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.
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