot, but who needs plot when Captain Robert is the star of the show.
Through the corridor and into the living room he progressed, cleaning, cleaning enough, clean, clean. All the while he thought grandiosely of himself as the heroic and masterful cleaner. After a while he even begun to hum a few bars of what he thought would be a fantastic theme tune for this hero. Humming and smiling, a content cleaner.
When he finished his tidying he paused for reflection at the room around him. He lent against his broom handle and thought of how accomplishing things is satisfying, but perhaps more satisfying if you have a theme tune. His eyes took in his handy work and then drifted out the window. The garden was beginning to bloom and looked beautiful. It was a good garden. But whats this! Are they weeds Brer Robert has spied, and perhaps those trees need pruning. I think this job calls for Captain Robert! And with a woosh and a flurry Brer Robert seized his gardening tools and rushed out to his garden. Captain Robert was here to save the day.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Brer Robert and his Friends (adapted from "Brer Rabbit is so Cunning")
One day Brer Robert was walking along a path in a forest. A forest with many trees. A forest with many leaves. Brer Robert was walking with no intention, strolling, meandering. Ambling and wandering. A man with no task. He walked this way and that, along the path.
All at once some leaves flew up and into his face. His meandering ways and ambling mind was startled and he yelped out in surprise. In the field there yonder stood two friends who saw Brer Robert and his actions and started to make fun of him.
"Brer Robert is scared of leaves! How silly is he!" They threw the leaves around and play acted the fear they saw from Brer Robert. They laughed and giggled and poked fun.
Now these friends, in the field there yonder, were friends in much the same way that you are friends with someone that you hate. These friends that you hate, you hate but you talk to. You talk to because you always seem to be in the same place at the same time. These places include - the elevator, the train, the toilet block, the common area of work and sometimes the secret place at work that is around the corner behind the door, that you go to to be alone for a while and daydream. This secret place that only you know of, or so you thought, because sometimes they are there smoking a cigarette. These friends that you hate, that you see and you inwardly groan. You walk towards the elevator and you see them in there and your eyes dart around looking for a way out of an encounter with them but your legs always seem to be moving forward and you can't stop until you reach the inside of the elevator, stand next to your friend and push the button to go down.
Damn these legs! you think, and damn this elevator!
"Resistance is futile" say your legs insolently.
Your mouth smiles a tight smile and you ask "How was your weekend Kirk?" and you swallow the sigh of acceptance and dully await the reply.
He puffs away about the late night out on saturday and the outrageous antics that usually ensue when Bazza gets drunk and handsy with the ladies, when Macca makes to acost a police woman and when the whole ladsy crew dare him to moon the bouncer. He relays all this information smugly and his chest puffs out with pride when he thinks how envious you must be with how popular he seems. You stare into the near distance and make the appropriate noises in response "oh wow! you didn't! oh my!"
Brer Robert didn't like these friends at all and their jearing ways only highlighted his hate for them. He wished that he hadn't smiled at them then and that the elevator didn't exist.
Brer Robert's friends were not his friends and he didn't smile at them now when they jested at his expense.
He hated them. He wanted to make them pay. He looked at the leaves, those offending leaves, those leaves of torture and instead of saying something to these friends, these people he dislikes, he kicks the leaves. He lifts up his leg and kicks at the leaves. He curls up his hands and stomps on the leaves. Silly elevators! with their silly spaces! and the silly things you hear from the people that you hate! Brer Robert stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks away. He isn't meandering anymore, he has intention. Brer Robert has things to do, he is going to get a blower vac and clean up this forest.
All at once some leaves flew up and into his face. His meandering ways and ambling mind was startled and he yelped out in surprise. In the field there yonder stood two friends who saw Brer Robert and his actions and started to make fun of him.
"Brer Robert is scared of leaves! How silly is he!" They threw the leaves around and play acted the fear they saw from Brer Robert. They laughed and giggled and poked fun.
Now these friends, in the field there yonder, were friends in much the same way that you are friends with someone that you hate. These friends that you hate, you hate but you talk to. You talk to because you always seem to be in the same place at the same time. These places include - the elevator, the train, the toilet block, the common area of work and sometimes the secret place at work that is around the corner behind the door, that you go to to be alone for a while and daydream. This secret place that only you know of, or so you thought, because sometimes they are there smoking a cigarette. These friends that you hate, that you see and you inwardly groan. You walk towards the elevator and you see them in there and your eyes dart around looking for a way out of an encounter with them but your legs always seem to be moving forward and you can't stop until you reach the inside of the elevator, stand next to your friend and push the button to go down.
Damn these legs! you think, and damn this elevator!
"Resistance is futile" say your legs insolently.
Your mouth smiles a tight smile and you ask "How was your weekend Kirk?" and you swallow the sigh of acceptance and dully await the reply.
He puffs away about the late night out on saturday and the outrageous antics that usually ensue when Bazza gets drunk and handsy with the ladies, when Macca makes to acost a police woman and when the whole ladsy crew dare him to moon the bouncer. He relays all this information smugly and his chest puffs out with pride when he thinks how envious you must be with how popular he seems. You stare into the near distance and make the appropriate noises in response "oh wow! you didn't! oh my!"
Brer Robert didn't like these friends at all and their jearing ways only highlighted his hate for them. He wished that he hadn't smiled at them then and that the elevator didn't exist.
Brer Robert's friends were not his friends and he didn't smile at them now when they jested at his expense.
He hated them. He wanted to make them pay. He looked at the leaves, those offending leaves, those leaves of torture and instead of saying something to these friends, these people he dislikes, he kicks the leaves. He lifts up his leg and kicks at the leaves. He curls up his hands and stomps on the leaves. Silly elevators! with their silly spaces! and the silly things you hear from the people that you hate! Brer Robert stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks away. He isn't meandering anymore, he has intention. Brer Robert has things to do, he is going to get a blower vac and clean up this forest.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
A river that isn't on the map
There is a new thing that I know, this thing I know, this new thing. It is like a river that is hidden away and not often seen. Nobody knows but me, they cannot swim in this river and they cannot fish in this river. They cannot be near this river because the map does not show where it is. The map that has directions. The river is long and winding, it is muddy brown, it is hard to see to the bottom of the river. I don't like swimming in rivers because I don't like to feel things brushing against my feet and not know what it is. My imagination says that it is an eel or a snake. It is an animal that is making to eat my feet, that tasty treat. I don't like swimming in this river so it is a waste for me to know where it is. This new thing that I know.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
A trap for my colour
The colour that I feel today is hidden from me. It hides from me around corners and it hides from me up in trees. It’s like a child’s game of hide and go seek, but I’m not playing and somebody is still counting and hiding and giggling around the corner.
The colour I feel today is illusive and mysterious, but I have a plan. The plan is a trap, a trap that will capture my colour that is playing that game. The trap will be
a rope.
or a cage.
or a vice.
it will hold a treat, a temptation and when the colour inches closer with its nose sniffing the air and its tongue and stomach yearning for food,
the trap will fall, slamming its victim close in its clutches.
The colour will struggle and thrash but after a while it will subdue and when it does I'll approach it and asked in a surprised voice
"what’s happened here then hey, what's happened here hmmm?”
It will look at me with big wide eyes and it will be won over by my innocence, unawares of my intentions. I will woo it out of the traps clutches and cup it in my hands and say
"there there, its ok, life is ok my pretty colour"
in a soothing voice and it will love me because I saved it.
The colour will be mine then and I won’t have to play games and run around corners and look up trees because I’ll have it with me.
Unless I forget to close the gate,
Or keep the leash on
Or forget to pat it and love it and it wriggles away from my clasps.
That naughty colour will start hiding again, around corners and up trees.
Then I’ll get out the traps and the game will begin again, the search for my colour.
The colour I feel today is illusive and mysterious, but I have a plan. The plan is a trap, a trap that will capture my colour that is playing that game. The trap will be
a rope.
or a cage.
or a vice.
it will hold a treat, a temptation and when the colour inches closer with its nose sniffing the air and its tongue and stomach yearning for food,
the trap will fall, slamming its victim close in its clutches.
The colour will struggle and thrash but after a while it will subdue and when it does I'll approach it and asked in a surprised voice
"what’s happened here then hey, what's happened here hmmm?”
It will look at me with big wide eyes and it will be won over by my innocence, unawares of my intentions. I will woo it out of the traps clutches and cup it in my hands and say
"there there, its ok, life is ok my pretty colour"
in a soothing voice and it will love me because I saved it.
The colour will be mine then and I won’t have to play games and run around corners and look up trees because I’ll have it with me.
Unless I forget to close the gate,
Or keep the leash on
Or forget to pat it and love it and it wriggles away from my clasps.
That naughty colour will start hiding again, around corners and up trees.
Then I’ll get out the traps and the game will begin again, the search for my colour.
Because is the colour
Today the weather is nice, it is nice because the sun is out and the colours shine brighter because of the brightness of the sun and the heat is out but the heat is not too much too bear, and the air smells of summer because summer smells of grass, and bbq’s and sunscreen and winter melting and that’s what I can smell. Today the weather is nice and the colour I feel should reflect it. The colour should be a green that matches the grass, or a blue that mirrors the sky, or a white that resembles my old car that makes the sound of rust when it moves but can take me on a ride to the beach if I want it to. These are the colours I should feel, but I feel no colour, I feel no colour because I am inside and I can’t go out. I can’t go out because I have to work and working will make those other moments happen, or that’s what I tell myself. Because if I don’t the 'becauses' become redundant, as redundant as my bank account and as redundant as my life. I tell myself all this and although I feel no colour, I will do soon. When my shift ends and even though I missed the day with the weather that is nice, I can hope that it holds out til tomorrow and I’ll feel the colour of the day when work isn’t an action but merely a word.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Run Away
A disabled man in a wheelchair on the street that I am on. He wheels past me. He has earphones in, but he looks around to make sure that everyone is watching. He wants attention. He sings in a loud and monotone voice "run away... run away...run away" The emphasis is on the 'run', more than on the 'away' that makes me think that what is he is singing is not really a dooms day directive but a wish, from his deepest well of desire that he could run. A wish that run was an activity in his repetoire. "Run" has more of a roll in the rrrrr and the nnnn lasts for awhile. The away is lost in the noise of his vocals and my mind can only think of the run. Rrrrrrunnnnnnn. When he sings this I feel embarrased and look away when his eyes near my vicinity. Rrrrrrrrunnnnnnn. I look at him when his head is turned. I look at his chair and the earphones in his ears. I think about his wish and I think about the blood pumping through my legs, the vitality I feel there and I feel guilty. I feel embarrased for the confession he has made in the rolling of his rrr's and the loudness of his voice. I lose sight of him as he wheels off down the street and my legs take me in another direction.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Colour Diary - Cream
Cream is the colour that I am. Cream is all that I have ever known. I stand in queue’s and lines and wait. I wait, forever staring at the cream coloured walls and at the cream coloured chairs and I forget that I once was outside these walls, because the cream coloured walls hypnotise me. When I talk to the woman at the end of the queue she says in her cream coloured voice from behind her cream coloured glasses that I am in the wrong building. Doesn’t she know! Its not possible to exist outside these walls. They have existed forever and I feel like staring into her cream coloured eyes and yelling at her that I can’t leave without what I came for. But she doesn’t understand because her cream coloured life has no time for angry people and her walls need to be pristine and cream.
Colour Diary - Aliminium silver
Aliminium silver is the colour I feel today. Aluminium silver is the colour of a can of soft drink. A can of soft drink that is the tool of somebodies practical joke - that has been shaken up and is buckling. The can with its contained pressure. Silver is the colour that leaves me anxious and itchy to finish and accomplish but can't because the practical joke is on me and I am the can of drink. I am everything at once, I am the practical joker and I am the unsuspecting friend. I am the person who finds this funny and I am the person who doesn’t think it’s funny that they are wet and sticky and that there clothes are ruined, but I smile anyway because I don’t want to offend. I am all at once because I can’t accomplish anything with so much going on. I think I’ll go and wash my clothes and face and think of revenge.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Colour Diary - Pink
Pink
Today I am pink, like the pink of the corners of my eyes. The flesh pad that is pink. Today I am pink, like the tips of my fingernails. The tips that are pink. Today I am pink like the pink of a rose petal that has fallen onto the ground. The petal that is pink. Today I am pink because pink is all I see and all I touch, today I am pink because I dont have to work and I am lisltess. I am listless and all I can do is pink.
Today I am pink, like the pink of the corners of my eyes. The flesh pad that is pink. Today I am pink, like the tips of my fingernails. The tips that are pink. Today I am pink like the pink of a rose petal that has fallen onto the ground. The petal that is pink. Today I am pink because pink is all I see and all I touch, today I am pink because I dont have to work and I am lisltess. I am listless and all I can do is pink.
Friend
Darren is a watchman. He is alone.
He stands on the outpost. He is alone.
He makes a cup of tea. He is alone.
He breathes warm air into his hands. He is alone.
He thinks of the sand, wind, air. He is alone.
He makes his bed for sleep. He is alone.
Darren is a watchman.
Darren was alone, but now Darren has a friend.
Hello Friend. Friend looks at Darren.
Darren doesnt move, don't scare Friend. Darren slowly raises his arm to wave hello, a gesture of friendliness to Friend. Friend stares.
Hello Friend, says Darren
Hello Friend, stay with me.
Darren doesn't want to be alone.
Friend looks cautiously around. Friend moves towards Darren. Darren's heart leaps. Darren isn't alone anymore.
Friend! crys his heart
Friend looks at Darren and sniffs the air.
Darren puts bread on the ground and stares at Friend.
Friend moves forward to eat.
As Friend does this Darren imagines life with a companion. A friend.
They would be happy. He would be happy. He would be content as the watchman on the outpost, happy with his friend.
Friend looks up from his bread and stares at Darren. He sniffs the air again and scurries away. He is not a friend he is a rat. He is a rat with rat things to do.
Darren looks at the crumbs of bread the rat has left. Darren's heart sighs. Darren is alone.
He stands on the outpost. He is alone.
He makes a cup of tea. He is alone.
He breathes warm air into his hands. He is alone.
He thinks of the sand, wind, air. He is alone.
He makes his bed for sleep. He is alone.
Darren is a watchman.
Darren was alone, but now Darren has a friend.
Hello Friend. Friend looks at Darren.
Darren doesnt move, don't scare Friend. Darren slowly raises his arm to wave hello, a gesture of friendliness to Friend. Friend stares.
Hello Friend, says Darren
Hello Friend, stay with me.
Darren doesn't want to be alone.
Friend looks cautiously around. Friend moves towards Darren. Darren's heart leaps. Darren isn't alone anymore.
Friend! crys his heart
Friend looks at Darren and sniffs the air.
Darren puts bread on the ground and stares at Friend.
Friend moves forward to eat.
As Friend does this Darren imagines life with a companion. A friend.
They would be happy. He would be happy. He would be content as the watchman on the outpost, happy with his friend.
Friend looks up from his bread and stares at Darren. He sniffs the air again and scurries away. He is not a friend he is a rat. He is a rat with rat things to do.
Darren looks at the crumbs of bread the rat has left. Darren's heart sighs. Darren is alone.
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Very Pretty Girl (or Ballroom Love)
She sat alone on the steps. The day was cold but the sun warmed her in the way a gas heater might or perhaps a fire. The intense heat only warming select body parts and leaving her cold elsewhere. The pleasure of the heat all the more enjoyable because of the opposing temperature on the other side of her body. Heaven and hell felt in one moment. Like salt and jam on your tongue at the same time.
She stuck out her limbs intermittently to receive the warm rays whilst eating her lunch. Her break was only half an hour and working in the city gave her the freedom to walk the central business district and she often chose to sit on the steps of the central square. She appreciated watching people as they came and went from the city. In that brief half an hour she was separate from the mill of bodies. She was an escaped grain and although she had to return soon, she was like the outsider who had been travelling, the villager with experience, separate from the others.
She sat happy for only a few moments a small smile on her lips with no intention of holding anyones attention. This smile was for her alone. No sideway glances and flirty smiles.
She therefore didn’t notice the man across the square from her making his way towards her.
He treated the space between them as a ballroom floor, a space of courtship, of past centuries etiquette. He edged across the way, sashaying almost, in and out of the people going about their business.
His intention was so subtle he never let on that she was the main goal of pursuit until he was close enough to catch her glance. She failed to notice all of this because of her minds preoccupation with her timed freedom and her attention snapped to when she observed the coquettish glances he flitted her way.
She was surprised at the interest this man showed her and she wondered if he knew her, maybe a family friend, so she tentatively smiled – a tight and constrained smile reserved for strangers. She realised her mistake when he edged closer and beamed ecstatically at the small favour she bestowed on him.
He seated himself next to her on the step, never touching but making her feel uncomfortable none the less. He lent in, all mouth and teeth and pointed gaze, and said “Youre a very pretty girl”.
It hung there that sentence.
He let it hang there like mistletoe, precariously dangling, waiting to twinkle with delight at the young lovers kissing beneath it. The mistake here however was the love was not mutual and the age not young. He was nearing 50 and although she looked 16 maybe 17 she was more like 21. The respective ages creating the biggest hurdles for their love. Love that had started with “You’re a very pretty girl” and ended with the subtle yet noticeable shift of body language moving to guard ones bag against predators, specifically predator, complimentor, this complimentor.
She smiled at him, a constrained polite smile, by way of acknowledging the compliment. She said nothing and the mistletoe faded and became an icy dagger that dug into his heart.
He repeated his sentiment but with more enthusiasm “You’re a very pretty girl.” His tongue curling on the rrr of girl and lasting on the l. It landed on deaf ears. She wanted the suns warmth, she wanted to curl into her world so rudely interrupted by this clumsy elephant. She said nothing but she was angry.
Her anger must have been felt because he finally inched away from her personal space and off the step. He gazed longingly at her for a while longer before making his way back across the ballroom floor to seat across from her.
This time he stared at her intently without fear of being caught. He followed her movements and in turn began to copy her. She crossed her legs and so did he, she looked to the right and so did he, she shuffled her bag at her feet and so did he. She clasped her hands and so did he, his eyes never moving from her.
Finally her half hour was up and her freedom had been stolen, it had run out and been less than usually enjoyed. Her sun had been overshadowed and her bones were chilled.
He did not follow her out of the ballroom, despite her fears that he might, but his eyes did.
His eyes mournfully gazed after her, drifting from the empty place on the steps to the point of her departure from his stare, grieving the brief interlude into his life that she was.
Stuck in this ballroom, this city square, she had been a bright light that no sun could compare to, a very pretty girl.
She stuck out her limbs intermittently to receive the warm rays whilst eating her lunch. Her break was only half an hour and working in the city gave her the freedom to walk the central business district and she often chose to sit on the steps of the central square. She appreciated watching people as they came and went from the city. In that brief half an hour she was separate from the mill of bodies. She was an escaped grain and although she had to return soon, she was like the outsider who had been travelling, the villager with experience, separate from the others.
She sat happy for only a few moments a small smile on her lips with no intention of holding anyones attention. This smile was for her alone. No sideway glances and flirty smiles.
She therefore didn’t notice the man across the square from her making his way towards her.
He treated the space between them as a ballroom floor, a space of courtship, of past centuries etiquette. He edged across the way, sashaying almost, in and out of the people going about their business.
His intention was so subtle he never let on that she was the main goal of pursuit until he was close enough to catch her glance. She failed to notice all of this because of her minds preoccupation with her timed freedom and her attention snapped to when she observed the coquettish glances he flitted her way.
She was surprised at the interest this man showed her and she wondered if he knew her, maybe a family friend, so she tentatively smiled – a tight and constrained smile reserved for strangers. She realised her mistake when he edged closer and beamed ecstatically at the small favour she bestowed on him.
He seated himself next to her on the step, never touching but making her feel uncomfortable none the less. He lent in, all mouth and teeth and pointed gaze, and said “Youre a very pretty girl”.
It hung there that sentence.
He let it hang there like mistletoe, precariously dangling, waiting to twinkle with delight at the young lovers kissing beneath it. The mistake here however was the love was not mutual and the age not young. He was nearing 50 and although she looked 16 maybe 17 she was more like 21. The respective ages creating the biggest hurdles for their love. Love that had started with “You’re a very pretty girl” and ended with the subtle yet noticeable shift of body language moving to guard ones bag against predators, specifically predator, complimentor, this complimentor.
She smiled at him, a constrained polite smile, by way of acknowledging the compliment. She said nothing and the mistletoe faded and became an icy dagger that dug into his heart.
He repeated his sentiment but with more enthusiasm “You’re a very pretty girl.” His tongue curling on the rrr of girl and lasting on the l. It landed on deaf ears. She wanted the suns warmth, she wanted to curl into her world so rudely interrupted by this clumsy elephant. She said nothing but she was angry.
Her anger must have been felt because he finally inched away from her personal space and off the step. He gazed longingly at her for a while longer before making his way back across the ballroom floor to seat across from her.
This time he stared at her intently without fear of being caught. He followed her movements and in turn began to copy her. She crossed her legs and so did he, she looked to the right and so did he, she shuffled her bag at her feet and so did he. She clasped her hands and so did he, his eyes never moving from her.
Finally her half hour was up and her freedom had been stolen, it had run out and been less than usually enjoyed. Her sun had been overshadowed and her bones were chilled.
He did not follow her out of the ballroom, despite her fears that he might, but his eyes did.
His eyes mournfully gazed after her, drifting from the empty place on the steps to the point of her departure from his stare, grieving the brief interlude into his life that she was.
Stuck in this ballroom, this city square, she had been a bright light that no sun could compare to, a very pretty girl.
Hey you
Dear You,
I met you last month at a party, you were wearing a black t-shirt that had no writing on it, but looked like it should. You were smoking a cigarette and your hair was mussed up like you had just woken up. You looked deep and mysterious and like you knew about the world. Like you were holding all the answers, maybe not on you right now, but at home on the living room couch or scattered on the dining room table. Perhaps maybe more hidden, more secure. Maybe in a box, or a diary, or under the bed, the mattress, or your pillow, close to you.
You knew my friend and we were introduced, you didn’t say much but I knew you saw me. I remember smiling and saying something about your shirt. Something about the absent Che Guevara and you looked at me and even though you didn’t smile I knew you saw me.
Remember that night? that guy thought you were best friends, he talked to you about the money he owed you, he wanted to borrow some more, he said, were soul mates mate, mate, mate you later, we should stick together. Stick together like glue. When he said glue, he lent in really closely and pursed his lips together like he was going to kiss you.
Later that night I had to leave and you caught my hand and asked for my number, I knew you saw me. I saw you two days later on a Sunday and you looked like you had a pocket of answers and everyone one around us looked at you, on the train, at the movies, at the cafe. They looked at you, glanced at you and I saw what they saw, somebody with the answers, not at home, but on them right now. Holding them in your hand, never showing them, just holding. and I knew you saw me.
We started going out and you were mine, a part of me, near me, you saw me, and through you I had the answers. You made me believe that the answers were with me also, maybe not on me right now but at home, tucked away safely and resolutely in a small stash, away far away, don’t tell anyone. People looked at me and you together, that potent couple that we were, they saw us, they saw that we had the answers. Maybe they stared, they glanced, they peeked, they strayed their eyes in our direction, we had the answers and they saw.
Our friends started to refer to us as them two, those two, those crazy kids, the ones over there, they have all the answers.
When did that fall apart? When did we start to have different ideas? When did you stop seeing me? Was it when I introduced you as my boyfriend and you became awkward and silent. Was it when I tripped and fell and you saw me as fallible and not strong. Was it when I saw you as less than me and you of me. I had the answers and you wouldn’t listen to me. They were hidden away in my house and not yours and you seemed jealous or maybe annoyed that I had stolen the answers and moved them somewhere else. You don’t see me.
I thought I should let you know that I have the answers but if you want you can come and see them sometimes. I don’t think I’d mind, not really. You should wear more black tops.
I met you last month at a party, you were wearing a black t-shirt that had no writing on it, but looked like it should. You were smoking a cigarette and your hair was mussed up like you had just woken up. You looked deep and mysterious and like you knew about the world. Like you were holding all the answers, maybe not on you right now, but at home on the living room couch or scattered on the dining room table. Perhaps maybe more hidden, more secure. Maybe in a box, or a diary, or under the bed, the mattress, or your pillow, close to you.
You knew my friend and we were introduced, you didn’t say much but I knew you saw me. I remember smiling and saying something about your shirt. Something about the absent Che Guevara and you looked at me and even though you didn’t smile I knew you saw me.
Remember that night? that guy thought you were best friends, he talked to you about the money he owed you, he wanted to borrow some more, he said, were soul mates mate, mate, mate you later, we should stick together. Stick together like glue. When he said glue, he lent in really closely and pursed his lips together like he was going to kiss you.
Later that night I had to leave and you caught my hand and asked for my number, I knew you saw me. I saw you two days later on a Sunday and you looked like you had a pocket of answers and everyone one around us looked at you, on the train, at the movies, at the cafe. They looked at you, glanced at you and I saw what they saw, somebody with the answers, not at home, but on them right now. Holding them in your hand, never showing them, just holding. and I knew you saw me.
We started going out and you were mine, a part of me, near me, you saw me, and through you I had the answers. You made me believe that the answers were with me also, maybe not on me right now but at home, tucked away safely and resolutely in a small stash, away far away, don’t tell anyone. People looked at me and you together, that potent couple that we were, they saw us, they saw that we had the answers. Maybe they stared, they glanced, they peeked, they strayed their eyes in our direction, we had the answers and they saw.
Our friends started to refer to us as them two, those two, those crazy kids, the ones over there, they have all the answers.
When did that fall apart? When did we start to have different ideas? When did you stop seeing me? Was it when I introduced you as my boyfriend and you became awkward and silent. Was it when I tripped and fell and you saw me as fallible and not strong. Was it when I saw you as less than me and you of me. I had the answers and you wouldn’t listen to me. They were hidden away in my house and not yours and you seemed jealous or maybe annoyed that I had stolen the answers and moved them somewhere else. You don’t see me.
I thought I should let you know that I have the answers but if you want you can come and see them sometimes. I don’t think I’d mind, not really. You should wear more black tops.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Colour Diary - Purple
Purple
Purple is the colour of the jumper I bought today and the colour of my hands that have no purpose and keep reaching into my wallet to pull out money that I don’t really have. I should work more or everything should be cheaper. Inflation would be great if I could be isolated from its effects and that my money would still be worth a lot. Don’t know how it would work, but it’s an idea. A more plausible and feasible option is to take on more shifts and stop spending money. I wish I could have a vault of money that I could dive of a diving board into and swim in. I don’t think that it will be a very nice swim but its eccentric and rich people can afford to be a bit odd.
Purple is the colour of the jumper I bought today and the colour of my hands that have no purpose and keep reaching into my wallet to pull out money that I don’t really have. I should work more or everything should be cheaper. Inflation would be great if I could be isolated from its effects and that my money would still be worth a lot. Don’t know how it would work, but it’s an idea. A more plausible and feasible option is to take on more shifts and stop spending money. I wish I could have a vault of money that I could dive of a diving board into and swim in. I don’t think that it will be a very nice swim but its eccentric and rich people can afford to be a bit odd.
Colour Diary - Pale Yellow
Pale yellow.
Pale yellow is the colour I am today. Pale yellow like the colour of the stationary paper I use to write my dreams onto. The dreams and goals I have for my life that may not be accomplished but I have written them down so that’s a start and also pale yellow makes it more official. If none of the dreams work out I have decided that I will start going to the computer-hang-out-shop place that doesn’t really have a name but is clearly a place for mostly boys to hang out and play video games together. I don’t like video games because I don’t know how to play them but that’s were I’ll go if my plans fail because everybody seems so happy there and accepted. I wonder if they would mind if I didn’t play video games and I just talked to them, maybe not when there playing because I heard that takes concentration but maybe after, when they have finished.
Pale yellow is the colour I am today. Pale yellow like the colour of the stationary paper I use to write my dreams onto. The dreams and goals I have for my life that may not be accomplished but I have written them down so that’s a start and also pale yellow makes it more official. If none of the dreams work out I have decided that I will start going to the computer-hang-out-shop place that doesn’t really have a name but is clearly a place for mostly boys to hang out and play video games together. I don’t like video games because I don’t know how to play them but that’s were I’ll go if my plans fail because everybody seems so happy there and accepted. I wonder if they would mind if I didn’t play video games and I just talked to them, maybe not when there playing because I heard that takes concentration but maybe after, when they have finished.
Colour Diary - Coffee Brown
Brown
Today I am brown again, but brown like the coffee in my cup. Brown like the coffee in the coffee container at work that has no spoons in it so you have to scoop the coffee out with your cup and you usually get to much coffee and when you try to scoop up the sugar you usually spill coffee grains in the sugar container and you try to pick it out but cant get all the little pieces so you shake the container so the coffee granules mix together with the sugar and nobody will know any better. That’s the colour I am today because I did have a cup of coffee today and it didn’t taste very nice. I think we should get spoons at work.
Today I am brown again, but brown like the coffee in my cup. Brown like the coffee in the coffee container at work that has no spoons in it so you have to scoop the coffee out with your cup and you usually get to much coffee and when you try to scoop up the sugar you usually spill coffee grains in the sugar container and you try to pick it out but cant get all the little pieces so you shake the container so the coffee granules mix together with the sugar and nobody will know any better. That’s the colour I am today because I did have a cup of coffee today and it didn’t taste very nice. I think we should get spoons at work.
La Cherries
The last drops of rain had only started to fall when the pedestrian had rushed into the small cove that the tired red awning outside of La Cherries offered. The establishment was not one that the pedestrian would usually enter into and it was rare for him to be in the vicinity of the bawdy house or even in this area but something in particular had called him into the neighbourhood that had to be paid attention to most immediately. He would have to wait til the rain to abate though because it would be unacceptable for him to arrive at his destination looking like a wet and bedraggled dog, first impressions were so important. As he lingered under the awning another man also approached his position and rather than using the cove for a place to seek dryness used the door instead, another valued customer of La Cherries. The pedestrian glanced sideways at the man and in return for his curiosity received a snippet of view of the inside of the building through the already closing door. Before it fully closed though he heard a catcall from one of the girls beckoning him inside, he hesitated and considered the proposition. Thankfully though the rain was ceasing and before anybody inside could come out to him and repeat the request he darted off into the street. He needed to be somewhere, people were waiting for him. Perhaps it was best that he had not gone inside for if he had taken of his great big black coat and revealed the costume that layered itself around his body they may have received a shock. It was as black night and ran longer than the coat did, only to stop and expose some bright shiny shoes. At the top of this strange costume that swathed itself all the way to his neck was a strip of white that covered only a few inches of cloth but meant so much more. Perhaps he would return though. La Cherries could be quite warm on these cold days. So very warm.
Colour Diary - Orange
Orange
Orange is the colour of the working man’s vest on the road outside my house and orange is the colour of hearing because I am tired of noises and wish that I was deaf. If I was deaf all of my other senses would be really powerful. I would be able to smell all the things people usually miss. Maybe I could get a job working at a restaurant smelling food. Like a food critic but I would only taste the food with my nose.
Orange is the colour of the working man’s vest on the road outside my house and orange is the colour of hearing because I am tired of noises and wish that I was deaf. If I was deaf all of my other senses would be really powerful. I would be able to smell all the things people usually miss. Maybe I could get a job working at a restaurant smelling food. Like a food critic but I would only taste the food with my nose.
Colour Diary - Blue
Blue
Blue is the colour of the sign outside Officeworks and blue is the colour of my imagination. Im blue because blue is the colour that Jazz players are when they sing songs. My mum rang and I was reminded that I have a family and that I have to keep in contact with. If I could sing I would sing about being lonesome and annoyed.
Blue is the colour of the sign outside Officeworks and blue is the colour of my imagination. Im blue because blue is the colour that Jazz players are when they sing songs. My mum rang and I was reminded that I have a family and that I have to keep in contact with. If I could sing I would sing about being lonesome and annoyed.
Colour Diary - Brown
Brown.
Brown is the colour of my hair and the colour of my heart today. Today it’s brown because nothing much happened today. I slept in til late which always makes me feel rank and then I went to work. Brown is definitely the colour of boring. B (brown) + B (boring) = today and me. It’s not so much as my heart being brown but more that my soul has definitely got a brownish tinge to it. Brown is what I think of and what I speak and it covers my eyes so that all I see is the horrid poo brown.
Brown is the colour of my hair and the colour of my heart today. Today it’s brown because nothing much happened today. I slept in til late which always makes me feel rank and then I went to work. Brown is definitely the colour of boring. B (brown) + B (boring) = today and me. It’s not so much as my heart being brown but more that my soul has definitely got a brownish tinge to it. Brown is what I think of and what I speak and it covers my eyes so that all I see is the horrid poo brown.
A Job
“What do you think are your strengths?”
“my strengths” I say to buy some time “well my strengths are… my strengths are fortitude” I don’t really know what this means but I think it sounds smart and also something that would be good to have as a strength. Superman has probably got fortitude written on his CV under strengths and under goals he probably has saving the world. If superman was applying for a job he might not be hired because he would come under the category of over-qualified. You need to be a shit eater if you really want a job and it is doubtful if Superman is a shit eater. I think about telling her that I am a shit eater but I don’t think she appreciates honesty like that and swearing in an interview doesn’t come across to well unless you say “hell yeah!” to something and that’s excused because of your apparent enthusiasm. Hell isn’t really a swear anyway.
She asks “when is a time that you have shown leadership?”
I think about this for a bit or I look like I am but really I think about not wanting this job and how if I worked here I would have to work with her and I am not sure I can deal with that. She has a horrible mauve coloured top on and her hair is short and blonde and she looks butch and is really quite fat, obese even. She looks like she takes her job much too seriously. I somehow give her an answer and finish the interview soon after. As I walk out the office building I hope that I don’t get the job.
I do need the money though, fuck I hope I get the job.
I go home and go to sleep even though its only 3 in the afternoon. Its 3 in the afternoon and I don’t really want to think about anything so I go to sleep and instead I dream.
Dreaming is so much nicer than thinking because it doesn’t take as much effort. My mum rings about 7, it wakes me up and I feel so lazy that I don’t answer the phone. I ring her back after about 20 minutes of just lying in bed. I don’t know what she wants but I know it’s not just a phone call to ask if I’m ok, because my mum isn’t one of the types of mums who does that. She only rings if she wants something. I call her and she tells me that my sister and her partner are going to dinner at her house and “if you want you should come over” her voice heavy with emotional blackmail. I’m pretty sure I’ll regret not going later so I say yes, Ill be over in an hour.
It felt wrong to be getting out of bed then so I closed my eyes again. I started to remember the dream I was having I can’t remember it now but it was comforting for me to be able to recall it then. It was like making a mould of your own hand and putting your hand back into the mould every now and then. That at least there is one place that you fit in so perfectly.
I wake up after another 40 minutes and guiltily got out of bed and went to Mum and Dad’s house. We had to wait for an hour or so for dinner to cook so I suggested we play Cluedo. I don’t think I should have because it became competitive, I didn’t think Cluedo was a very competitive game. Dinner was nice and then I went home.
The next day the woman from the job called to tell me I got the job. I am a shit eater after all. And fortitude will be needed the day after next.
“my strengths” I say to buy some time “well my strengths are… my strengths are fortitude” I don’t really know what this means but I think it sounds smart and also something that would be good to have as a strength. Superman has probably got fortitude written on his CV under strengths and under goals he probably has saving the world. If superman was applying for a job he might not be hired because he would come under the category of over-qualified. You need to be a shit eater if you really want a job and it is doubtful if Superman is a shit eater. I think about telling her that I am a shit eater but I don’t think she appreciates honesty like that and swearing in an interview doesn’t come across to well unless you say “hell yeah!” to something and that’s excused because of your apparent enthusiasm. Hell isn’t really a swear anyway.
She asks “when is a time that you have shown leadership?”
I think about this for a bit or I look like I am but really I think about not wanting this job and how if I worked here I would have to work with her and I am not sure I can deal with that. She has a horrible mauve coloured top on and her hair is short and blonde and she looks butch and is really quite fat, obese even. She looks like she takes her job much too seriously. I somehow give her an answer and finish the interview soon after. As I walk out the office building I hope that I don’t get the job.
I do need the money though, fuck I hope I get the job.
I go home and go to sleep even though its only 3 in the afternoon. Its 3 in the afternoon and I don’t really want to think about anything so I go to sleep and instead I dream.
Dreaming is so much nicer than thinking because it doesn’t take as much effort. My mum rings about 7, it wakes me up and I feel so lazy that I don’t answer the phone. I ring her back after about 20 minutes of just lying in bed. I don’t know what she wants but I know it’s not just a phone call to ask if I’m ok, because my mum isn’t one of the types of mums who does that. She only rings if she wants something. I call her and she tells me that my sister and her partner are going to dinner at her house and “if you want you should come over” her voice heavy with emotional blackmail. I’m pretty sure I’ll regret not going later so I say yes, Ill be over in an hour.
It felt wrong to be getting out of bed then so I closed my eyes again. I started to remember the dream I was having I can’t remember it now but it was comforting for me to be able to recall it then. It was like making a mould of your own hand and putting your hand back into the mould every now and then. That at least there is one place that you fit in so perfectly.
I wake up after another 40 minutes and guiltily got out of bed and went to Mum and Dad’s house. We had to wait for an hour or so for dinner to cook so I suggested we play Cluedo. I don’t think I should have because it became competitive, I didn’t think Cluedo was a very competitive game. Dinner was nice and then I went home.
The next day the woman from the job called to tell me I got the job. I am a shit eater after all. And fortitude will be needed the day after next.
A Love Story
A cough behind her alerted her to her surroundings at the cafe and the book she was reading ceased to be so engrossing.
She turned around to see a man, a slight man staring at her from the table next to hers. She smiled and turned back to her book but the coughing started up again and she indignantly turned around again. She raised her eyebrow in question and he smiled back at her, an awkward pause ensued and she was about to turn back again when he opened his mouth and said, “perhaps I could sit with you?”
Perhaps he could but it wasn’t often that she got attention from the opposite sex and she opened her mouth in shock and said nothing. Taking her silence for acquiescence he picked up his back pack and came to sit opposite her at her table. He smiled awkwardly and placed his cup and saucer nervously on the table.
Now that he had finally sat himself in front of her, she didn’t know what was to happen.
“What are you reading?” he said as a way to start some dialogue.
As reply she placed the book in front of him and expected him to comment on the book but he said nothing. Maybe it wasn’t his type of book.
She pulled the book back in front of her and placed her hands over it. He coughed nervously again like before and cast a furtive look out at the street and the occupants of that space. Finally she felt the embarrassment of little to no talk to hard to bear that she said
“Do you come here often?”
“ah, she speaks” he laughed feebly at his own attempt at joviality and seeing no signal from her of humour he straightened his face and said “no not often. I’ve been visiting the cafes in each area and trying to decide who really does have the best coffee. I don’t really like coffee, it leaves a funny taste in my mouth but it seems to be quite popular with people and I thought if I tried coffee from different places I might be able to understand the enjoyment people have with it…” he petered out, like somebody who thinks that they’re the only one whose interested in the subject. He lifted his hand to his mouth and coughed again. It wasn’t really a cough; it was more of a throat clearing, with a wet sound of mucous at the back of the mouth.
Silence. A car drives past and they both look up to watch it go by.
“I like tea.” She said.
He nodded and said “Tea is by far the superior drink.”
This last comment seemed to make the most impact of all because she smiled and looked at him appreciatively. This also spurred the conversation further onto who they each thought drank tea or coffee in the café, the street and finally moved onto political leaders. They both agreed that most of the world’s tyrants were coffee drinkers, but disagreed on Hitler’s drink of choice. She seemed to think that he was a tea drinker because he was a tee-totaller and coffee would probably be included in the list of contraband for a tee-totaller. He said that Hitler did drink coffee because he needed the energy to be so ruthless. After much discussion, some of it quite heated and drew attention from people around them (considering that the name Hitler was thrown about quite loudly), they finally agreed that maybe he was a sometimes coffee drinker, but neither seemed happy with this conclusion.
By whatever means they managed to arrange to meet again at the same place the next day and parted ways by nervously shaking hands. She noticed that’s his hands were cold and clammy, she thought this was something to note as it might say something about his character. She didn’t know what though, except that maybe he needed to wash his hands and heat them in front of the fire.
She turned around to see a man, a slight man staring at her from the table next to hers. She smiled and turned back to her book but the coughing started up again and she indignantly turned around again. She raised her eyebrow in question and he smiled back at her, an awkward pause ensued and she was about to turn back again when he opened his mouth and said, “perhaps I could sit with you?”
Perhaps he could but it wasn’t often that she got attention from the opposite sex and she opened her mouth in shock and said nothing. Taking her silence for acquiescence he picked up his back pack and came to sit opposite her at her table. He smiled awkwardly and placed his cup and saucer nervously on the table.
Now that he had finally sat himself in front of her, she didn’t know what was to happen.
“What are you reading?” he said as a way to start some dialogue.
As reply she placed the book in front of him and expected him to comment on the book but he said nothing. Maybe it wasn’t his type of book.
She pulled the book back in front of her and placed her hands over it. He coughed nervously again like before and cast a furtive look out at the street and the occupants of that space. Finally she felt the embarrassment of little to no talk to hard to bear that she said
“Do you come here often?”
“ah, she speaks” he laughed feebly at his own attempt at joviality and seeing no signal from her of humour he straightened his face and said “no not often. I’ve been visiting the cafes in each area and trying to decide who really does have the best coffee. I don’t really like coffee, it leaves a funny taste in my mouth but it seems to be quite popular with people and I thought if I tried coffee from different places I might be able to understand the enjoyment people have with it…” he petered out, like somebody who thinks that they’re the only one whose interested in the subject. He lifted his hand to his mouth and coughed again. It wasn’t really a cough; it was more of a throat clearing, with a wet sound of mucous at the back of the mouth.
Silence. A car drives past and they both look up to watch it go by.
“I like tea.” She said.
He nodded and said “Tea is by far the superior drink.”
This last comment seemed to make the most impact of all because she smiled and looked at him appreciatively. This also spurred the conversation further onto who they each thought drank tea or coffee in the café, the street and finally moved onto political leaders. They both agreed that most of the world’s tyrants were coffee drinkers, but disagreed on Hitler’s drink of choice. She seemed to think that he was a tea drinker because he was a tee-totaller and coffee would probably be included in the list of contraband for a tee-totaller. He said that Hitler did drink coffee because he needed the energy to be so ruthless. After much discussion, some of it quite heated and drew attention from people around them (considering that the name Hitler was thrown about quite loudly), they finally agreed that maybe he was a sometimes coffee drinker, but neither seemed happy with this conclusion.
By whatever means they managed to arrange to meet again at the same place the next day and parted ways by nervously shaking hands. She noticed that’s his hands were cold and clammy, she thought this was something to note as it might say something about his character. She didn’t know what though, except that maybe he needed to wash his hands and heat them in front of the fire.
The Hairdresser
Karen has the worst haircut out of all her friends. Karen has potentially the worst haircut in the whole world. Her haircut is so bad she can’t even wear a hat with it, because then it would look like she is trying to cover something up and she isn’t that secretive, that sly, not really.
Her haircut has bald patches and short bits and long bits. She acquired this particular haircut when in a moment of distress of the monotony of life she seized the scissors and let her hand loose on her hair.
Karen has the worst haircut out of all her friends because Karen is silly but Karen is also a liar.
She is a liar because she tells people that she went to a hairdresser for this cut. The hairdresser said to Karen that she would look good like this and pulled her hair away from the sides of her face and flopped it in front of her eyes. The hairdresser took Karen’s hair and said, darling with long drawn out aaahhhs and looked bored and pretty all at once. The hairdresser said “daahling, you would look fabulous like this” and flamboyantly threw her hair around.
Karen tells everyone she said yes to the terrible haircut because she was taken with the aura of the shop and the smell of dye and bleach in the air. She said yes because wanted to be as equally charismatic and bored as the hairdresser.
She said yes because she wanted to throw her hands in the air and go crazy with wild intent and have crazy wild hair that went with her new character. Karen said yes because her hair was mousy brown but she felt always meant to be red, fiery red that connoted the character of the most craziest of characters, the craziest character of characters. She sighed a sigh of contentment and said yes, yes please, you have so captured the essence of me, make me what you want me to be. When she said “me to be” she said that slowly and drew out each sound so that it was more important and the hairdresser would know what an important occasion this was. So very important for this character of characters.
The hairdresser nodded with solemn intent and seemed to understand what this meant, and like a high priestess she ceremoniously held the scissors above her head before she plunged to cut the first cut. “That disastrous cut” as Karen says.
Karen told this lie so that no one would know that she wanted to be someone else and that her hair was her character personified, spoken loudly through a loudspeaker. That what it told everyone was that she was boring and dull and mousy brown. She told this lie because she wished it was true. She told everyone loudly that hairdressers were good for nothing, that they knew less than nothing. She denounced the hairdressing occupation as a whole to save face and look like she was taken in by the lie as opposed to a perpetrator of the lie.
Karen is a liar and a bit sly. Karen has the worst haircut out of all her friends, Karen has potentially the worst haircut in the whole world.
Her haircut has bald patches and short bits and long bits. She acquired this particular haircut when in a moment of distress of the monotony of life she seized the scissors and let her hand loose on her hair.
Karen has the worst haircut out of all her friends because Karen is silly but Karen is also a liar.
She is a liar because she tells people that she went to a hairdresser for this cut. The hairdresser said to Karen that she would look good like this and pulled her hair away from the sides of her face and flopped it in front of her eyes. The hairdresser took Karen’s hair and said, darling with long drawn out aaahhhs and looked bored and pretty all at once. The hairdresser said “daahling, you would look fabulous like this” and flamboyantly threw her hair around.
Karen tells everyone she said yes to the terrible haircut because she was taken with the aura of the shop and the smell of dye and bleach in the air. She said yes because wanted to be as equally charismatic and bored as the hairdresser.
She said yes because she wanted to throw her hands in the air and go crazy with wild intent and have crazy wild hair that went with her new character. Karen said yes because her hair was mousy brown but she felt always meant to be red, fiery red that connoted the character of the most craziest of characters, the craziest character of characters. She sighed a sigh of contentment and said yes, yes please, you have so captured the essence of me, make me what you want me to be. When she said “me to be” she said that slowly and drew out each sound so that it was more important and the hairdresser would know what an important occasion this was. So very important for this character of characters.
The hairdresser nodded with solemn intent and seemed to understand what this meant, and like a high priestess she ceremoniously held the scissors above her head before she plunged to cut the first cut. “That disastrous cut” as Karen says.
Karen told this lie so that no one would know that she wanted to be someone else and that her hair was her character personified, spoken loudly through a loudspeaker. That what it told everyone was that she was boring and dull and mousy brown. She told this lie because she wished it was true. She told everyone loudly that hairdressers were good for nothing, that they knew less than nothing. She denounced the hairdressing occupation as a whole to save face and look like she was taken in by the lie as opposed to a perpetrator of the lie.
Karen is a liar and a bit sly. Karen has the worst haircut out of all her friends, Karen has potentially the worst haircut in the whole world.
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