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.
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