| fresh paint (exam piece #1) |
[Jun. 22nd, 2005|10:46 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  tired + sad | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | goo goo dolls black balloon | ] |
whilst dreaming
i am a hummingbird gliding the highway
soaring the scent of glucose
i hear the humdrum singing of the wheels somersaulting
above the beating of my heart
i am sifting my life out like flour
that floats in the air like ghosts
i dream of waking up
and sucking in the intoxicating odour
of fresh paint
in the days i am spinning
i am the release for all the nightmares
you keep seeing
i am choking down these fake lights
of halogen and neon
i am trapping in those nights of
your blood on my hands and our walls
i keep breathing
but when i shut my eyes i keep seeing
your naked body and my hands covering you
in fresh paint |
|
|
| stories of a girl - creative writing folio - fini |
[Jun. 17th, 2005|01:08 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | assessed | ] |
| [ | heart |
| |  lazy girl needs to study | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | hanson believe | ] |
the sun has descended.
It has descended into another time and space. In its wake it has left those plains of red sands, those roads that go on forever, and, in the dust, those tracks of snakes. It has been replaced by the all-consuming eyes of the moon, and that life-sucking wind that causes bones to rub each other for heat. Just a few quiet houses dot the horizon; their lights have faded out.
Oh, but there! There is one house with a light in a window, a solitary guiding star, and with-in, behind the green kitchen door, nerves are vibrating in the air. A girl is standing over a table clutching a mess of a cutlery draw in both hands. She doesn’t have a set; these knives, forks and spoons have come from everywhere and anywhere. Each has its own story, and thus, each is alone. The one with flowers doesn’t match the one with stripes. One is too small, another too long. She lays them at each place and walks on cracking lino floor back through the kitchen door, leaving it swinging.
girl in the kitchen.
Aurora was nine-years-old when her mother left her forever. She had been the one person from whom Aurora had received her blood, love and purpose. From then on she lived a half-life: although she moved through those days with something that seemed like direction, leading her into sour relationships with men who gave her bruises and always left her, half of her was still sitting at the kitchen table in those big rough wooden chairs discovering her mother’s death. Perpetually.
By a sort of serendipity she had found herself in this curious place. She liked to imagine it was a magnet for people like her. Aurora wasn’t used to good luck, but it appeared into her life like a catalyst that had set her paralysed self running, tripping and searching for all those things she lost that December morning – love and guts and family.
snapshots.
On the doorstep, shuffling their feet, stand her neighbours. They are silent and nervous and looking at their toes, or at the spiders’ webs in the eaves, or at the sky. Someone sneezes. The doorbell rings the end of an ambitious finger.
On the other side of the door their host squeezes her eyes tight shut, nervous, shuffling her feet down the hallway.
And there they all wait.
Anna-Maria, keeping secret the whisper in her head that she is 71 this October, is wrapped up in one of her old shawls. It is one she pulled from a dusty box, hidden because it reminded her of the times she suppressed in the dusty confines of her heart and the cities she has long since departed. Tonight had felt like another one of those nights.
George resists the urge to roll his eyes. He is sick and tired of the uncomfortable silence that manifests around people who are almost (but not quite) strangers. He blows his nose on a checked red hanky. He feels old and cynical. Truly; he is just as nervous and uncomfortable as everyone else.
Paulie spent the afternoon with her hair in pink plastic rollers and now, in her favourite dress and her gaudy heels, she realises that she doesn’t feel quite as brave as she did that morning. She shifts the position of the red wine bottle in her arms – at least she has confidence in that.
Evan’s fringe is in his eyes again. It hasn’t bothered him before; it helped him to go unnoticed and unspoken to but recently, this chapter, he has resolved to notice and see and speak, so this disguise is suddenly unwanted. He does want, however, to make his own fate, make his own way and stop drifting along the tired roads of his life, letting coincidence, circumstance and apathy push and pull him. He is taking back the control he last knew when he was 13, and he left his old life behind, pulling his way down the river in a rowboat.
And there they all wait.
girl in the doorway.
A moment’s hesitation on the doorknob.
A deep breath.
"Hello."
(They mumble responses.)
"Please, come in."
(They do.)
"This way."
(They parade down the hall.)
musical chairs.
Here they all are; sitting amongst the mismatched dishes and plates and glasses of wine, murmuring stories and jokes. The landscape is scattered with raw smiles, as if they were painted fresh on the alabaster faces of dolls and around them the wallpaper seems to flash like fairy lights.
Anna-Maria has whisked Paulie off on a magic carpet ride into her past and as the dust falls off her sparks of memory she starts to feel young again. She lowers her voice and raises her eyebrows as she speaks a rusty phrase in her native tongue.
'Oooh', squeaks her companion, 'it’s all so magical'.
George is relating to Evan the ins-and-outs of a football match he heard on his transistor the day before. A wide smile and a few glasses of vin rouge have made his cheeks rosy. Evan takes a few playful stabs at his biases but George hardly minds, he is contented here with their banter, battling with these colourful layers of ribbon and wrapping, words and thoughts.
Evan has not felt like this since he was seven years old. The morning his team won their soccer game. He remembers the look of his parents’ faces when he kicked his solitary goal, sitting between them at lunch, eating chips, and knowing that they loved him. Comfort, belief, and family.
His last best time.
Paulie always dreamed of a life more exciting than her own. Finally, in the words of this woman sitting next to her, she tastes something richer than what her heart is used to: the magic and depth and height of a world so full. Her mind is consumed, her imagination is dancing amongst streamers and tinsel and, for once in her life, she is the one listening. She thinks the gold thread woven into the red napkins is beautiful.
girl in her chair.
But sitting isolated at the head of the table Aurora has remembered why this was such a bad idea, why this just should not be happening and (with blushing cheeks) when nine days ago, at 1:30am, she rode her bicycle past Evan’s darkened windows and then lay – absolutely still – on the couch for three hours trying not to think about him.
She is having problems with breathing, focussing, and self-control and trying to suppress the nagging hypothesis that if she would just stretch out her arm she could touch him. She wills herself to think of something else, and she is starting to believe that she can... But you and I can clearly see; Aurora Jones is strung up like a Christmas tree and her anxieties are hanging like baubles - coloured glass - glittering, fragile and trembling.
He smiles at her.
Her heart makes a bolt to vomit into the nearest toilet.
Aurora kneads the movable skin on her knuckles with the bones in her fingers, turning the skin pink.
She thinks he is everything she needs. "He could complete me,"” she whispers to herself.
with the moon watching.
With full stomachs and laughter ringing in their ears, these neighbours have said their goodbyes, and left Aurora’s house feeling as though they fit somewhere for the first time in the longest time. From above, the lights of their houses look like a new constellation, a new baby born from nothing but love.
Evan and Aurora are standing on the veranda. The dishes have been washed and dried. For her the roof is hanging heavy like mistletoe. He marvels at the clear skies stretching above.
Aurora is glad the night is over. It means an end to the anxiety and anticipation, to wishing he would say something unexpected, to the fear of what would happen if her wishes miraculously came true and to having to participate in raw conversation with only half of herself switched on. It means she can go and crawl under the kitchen table and cry out her disappointment and loneliness and then fall asleep exhausted.
Evan feels alight. He is thankful that she had the guts to unite this conglomerate of co-existing strangers. He is happy for a new friend to share things with. A friend. A sharing of souls. A real friend. He likes the eccentric poinsettia bushes growing in the flowerbeds of her front yard.
She wishes for what she has always wished for – love and guts and family. He reminds her of all those wishes ungranted. She wishes he would leave.
a girl and a boy.
"Aurora?"
"Mm..."
"Thankyou for doing this."
"Oh. Um. You’re welcome..."
"I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do this. I was so nervous even just thinking about coming tonight. I… um, well, I wanted this, like, I wished for this."
Confused, she forces a smile, "What did you wish for?"
He pauses and, as though searching the sky above the mountains, he bites his lip, "Simple things. I mean, being found and being in a place and being yourself and accepted in the real world. I think that’s love, isn’t it? And I wished for... the guts to be real and family. I think this could be a family for us."
She is staring past the cacti out into the darkness, "Maybe."
Above the mountains on the horizon, the angels sing 'Hallelujah!' – he knows it with all his heart and she just doesn’t listen.
girl under the kitchen table.
Tears are rolling off her cold cheeks.
She is falling asleep. |
|
|
| draft take two |
[May. 30th, 2005|09:34 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  happy | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | lior this old love | ] |
Dear reader,
If you have any time in the next 24 hours, could you please do me a favour?
This piece is due on Thursday (at 5pm) and I could really use some feedback. Paticularly, what bits are unneccessary, is it well-paced, strongly themed? Anything you can think of. Please be critical.
Muchlove.
the sun has descended.
It has descended into another time and space, and in its wake it has left those plains of red sands, those roads that go on forever, and, in the dust, those tracks of snakes. It has been replaced by the all-consuming eyes of the moon, and that life-sucking wind that causes bones to rub each other for heat, and, tiny, just a few quiet houses are dotting the horizon. Their lights have faded out.
Oh, but there! There is one house where a light flickers in a window, as though a solitary guiding star, and with-in, behind the green kitchen door, nerves are bouncing off the walls. A girl is standing over a table, almost set – she is clutching the mess of a cutlery draw in both hands. She doesn’t have a set; these knives and forks and spoons have come from everywhere and anywhere. Each has its own story, and thus, each is alone. The one with flowers doesn’t match the one with stripes. One is too small, another too long. Nervous, she meticulously lays them at down each place and walks on cracking lino floor back through the kitchen door, leaving it swinging.
girl in the kitchen.
Aurora was nine-years-old when her last tie to the world had left her forever, left her without the blood from which she was born and without love and without purpose. She had lived a half-life since then; although she moved through days and weeks with seeming direction through sour relationships with all those men who she remembered as bruises, part of her was still sitting at the kitchen table in those big rough wooden chairs discovering her mother’s death. Perpetually.
By some sort of serendipity she had found her way here, to this curious place. She liked to imagine it was a haven for runaways like her. Aurora wasn’t used to good luck, but it drifted into her life like a catalyst that set the trapped nine-year-old in her running, tripping and searching for all those things she lost that December morning – love and guts and family.
snapshots.
On the doorstep, shuffling their feet, stand the inhabitants of those cold houses - quiet and nervous and looking at their toes, or at the spiders’ webs in the eaves, or at the sky. Someone sneezes and the doorbell rings the end of an ambitious finger.
On the other side of the door their host squeezes her eyes tight shut, nervous, shuffling her feet down the hallway. Turning the handle.
And there they all wait.
Anna-Maria, keeping secret the whisper of her calendar that she is 71 this October, is wrapped up in one of her old shawls. It is one she pulled from a dusty box, hidden because it reminded her of the times she suppressed in the dusty confines of her heart - of dances, and lovers, and exquisite jewellery, and cities she has long since departed. Tonight had felt like another one of those nights.
George resists the urge to roll his eyes. He is sick and tired of the uncomfortable silence that manifests around people who are almost strangers. ‘But really’, he thinks as he blows his nose on a checked red hanky, ‘I am sick and tired of being an aging cynic’ and he is just as nervous and uncomfortable as everyone else.
Paulie spent the afternoon doing her hair up in pink plastic rollers, and now, in her favourite dress and her gaudy heels, she is realising that she doesn’t have quite the brave feeling that she had this morning. But she puts on her best party smile and shifts the position of the bottle of red wine in her arms – at least she has confidence in that.
Evan’s shaggy fringe is getting in his eyes again. He isn’t used to being noticed, or seen, or even spoken to, so it’s never bothered him before. But this time, this chapter, he has resolved to notice and see and speak. Make his own fate and make his own way. Stop drifting along those tired roads of life, letting coincidence and circumstance and pure apathy push and pull. He is taking back the power he last knew when he was 13, and he left his life behind, in a rowboat, pulling his way down the river.
girl in the doorway.
A moment’s hesitation on the doorknob.
A deep breath.
“Hello. “
(Mumbled response.)
“Please, come in.”
(They do.)
“This way.”
(A parade down the hall.)
musical chairs.
Here they all are; sitting amongst the mismatched dishes and plates and glasses of wine, murmuring stories and jokes. The landscape is scattered with raw smiles, as if they were painted fresh on the alabaster faces of dolls.
The wallpaper seems to flash like fairy lights.
Anna-Maria has whisked Paulie off on a magic carpet into this past, and with the dust falling off her sparks of memory she is starting to feel young again. She lowers her voice and widens her eyes for an utterance in her native tongue.
‘Oooh’, squeaks her companion, ‘it’s all so magical’.
George is relating to Evan the ins-and-outs of a certain match of a certain sport he heard on his transistor the day before; a wide smile and a few glasses of vin rouge makes his cheeks rosy. Evan takes a few playful stabs at his theories but George hardly minds, he is contented here with the game, battling with these colourful layers of ribbon and wrapping, words and thoughts.
Evan has not felt like this since he was seven years old. The morning his team won their soccer match and the look of his parents’ faces when he kicked his solitary goal, sitting between them at lunch, eating chips, and knowing that they loved him. Comfort, belief, and family.
His last best time.
The potatoes had been a particularly meticulous undertaking. Now they were sitting pretty in a large blue ceramic bowl; peaks of white fluffy potatoes with just the right amount of butter and salt and served with a sunshine yellow spoon. It is their opinion that nothing in life really gets much better than this.
Paulie always dreamed of a life more exciting than her own. Something with more than two dimensions, and finally, in the words of this woman sitting next to her, she is tasting something richer than what her heart is used to; the magic and depth and height of a world so full. Her mind is consumed, her imagination is dancing amongst streamers and tinsel and, for once in her life, she is the one listening. She thinks the gold thread woven into the red napkins is beautiful.
girl in her chair.
But Aurora is having problems with breathing, with focussing, and self-control. She has remembered why this was such a bad idea and why this just should not be happening and (with blushing cheeks) nine days ago, at 1:30am, when she rode her bicycle past Evan’s darkened windows and then she lay – absolutely still – on the couch for three hours trying not to think about him.
Valiantly, she tries to tune into the chatter bouncing of the walls of the room but she is distracted like a child on waiting for Santa by the boy sitting but a few chairs to her left. Everything else is irrelevant.
She tries to suppress the hypothesis that if she would just stretch out her arm she could touch him. She wills herself to think of something else, and she is starting to believe that she can... But you and I can see; Aurora Jones is strung up like a Christmas tree and her anxieties are hanging like baubles - coloured glass - glittering, fragile and trembling.
He smiles at her.
Her heart makes a bolt to vomit into the nearest toilet.
Aurora kneads the movable skin on her knuckles with the bones in her fingers, turning the skin pink. She knows in her heart that he is everything she needs – a granted wish.
with the moon watching.
With full stomachs and laughter ringing in their ears, they have said their goodbyes, and left feeling as though they fit right somewhere – for the first time in the longest time. From above, the lights of their houses look like a new constellation, a new baby born from nothing but love.
Evan and Aurora are standing outside the front door. The potatoes are happily being refrigerated for another night and the dishes are washed and dried. For her the veranda is hanging heavy like mistletoe. He marvels at the clear skies stretching above.
Aurora is glad that this is all over. It means an end to the anxiety of anticipating what would or would not happen and of wishing he would say something unexpected. An end to the fear of what would happen if her wishes miraculously came true. It means an end to having to participate in long and deep conversation with only half of herself switched on. It means she can go and crawl under the kitchen table and cry out her disappointment and loneliness and then fall asleep exhausted.
Evan is glad that this happened. He likes that she had the guts to try to unite this conglomerate of co-existing strangers, and he is happy for a new friend, for someone like him, to share things with. A friend. A sharing of souls. A real friend. He likes the eccentric poinsettia bushes growing in the flowerbeds of her front yard.
She wishes for what she has always wished for – love and guts and family. He reminds her of all those wishes ungranted. She wishes he would leave.
a girl and a boy.
“Thankyou for doing this,” emphasised by flicking his fringe out of his eye.
“Oh. Um. You’re welcome.”
“I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do this. I was so nervous even just thinking about coming tonight. I… um, well, I wanted this, like, I wished for this.”
Confused, she forces a smile, “What did you wish for?”
He pauses. Gazes out towards the mountains, and bites his lip, “It was just… simple things. Love; like being found, being in a place, in the real world. Being you and accepted in the real world, that’s love, you know? And other stuff like…guts, and family. I think this could be a family for us.”
She is staring past the cacti out into the darkness, “Maybe.”
girl under the kitchen table.
Above the mountains on the horizon, the angels sing ‘Hallelujah!’ – he knows it with all his heart and she, her very own Ebenezer Scrooge, just doesn’t listen.
Tears are rolling off her cold cheeks.
She is falling asleep.
end. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[May. 9th, 2005|05:09 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  aggravated | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | ryan adams political scientist | ] |
we live right here.
surrounded by tall silent houses sighing in and out,
IN and OUT.
and people sleeping (&their warm breaths forming fragile icicles on your window).
ribs + legs + snow.
and here we are living
whilst the town is fast asleep.
we are dancing far down
down far beneath the heavy soden ground.
dancing in these tight igloos.
our brilliant sun.
ringing churchbells at midnight.
our frantic dance.
bare grey fingertips carress hollow cheekbones.
we kiss with decaying teeth. and
rotting lips.
we sleep together in hopes of warmth and desire of ecstasy.
we find sighs of our decomposed hearts instead,
and cracked ribs, broken legs
and snow
- seeping down inbetween our
bare thigh bones
like an excuse for a lover. |
|
|
| creative writing assignment - first draft |
[May. 4th, 2005|10:43 am] |
| [ | heart |
| |  torn / insane | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | the frames lay me down | ] |
I.
The sun has descended.
It has descended into another time and space, and in its wake it has left those plains of red sands, those roads that go on forever, and, in the dust, those tracks of snakes, and it has been replaced by the all-consuming eyes of the moon, and that life-sucking wind that causes bones to rub each other for heat. Tiny and dotting the horizon like a gift are sitting just a few quiet houses. Their lights have faded out.
Oh, but there! One house where a light flickers in a window, as though a solitary guiding star, and with-in, behind the green kitchen door, a tender swell of heartstrings reverberates in the night air. The inhabitants of those cold houses have retreated here and sit amongst the mismatched dishes and plates and glasses of wine and murmur stories and jokes. The landscape is scattered with raw smiles, as if they were painted fresh on the alabaster faces of new dolls.
The wallpaper seems to flash like fairy lights.
Solitary, except for perhaps the dull and dusty lace kitchen curtains, Aurora gathers old mismatched knives into her fingers from a mess of a cutlery draw. She doesn’t have a set, no, these knives have come from everywhere and anywhere. Each has its own story, and thus, each is alone. The one with flowers doesn’t match the one with stripes. One is too small, one is too long. She spies the last knife she needs hiding under a spoon with a cat engraved into the handle and grabbing it, she walks on cracking lino floor back through the kitchen door.
The old woman is wrapped up in one of her old shawls. It is one she pulled from a dusty box, hidden because it reminded her of those memories she holds in the dusty confines of her heart - of dances, and lovers, and exquisite jewellery, and cities she has long since departed. She has whisked off another woman on a magic carpet into this past, and with the dust falling off her sparks of memory she is starting to feel young again. She lowers her voice and widens her eyes for an utterance in her native tongue.
‘Oooh’, squeaks her companion, ‘it’s all so magical’.
Evan has not felt like this since he was seven years old. That morning, his team had won their soccer match. The win hadn’t been so important but it was the look of his parents’ faces when he kicked his goal and it was sitting in between them at McDonalds, eating chips, during his celebratory lunch and it was their all-engulfing praise. It was knowing that they loved him. It was knowing that they’d always be there. It was comfort, and belief, and family.
His last best time.
Nine days ago, at 1:30am, Aurora rode her bicycle past Evan’s darkened windows. Then she lay – absolutely still – on the couch for three hours trying not to think about him.
She failed.
The man rolls his eyes. This occurrence is not altogether rare but what makes the difference is that he is jesting; a wide smile makes his cheeks rosy. He is debating the validity of a certain match of a certain sport he heard on his transistor the day before. He is painting metaphors with glorious abandon across the mental canvas of his younger counterpart, Evan, who, is happily (although not maliciously) poking at holes in his meticulous argument. The man hardly minds, he is contented here with the game, battling with these colourful layers of ribbon and wrapping, words and thoughts.
Aurora is having problems with breathing, with focussing, and self-control. Valiantly, she tries to tune into the chatter bouncing of the walls of the room but she is distracted like a child on Christmas Eve by the boy sitting but a few chairs to her left.
She tries to suppress the hypothesis that if she would just stretch out her arm she could touch him. She wills herself to think of something else, and she is starting to believe that she can... But you and I can see, this Aurora Jones is strung up like a Christmas tree and her anxieties are hanging like baubles - coloured glass - glittering, fragile and trembling.
He smiles at her.
Her heart makes a bolt to vomit into the nearest toilet.
Aurora kneads the movable skin on her knuckles with the bones in her fingers, turning the skin pink.
The lady has always dreamed of a life more exciting than her own. Something with more than two dimensions, and finally, in the words of this woman sitting next to her, she is tasting something richer than what her heart is used to; the magic and depth and height of a world so full. Her mind is consumed, her imagination is dancing amongst streamers and tinsel and, for once in her life, she is the one listening. She thinks the gold thread woven into the red napkins is beautiful.
Evan has 21 years to her 23.
With him, it was like being a girl again and sitting on Santa’s knee, wishing that she was a beautiful princess or that she could have a pony or that her mother would come back.
She knows in her heart that he is everything she needs – he has the momentum to push her forward.
The potatoes had been a particularly meticulous undertaking. Now they were sitting pretty in a large blue ceramic bowl; peaks of white fluffy potatoes with just the right amount of butter and salt and served with a sunshine yellow spoon. It is their opinion that nothing in life really gets much better than this.
II.
The evening is over. With full stomachs and laughter ringing in their ears, they have said their goodbyes, and left with their plans for dinners and breakfasts and morning teas with their new friends. The lights are on in their houses, and from the sky, it looks like a new constellation, a new baby born from nothing but love.
Evan and Aurora are standing outside the front door. The potatoes are happily being refrigerated for another night and the dishes are washed and dried. For her the veranda is hanging heavy over her head like mistletoe. He marvels at the clear skies stretching above them.
Aurora is glad that this is all over. It means an end to the anxiety of anticipating what would or would not happen and of wishing he would say something unexpected and declare his undying love for her. An end to the fear of what would happen if her wishes miraculously came true. It means an end to having to participate in long and deep conversation with only half herself switched on. It means she can go and crawl under the kitchen table and cry out her disappointment and loneliness and then fall asleep exhausted.
In her he sees strength and commitment. He knows her life has been hard, he knows it has been as hard as his, if not harder. He likes her stories, he likes her mystery and intrigue, he likes her mismatched knives and he really likes her potatoes. He likes the eccentric poinsettia bushes growing in the flowerbeds of her front yard. He likes that she had the guts to try to unite this conglomerate of co-existing strangers, and he is happy for a new friend, for someone like him, to share things with. A friend, a sharing of souls. A real friend.
In him she sees all the things she wants and needs. She wishes he would never leave. She wishes for what she has always wished for – love and guts and family. He reminds her of all those wishes ungranted. She wishes he would leave.
Instead he turns to her, resting his elbows on the pseudo-balcony,
‘You know, you’re a great cook.’
‘Oh…’ She just can’t think of what to say but he’s smiling none-the-less, his eyes positively lit up,
‘This was a really great night. It’s what we needed, I think, all of us… I know it’s what I needed. Thankyou.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy.’ She whispers.
Within seconds he is pouring out his heart to her; talking about family and belonging, peace and friendship, thankfulness and joy, and stories about when he was nine and happy, or when he was seventeen and desperately alone. It’s not the words that she wants to hear.
He gives her a long hug goodnight and walks down the stairs and away to his home.
She is alone, standing underneath the veranda, hanging heavy over her head like mistletoe and she watches his go.
Above the mountains on the horizon, the angels sing ‘Hallelujah!’ – he knows it with all his heart and she, her very own Ebenezer Scrooge, just doesn’t listen. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 31st, 2005|11:23 am] |
I am hungry.
I am tired.
I am cold.
It is raining.
I do not care for rain.
I have a green umbrella.
These winters when it rains I wear gumboots. And thick stockings with thicker socks over those. Woolen skirts, singlets, t-shirts, jumpers, gloves for my fingers and scarves round my neck. I do not care if I look stupid; nor do I care if I look like some distorted species of Australian eskimo.
All this clothing makes me feel warmer, less alone and more at home. As one bus leads slowly to another, that makes a difference.
And the last bus delivers me to a road. Umbrella up and rain spattering on my legs.
Oh, I am cold.
I am tired.
I am hungry.
Going home.
I wrote this piece in my head on the bus home from uni the other week. Yeah. It's a bit weird. Oh well. (Scarves and gloves and things for you, Katey.) |
|
|
| stage lights. |
[Mar. 29th, 2005|12:00 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  working | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | joss stone super duper love | ] |
Should I apologise for not writing in FOREVER? Yes. I'm sorry. I am. I want to write more. Chapter 3 of the novel is in the works. I do not know when that will be done. It has been in the works for a very long time. For now, here is a poem I found in a notepad today. Written around the time of Leavers, I think, and very much captures the feelings I was having then.
Shut down. The curtains fall.
The lights switch off, to black,
And we shuffle - without speech - to new poisitions
Before the curtains rise
And there are mumbles
And we feel so sick
(Sick to our stomach, our very marrow)
Because some of us are missing
And we can't take the plunge alone.
When the lights come up, we are sobbing into palms of
hands and clearly falling apart.
May I ask your advice? I am doing a creative writing unit at uni. I will either write a short story or a poem. In your opinion, which should I do? In what medium do I do my better work?
Muchlove. xoxo |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Feb. 1st, 2005|07:37 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| | a slityourwrists kindof day | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | placebo ask for answers | ] |
should backdate to last night. can't be bothered.
these bonds are shacklefree. there are no second chances.
she is still a nothinggirl.
she is soft; white rubber skin.
she is scratching at her plastic wrist
with her blunt plastic thumb.
she no longer has the strength
to sharper her nails into a gun.
but she would, oh, if she could...
no, no, the darkness says,
you were never anyone.
heartbroken. melting. shot out by the sun. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jan. 8th, 2005|02:14 pm] |
Search your soul for a song that says it all.
This routine check-up.
In a world of boys outgrowing their bodies;
They don't fit their limbs.
And so many girls starving themselves thin;
What is the fascination with blood&bones&skin?
I keep turning away,
Leaving nothing or everything still to face.
Shh, shh, quiet your mind down, child,
Your voice - betrays.
My voice - betrays.
What is my fascination with blood&bones&skin? |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 20th, 2004|06:52 am] |
| [ | heart |
| | i hate you | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | the rocketsummer movie stars & supermodels | ] |
deprivation is this injury
oh, oh.
oh.
she conquers me.
perfection never lives on.
but these days are just decay.
decay.
oh. forget about yesterday.
it's GONE
nevernevernever coming back. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 5th, 2004|03:31 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  glee! | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | weezer why bother? | ] |
gah! here we go! this is not completely editted. but it is chapter 2 and it is complete and i am much too excited to wait for edits to be finished before i post. read, read, read, COMMENT!!!
CHAPTER TWO - WE'RE MOVING ON, AURORA JONES
il n'y a rien dans l'horizon, rien
The pipes of the building creaked ominously with the shutting of the taps. Dragging my aching body from the bathroom, I resigned myself to bed feeling fatally ill; cracking of the ribs, numbing of my hands. The beating of my heart and the churning of my head played an unfathomable symphony, never ceasing. Blurring my surroundings, giving way at times to a hacking cough, returning to slur my emotions and thoughts. Reality, in fact, passed away to all my knowledge.
The third day came and I slid myself, like a passing ghost, from my bed. My neighbours began chanting in monotonous whisper though these paper-thin walls, "Like sands through the hour glass. The days of our lives." all aiming at breaking my heart and my hands began to shake unstoppably. The bathroom again, resting my feet on the freezing tiles, I clutched at the sink for support and my eyes searched my reflection.
With heavy breaths in my throat I realised I did not know her. She looked no more than seventeen, she looked at least forty. Beneath a heavy fringe, the hair of my childhood, her face was gaunt. Cheekbones. Eyes, sunken, faded and searching, and surrounded by the purple of a fresh bruise. Mouth, swollen and hard. Bones and translucent skin. The skin about her collarbone gaped something awful. Bones. She was tiny. The walls dwarfed her, my mind dwarfed her and she blinked at me with careful pity sparking in her left eye. Who is this plastic girl? I wondered. Whom do I live within?
For she hovered like death in my mind at all times.
* * *
That day, I called the café with complaints that I was ill and no, I could not come in, and at that point I had no doubt that I would never return to that place.
* * *
The strange girl's face and I spent the hours at the third floor window, gazing at the slowly flooding streets, whilst the sky sent rivulets down the panes. We stared at the people, passing strangers, for at all hours of the day they had living, loving, and a place to go. My heart burnt with a constant sparking jealousy.
On the fourth day, I awoke to the sound of breaking glass, a filthy ceiling and the slow monotony of my head's chanting and I had to fight hard against slapping myself in the face,
"If we are going to go, we need to go now and run, girl, run." I heard myself say, and I was listening for dear life, "We’re moving on, Aurora Jones."
From that point on, I ran. Fleeing the one-layered days of Greg and the dresses, the days through the hourglass, and the girl in the mirror with her haunting expressions. Forsaking the little I had, my mere existence, I began dreaming and dreaming of a place more real, a newer kind of existence; an inner peace, a place to breathe, and a space that caresses your body in its hands. Could it be? Could it be?
* * *
In my heart, I couldn’t forgive the Italian woman for all of her imaginary crimes against me. No, for I held too much unforgiveness in me. For all her love and benevolence, I tried and though I tried to the point of sobbing, I could not let my achings go. But that Sunday, wrapped in layers and black, I visited her. Stood beside the ground under which she lay and kissed the stone that was her forehead. And the leaves about me, shivered, singing songs of freedom.
And it seemed she forgave me, though I could not myself.
It happened on the very next Tuesday at 1:13pm. I was feeling so strongly stuck in a place between decision and emancipation that I could not fathom ever moving. It was debilitating and my bones, my heart, my will were jarred. My Spirit dreamed of the next finite leap and a clinging-the-the-window-sill kind of recovery, yes, but as a chrysalis, I was alone and defenceless.
To my great fortune, however, at 1:13pm, I managed to displace my body from the chair that engulfed me by the third-floor window and slip, unseen, down flights of grimy stairs to the gaped entrance hall of my wavering apartment block. A line of metal boxes, rusted and dirty, was approaching from the wall – mine marked in smear ink – and behind the various locks and handles laid a most precious treasure.
From within, I withdrew an envelope of soft paper. It came to me from an unknown sender and yet something about it – perhaps the careful hand addressing in an antique hand or the fresh delphinium yellow of the envelope – grasped me, as things often do, as something quite profound and crucial, so I lowered myself direct to the cold concrete stair to discover its secrets. These included a stack of papers, folded into three and stapled viciously in the corner. These fell directly into my lap as I peered deeper into the envelope to withdraw the most precious, a small note, which fluttered like Hope from the Box and nestled itself between my fingers to be read;
Dear Miss Jones,
My dear friend, ------ ------, recently ascended
into the arms of our Dear Lord Jesus Christ. I am
to understand you knew her and loved her well as,
upon the reading of her last will and testament,
it was revealed that she has left her own home and
property to you, Aurora Jones, "one she thought of
as a daughter".
Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss.
And those words were all there was. I was stunned to silence by shock, release and intense love, and tears fell heavily from my lashes to ricochet from the concrete of the steps. I was, again, immovable.
Several half hours later, I managed on shaking legs to return to the third floor, and upon the kitchen table I unstapled and spread that official document.
I was not sure what I had been expecting. An apartment, perhaps, or a small maison in the suburbs. However, upon further inspection, I discovered her heart’s gift was significantly more; a small house, situated in the heart of the desert – a place I had never been – which struck my heart strings to the most beautiful chord, a taste of grace, and in that moment she placed in my hands all that my own mother could not give – forgiveness, freedom and a new joy.
To move my limbs.
As she rattles down the long nowhere roads like a humming bird, Aurora Jones tastes the glucose of hope on her tongue and lets her sunglasses slide down her sweet nose (as they are much too big for her little face) to rest upon her cheekbones. And Aurora saw all her dreams, wrapped in velvet, stranded in air, accompanied by the sucking sound of paralysis. Then, with fluttering and spasms, they flicked out the window of the moving car to fly themselves home in the damp morning air. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 4th, 2004|10:45 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  awake & slightly overwhelmed | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | the oc mix #1 | ] |
'the thing is,' she says - (and she means it) -
'if there will be love between us here,
i do not want my heart involved.
it is my only treasure...'
and she will allow him to give all he wants to give.
and she will keep it, hold it dear,
(in that silver envelope
which she sleeps with under her pillow)
and garnish all of it with her tears
as all her daydreams fade and disappear
up into the night sky.
he will catch them on the clouds
for his window rests ajar
&(at all times) he sleeps sound for,
he knows, that in this grain of salt he holds
he has her heart-strings.
(&that is whether she says so or not.)
note: (because you don't fall in love with a person...
you fall in love with your experience of, and your ideas about, a person.) |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 31st, 2004|07:12 am] |
| [ | heart |
| | (a few tears) | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | placebo spite and malice | ] |
i have a few...
some are speaking of seasons.
this season is
the only one i've known
and curtains are falling
on summer's day, night, dreams and fireflies,
{ oh, the fireflies, the sparks }
opening to a glorious fall.
sorry sunflowers we are, to whither
and fade in this place
we have long since been nurtured;
seeds to grace these folds of air
and settle in for
another long pause
in another place.
and we are all chattering happily and (honestly) with singing undertones of 'please, don't cry'.
he sits unfolded at mahogany table
with orange mug and knick-knackery suspended above his head.
he, who appears to be breathing heavily (having trouble with oxygen), smiles clear & brilliantly.
she, who really is having trouble with oxygen, can only manage to lift fingers to a wave
(due to the excess pressure she feels on her lungs and the sparks in her stomach).
she sits at mahogany, tightly folded and tied up with a golden ribbon. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 6th, 2004|09:38 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  scared | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | k.d.lang hallelujah | ] |
I don't think I've written in four months or so... This is the first spring rain.
- - -
"Qu'est-qu'il y a dans ta coeur?
Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
Symphonies stand still and surrender.
Quiet your sweet voice down, lady.
My hands,
They're on the wheel but no one's driving.
My lips are moving.
No one is speaking.
And my heart, I feel it beating
But I swear to you, no one's breathing.
Turn your eyes down, sweet lady,
Your palms hold the picture.
It runs through your fingers
Like an infant saves the day.
My hands,
They're on the wheel for a flash of street lights
And the volume spitting higher as
Wishes hit the brakes.
With a Lord-born legacy still ringing in your ears
It's easy enough to feel a bit abandoned
And that was why we were brought here.
I'd swear my eyes were crying
But there's no tears falling.
Quiet your sweet voice down, lady,
Like a princess saves the day. |
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|
| chapter II part I |
[Jun. 5th, 2004|09:35 am] |
| [ | heart |
| | depressed // numb | ] |
chapter II - part I (this is all i've got.)
il n'y a rien dans l'horizon, rien
The pipes of the building creaked ominously with the shutting of the taps. Dragging my aching body from the bathroom, I resigned myself to bed feeling fatally ill; cracking of the ribs, numbing of my hands. The beating of my heart and the churning of my head played an unfathomable symphony, never ceasing. Blurring my surroundings, giving way at times to a hacking cough, returning to slur my emotions and thoughts. Reality, in fact, passed away to all my knowledge.
The third day came and I slid myself, like a passing ghost, from my bed. My neighbours began chanting in monotonous whisper though these paper-thin walls, "Like sands through the hour glass. The days of our lives." all aiming at breaking my heart and my hands began to shake unstoppably. The bathroom again, resting my feet on the freezing tiles, I clutched at the sink for support and my eyes searched my reflection.
With heavy breaths in my throat I realised I did not know her. She looked no more than seventeen, she looked at least forty. Beneath a heavy fringe, the hair of my childhood, her face was gaunt. Cheekbones. Eyes, sunken, faded and searching, and surrounded by the purple of a fresh bruise. Mouth, swollen and hard. Bones and translucent skin. The skin about her collarbone gaped something awful. Bones. She was tiny. The walls dwarfed her, my mind dwarfed her and she blinked at me with careful pity sparking in her left eye. Who is this plastic girl? I wondered. Whom do I live within?
For she hovered like death in my mind at all times.
* * *
That day, I called the café with complaints that I was ill and no, I could not come in, and at that point I had no doubt that I would never return to that place.
* * *
The strange girl's face and I spent the hours at the third floor window, gazing at the slowly flooding streets, whilst the sky sent rivulets down the panes. We stared at the people, passing strangers, for at all hours of the day they had living, loving, and a place to go. My heart burnt with a constant sparking jealousy.
On the fourth day, I awoke to the sound of breaking glass, a filthy ceiling and the slow monotony of my head's chanting and I had to fight hard against slapping myself in the face,
"If we are going to go, we need to go now and run, girl, run." I heard myself say, and I was listening for dear life, "We’re moving on, Aurora Jones."
From that point on, I ran. Fleeing the one-layered days of Greg and the dresses, the days through the hourglass, and the girl in the mirror with her haunting expressions. Forsaking the little I had, my mere existence, I began dreaming and dreaming of a place more real, a newer kind of existence; an inner peace, a place to breathe, and a space that caresses your body in its hands. Could it be? Could it be?
* * *
In my heart, I couldn’t forgive the Italian woman for all of her imaginary crimes against me. No, for I held too much unforgiveness in me. For all her love and benevolence, I tried and though I tried to the point of sobbing, I could not let my achings go. But that Sunday, wrapped in layers and black, I visited her. Stood beside the ground under which she lay and kissed the stone that was her forehead. And the leaves about me, shivered, singing songs of freedom.
to be continued. |
|
|
| teaser |
[May. 16th, 2004|10:57 am] |
| [ | heart |
| | accomplished | ] |
Chapter Two (aka 'We're Moving On, Aurora Jones') is very much in the works. I know that those of you I talked to said that you loved the Italian woman to bits. Unfortunate that she died, hrrm? Anyway, chapter two and three will definately be very dark, before they give way to some moer artistic chapters which will be shorter but styled quite differently. Chapter Five, for instance, will be a collection of poetry. In fact, it will be the stories they never told you themselves collection.
But you may be pleased to know that the Italian woman does not completely fade from the book. She still holds influence in Chapter Two. So, hey, fingers crossed.
I can't be sure when I'll have the chapter done. I would love love love to write it all this week but reality dictates that will not be so. So, I thought, as I've written a fair bit, I'd give you a snippet of what's to come. And as you all love the Italian woman so much, it will be about her (sort of). So, here we are:
[[ In my heart, I couldn't forgive the Italian woman for all of her imaginary crimes against me. No, for I held too much unforgiveness in me. For all her love and benevolence, I tried and though I tried to the point of sobbing, I could not let my achings go. But that Sunday, wrapped in layers and black, I visited her. Stood beside the ground under which she lay and kissed the stone that was her forehead. And the leaves about me, shivered, singing songs of freedom. ]]
Stay tuned. |
|
|
| stress. |
[May. 11th, 2004|07:26 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| |  stressed | ] |
she daydreams and violently entertains wishes
of herself gaunt and faceless.
she wants bones, bones, bones.
only bones. angry bones.
because that is real self-abuse.
and if she's always happy
you can forget that she's always crying. |
|
|
| ooh! chapter-girl! |
[Apr. 14th, 2004|05:08 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| | accomplished | ] |
first we had the PROLOGUE. and now we have...
CHAPTER ONE
THE VERY WORST OF TIMES
There are hours, or moments really. Yes. There are split seconds in our lives when everything stops, time becomes insignificant, and our comfort, our existence, collapses into tiny crumbs, times when your life is crushed under the proverbial shoe of the world. Sometimes we are so lucky as to dismiss them, pretend they never happened or play them down to our own sensitivity and lack of self-control.
Still sometimes they smack us so hard in the face that we cannot help but let ourselves fall under the dead weight until we are pinned to the floor, whatever that may be.
Either way, they are landslides that cannot be avoided. And we all take them on; we all have to take them because they will always succeed to come, whether or not we are ready or accepting.
To wake up with a start to the sky rumbling with great weight, the world horribly crowded around you and sirens wailing down the dirty darklight roads amongst faceless buildings. To wake up and realise things are not quite right; blankets seeming more like mere flower petals than wool against the chill wind. With dread and discomfort, laced with the disintegrating ether of sleep, you investigate with icy fingers lower down on your sheets only to find your thighs caked with a warm mess of blood, your sheets soaked through and stained red with the rotting fruit of your womb (and now your fingertips have been tainted with it too) –
This is one of those times.
You cannot help but start to cry; and really cry. To cry can be many things, I detest its ambiguity, but now you are really sobbing, your shoulders heaving, your throat tightening and your mouth gasping for air. Salt and water and blood, mixing together like Christ, because you are bleeding, dirty and you had no control over this happening, you would never wish for this to happen. You cry because you are freezing through to your bones and though it is early and the weather clearly speaks for you to not move and never move from here, you must; to scrub the blood from your sheets, your underwear, your skin, to realise your curse and become consumed with these fresh stabbing pains from your abdomen. (And feel like perhaps you are failing as a woman.)
This is one of those times.
The very worst of times.
As I peeled sticky flannelette from my legs, my skin becoming instantly prickled as it hit the 4 o'clock morning air, and as I scrambled into the shower and felt the lukewarm spatter of water hit my neck and ooze off my shoulders, I wondered at the irony of it. Those days I always felt like I was bleeding. Losing my life's blood as minute passed by dragging minute with nothing there to slow it or succeed in ceasing it. No answers, no paths to follow, no acknowledgement from other humans, no lights, no... No. No. No.
* * *
At the diner my nametag read "AUNORA".
That was wrong, but no one ever noticed so I tried desperately not to care and not to feel superfluous. As one may presume to imagine, I failed. I had a dress of orange gingham and my very own coffee stained hand-me-down apron. I shifted miscellaneous dishes and delivered dinners up the against sparse brown walls. I wasn't surprised that no one noticed how the colours of the walls and our dresses clashed.
The other dresses were three girls who all had secrets to hide and did not once let down their guards. They examined everyone with hawklike suspicion and hunched their shoulders over their plates. This bred an atmosphere of constant tension and spite. They hated me, they hated each other, they pretended they didn’t work there and they pretended I did not exist.
The only people that even acknowledged me were, firstly my boss, Greg, because I cost him "a pretty penny" and he resented that. For him I meant he had less to spend on his whiskey and cigarettes although he failed to comprehend that I made him that money whilst he sat in the back, sloth-like and moulding. Secondly, the constantly changing faces of the resident truck drivers, stinking and vulgar, because they liked to imagine a ripe young body beneath my dress. They whistled and swaggered in and out from their trucks and allowed their hands to slither to places they did not belong – they got my attention, not in the way they wanted as a body to warm their beds before they started again cross country, but in the rise of bile in my throat.
Life is fortunate and I was allowed one small blessing that I could not help but love; an aged Italian woman, perpetually on her way to the local church. Her hair was grey with ribbons of black through it, she had smiling eyes and bright beads around her neck, rubbery skin on her nimble, bony fingers and a sharp tongue with which she ran her parish fundraisers. She was much too glorious for our place, yet she continued to arrive, daily. She learnt my name and I learnt how she liked her tea.
One autumn morning, the rare maples draping over traffic lights began to simmer and bronze and drop a few leaves. Eucalypts began to look dreaming in the dimming light. The sun glinted in through the ceiling-to-floor windows outlining the street and I passed her a blue mug of steaming tea. She thanked me in her rough cheerfully accented voice, paused, then added brazenly,
"Aurora, dear, you are far more than this. Do not waste your beautiful face on these dirty men," she takes some brown hair between her fingers and gestures desperately as if searching for the words she knows all too well,
"Find a boy you can smile for. You can smile, can you?"
She glances over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. I am staring intently as an eclectic ladybird crawls her way across the decaying counter but she nips my chin with her hand and stares intently into my eyes, blue, with hers, charcoal,
"I am telling you true. You can smile, Aurora, all girls like you can." She winks.
That afternoon when I left the diner to head home, I let my arms swing like a schoolgirl and I smiled. I tried to shine bright as the brilliant leaves and the emerging streetlights. I felt strangely warm, sparkling and human, like I was the late geranium finally blooming as the feathers on the necks on curious pigeons changed colour in the last rays of the sun.
A month later she failed to come in one morning. The rest of that week I did not see her and tried to think nothing of it. For five weeks on end I think I was succeeding, until I found an obituary in the local paper. Then I began wondering what she had meant by "all girls like you" with pessimism and spite.
* * *
Now, it was winter and the world had become ghastly. I had given up along the line of days and in the paper cut of the seasons change. I choked up a mouthful of shower water and spattered it from my lips onto the tiles.
I was living a bleeding life but there is only so much blood you can lose before... You die. Or you live.
These times have a knack, detestable though they may be, of forcing their lucky recipients to make choices. Down or up? Fall or fly? Crawl or climb? Up or down? Would you like fries with that?
In the tradition of the very worst of times, that morning grabbed me by the throat and, holding me at gunpoint, threw my options out on the table in front of me and forced me to make my choices or it would change its manner, drop me to my knees and ask me where I'd like the bullet, head or chest?
Humanity, in these situations, feels it only ever has one choice; give me stitches and search for answers. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Apr. 12th, 2004|10:32 pm] |
| [ | heart |
| | a bundle of nerves | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | architecture in helsinki one heavy february | ] |
thankyou for your selfish lies you've manifested for me.
days. icecream with the salt sea.
nights. fairy lights and static feelings in between.
i want you and your panoramic views and the indecision of the summer breeze.
the indecision between a single step
and beginning to plummet.
between a shiver and the return to the sea
where mermaids sing chilling songs with their icy fingers wrapping round me.
can you hear them calling?
i keep my window open just to hear them sing to me.
and the mornings bring a token of the dark times escapades.
i'm sorry i was broken
but those tides have washed away.
 |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Apr. 3rd, 2004|08:01 am] |
| [ | heart |
| | awake | ] |
| [ | sounds |
| | placebo bruise pristine | ] |
Buildings by the water cast reflections glowing pretty
On the water
And cars patrol the opposite shore, blinking lights like stars.
Yes, they shine like stars.
And the pulse that it brings
Give the horizon leave
To lift off citrus things,
Explosions in red and gold and green
But we aren't watching.
We just scream.
And the wavelets hold the shore close
While we sit apart | beneath the sodden clouds,
Breaking apart
And veiling the swollen moon; engorged and bruising at the sides.
He wishes things were different.
The wavelets enclose the sand.
And she wishes things could change.
(...this is not finished yet.) |
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