Friday, December 17, 2010

Die every other day

When someone I've known dies, I think every now and then, "they've been gone for a week now..." and in that moment where I'm wondering how long it's been since I've seen them, since they've been around, I really never think of them as dead. That game never ends because people ask you how long it's been and you sit and think... "shit it must be a year now", and it's hard because you know with every day it's almost like you flow further away from them, not the other way round. I feel like a boat floating off into the horizon, as I stare off at the land on which I had stood on my whole life, the one that supported me, the one I knew I had to say goodbye to because the doctors told us so, well I stare at it as it becomes smaller... and smaller, and I think we're all afraid of the day we can't see that island, land, country anymore.

I think death makes all atheists think twice when it happens to them. I don't know where she is... but I just don't feel as though she is dead, she's just there. I don't feel like she has left us alone... yet I don't feel like she is watching down on us.

You know one of the hardest things about someone dying who lived with you your whole life is that everything they owned is still there. We gave away all of her clothes but now and then I find myself wanting to wear her dressing gown every now and then, I want to feel her wedding band twisting around my fingers, her ring fell off in hospital once her fingers had become too thin. I don't think theres much left in our home that she owned, my mum didn't see any point in keeping her things, she never does. You can throw it all away as much as you want but their room is still there and their unmistakable scent painfully lingers. Every now and then I use her old hair brush, I see her hair between the bristles and I can't bring myself to clean it out yet.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Two funny




Why we do the things we do

Is the reason I covered my face in absurd kinds of makeup last night because of the saddnest I felt after finishing The Great Gatsby or did I just genuinely want to know how I'd look with pink eyebrows and then got a little carried away?

Help us out BlogBear, why did you cover your face entirely in red lipstick that time?

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

La la

I'm going through my old files on my computer and have found all my year eight English work. It makes me laugh; the work themselves and also that it reminds me how in year eight Holi and I used to write so much poetry in class, it was what we wrote on the notes we passed which I find really funny.

Anyways here is one which I'm not bothered editing, excuse the bad grammar, it's in all my 13 year old glory.


Kendal is dead. I watched her too; crying, scratching at my floor boards, staring at me pleading with her eyes. Her eyes had way too much life left in them and were enough to make me stick another fork into her back. I did. I was tired once I was done and went to bed leaving her dead body marked by a lake of red ink on my floor. Staining my wood where the scratch marks were.
I entered my kitchen in the morning greeted by Kendal’s eyes following my movements like the Mona Lisa. I was hungry and too lazy to search the pantry so I grabbed some cutlery and a sharp knife from the draw which wasn’t as far. She tasted horrible like the smell of the off cold meet my mom would have kept in her fridge. I couldn’t help thinking of Debra. Kendal was mine from Debra; a present for my birthday. I would have hoped anything from Debra tasted better than this and maybe so if I had something better to feed the dog other than the shit I would find around. A few bites of Kendal did nothing to satisfy my craving for Debra so I wrapped her up in glad wrap.
When night came I draped a plaid picnic rug over myself and with the dog in my arms I ventured into the front yard, throwing Kendal into the green bin. The rug was tarnished. It had never been covered in scrumptious food like it was meant to be but still stained. Debra must have used it before she handed it to me. Who made those marks, whose juice was in the plastic cup which spilt? I wheeled the bin onto the verge. Where did those stains really come from? Was she not a virgin like she said she was? I rolled that night in bed. I never rolled in bed unless I was with Debra but that was a different kind of rolling. She would throw me, play with me, use me as hers. I was hers.
After a ragged night’s measly sleep I awoke by the garbage truck’s loud ways. Peaking through my bedroom curtains I watched Kendal fall from the bin into the pile of scraps, “Goodbye Kendal”.
I heard the phone ring. After two rings of it I cut the cord, disregarding the caller. It was the best thing I could have done because not only was I silencing the racket but an hour later Debra showed up at my door. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have opened the door but as obsessive as I am, I smelt her perfume through the gap of the door and the floor. She always smelt of roses and sandalwood. I’m not able to pick apart a scent but she told me one day that the roses and sandalwood was what made her adore the scent.
Debra looked amazing. She was wearing navy blue pants which began at her navel, a red turtle neck top which gave me a glimpse of her slim midriff and leopard skin platforms. Debra never got over the nineties. Matched with her intense make-up she looked like she had the kick-ass attitude and style of D'arcy Wretzky.
“I rang you forever Ethan.” This meant she wanted me and her voice only makes me want her more.
“Well you know how popular I am. The phone at my place is like grand central station. I must’ve been on another call to one of my many friends.” I tried to joke but she just pushed it aside.
“Ethan, let me in. My manager, Mr. Major-Jerk-Off, fired me. He’s got shit all reasons and I need some legal help.”
“You’re welcome to enter, but be sure to step over the dead rats.” Debra slightly laughed not realizing that I was serious. I politely stepped aside so she could pass through the door way. She led the way because she knew my apartment like her own and I let her because it gave me a full ten steps to view her ass. We got to the living room and she asked why there was a pool of blood on the floor.
“Kendal got her period.” I replied covering my actions with a joke which I liked to think was witty. Debra didn’t budge.
Hmm” she looked at me suspiciously “where is Kendal?”
“I usually let her roam the streets. Don’t you worry she’ll be home for dinner.”
“I used to love how she didn’t care that we had food for her in our hands when we went out to feed her, just that we were there was enough to make her piss all over the pavement.” We both laughed. Debra pushed aside a pile of papers on the sofa and sat down. “I’m no lawyer. How am I meant to help you win a case against a guy who likes to masturbate a lot?”
“Your dad was though.” I’m confused by this.
“How do you know that? My parents died. I was an orphan at age 4.”
“Who cares? It’s nice to think he was. Just please help me.” I could never not help such a fine piece of nineties trash.
“fine.” She wasn’t expecting this.
“Really?” she asked.
“Yeah sure. But only if you move in again.” I decided to take advantage of the situation.
“Only if you can stand listening to a whole heap of Spice Girls.” She made me laugh. Debra was classic nineties trash and once again she’d be my nineties trash.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Could you?

If I told you that last night I was dead and walked the earth amongst the living, murdering; that I reached into my victims' chests after a clawed punch to pull out a blood red pear that resembled soap; that I proceeded to cut this pear with my invisible knife and that despite the pear being so hard and like dry soap, there was juice running down from my mouth and also down my arms, there was juice too that had dripped from my knife's blade and ran down my leg; that I rubbed the blood on my leg into my skin and added to the blood on my face by licking up my arm, kissing my palm and sucking on each finger, would you listen to me?

If you were there the night I had to go on trial would you listen to my defence as I explained the girl had asked me to dement her, to hurt her deeply and render her hideous; that we were in love and both of us cared for no one and nothing more than each other; that in the moments that I beat her head into the ground and cut off entirely both her ears with scissors, she looked at me with the most loving eyes I or anyone had ever seen or ever will; that after I had transformed her body and the 'healing' had left her face as a little patch of struggling life peaking from behind a gape in the crinkled fabric which, with its pink corrugations, covered her skull as if wrongfully glued there, she was the happiest sole alive; that we walked together up the street and she touched her body and face with the most pleasant caress, looked up to the night sky and smiled; that when we heard I would be arrested she told me it wasn't fair and she would dispute it because she loved to feel pain and what I had done to her made her feel alive, that for once she felt meaning and for once felt complete?

If I told you all that in a language you didn't speak would you still listen?

Or if I were a piece of bark that fell from a tree right as you walked past it and I fell in such a way and got carried by the wind in such a way that I ended up hitting you and then you were to look at me, would you realise I were talking to you, would you hear me even though I clearly spoke no language, that I even made no noise, would you know I was talking to you?

Maybe if I were a tree and you were you and you sat in some 5 story library doing exam study during which you took long stretched breaks which involved nothing but you leaning back on your chair and staring absent minded, thinking absent minded and you saw me stand up as though the main gigantic purpose of me being a tree, my bustle of leaves; the green ball structured by all my branches, were my back and I had forever been crouched over, would you see me communicating with you and would you, despite feeling purpose (whether or not you actually did or didn't or do or don't) would you at least show me the purpose I deserve?

Sunday, December 12, 2010

The Strawman

The Strawman appears very normal but the truth is that he is the greatest gentleman. He even once always wore a hat but when a big gust stole it one day he sort of didn't mind, he sort of thought it made no difference, and so now he is sun burnt on top.
Unlike a Scarecrow this Strawman goes places. And being the only Strawman known to still exist, he always comes back because he is loving and caring and wishes not to worry anyone and as well as that, the Strawman lives in a beautiful kingdom so he loves to come home.
The kingdom is like no other and while it was built because of him and continues to grow as his life progresses, the kingdom is also where the Strawman goes for inspiration, to be taught. The kingdom is his family, for the relationship between them is incredible: they each nourish one another and this is possible because they have these common roots and these roots run deep.

When you are invited to the kingdom the Strawman walks so near with you and the air which has once caressed him and now caresses you never retracts from your skin, all of you muscles and cells are lifted and you are able to live forever because no matter how hard anyone should try in the future to put you in a hole in the ground, you'll just float away and find your way to the kingdom.
The Strawman will walk with you on this most aesthetically perfect pathway until you reach a door and the door leads to the outside, to life outside of the kingdom. Nobody has to be sad about leaving the kingdom though, because the Strawman stands with you at the door, very closely, and he speaks to you about everything you want to speak about and everything that he wants to speak about. While the two of you are speaking he looks so deeply into your eyes and neither of you ever look away.
When you have walked through the door and walked into life outside of the kingdom you finally learn of the Edel all the while still looking deeply into his eyes. You learn that the Edel is the second part of life, sort of what everyone had thought to be death but also nothing like death.
When you reach Edel you don't end Life but rather live the two in parallel, fully conscious of both your 'lives'. Edel consists of you staring deeply into the Strawman's eyes and he staring back while the two of you carry the most important conversation and Life continues with you outside of the kingdom.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Dear big forehead

Where does your hair begin

where does your eyebrow begin

Nobody knows

So much space

So much space to think

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Love 'em and leave 'em

The words have been leaving our mouths for the past month, a last squished up against another last:

Finished.
Done and dusted.
End of an era.
Finito.
Now that's the end of that chapter.
Freedom.

So here we were told not to lose momentum (which is so easily done) over exam time but I've got a feeling we bloody lost our momentum for the sadness of leaving and finishing as well! With so many lasts, a party to celebrate the end of each subject, a party to celebrate the end of form, a breakfast, another breakfast, a last day, a muck up, a graduation, a lunch... I don't feel finished and yet I feel I finished more than a month ago because those class rooms and that last week where we ate cake and wagged studies to all just hang out in the quad was the finale. So basically, we didn't realise that... this was it because the tears had already come a-flowing weeks ago (well for a sad girl for me at least). Today has been one of those long days where you think back to something you did in the afternoon and it already seems to be something of a distant memory.

I think it's something of a hint that we've been let go when theres no organised mode of transport for us anymore. No more school bus, tear. No more teachers telling us off for talking (which we annoyingly did plenty of) before, after and during speeches, fat tear.

The main feeling I've got right now is a lack of closure, as a friend said. I left the school with some subconscious, yet obviously something drilled into me over the past 13 years, that this was not the last time I'd walk down that hallway, into that room that I never ending up having a class in but always wanted to, past those dirty toilets, past old lockers and new ones we'd never have. It was as if I had spoken to the school all day but had made no eye contact with it... only rudely looking and talking elsewhere.

I need to go back and say goodbye. I need to hug the red brick walls, I need to look at my old yet always so trusty locker once again and close it with the purpose of a knowledgable woman who came and conquered the role of a "Year 12" student, a senior, - when will I gain this level of respect (with all my many colours and badges... they shine respect into other students eyes...) again? Not for many years, maybe never, I mean my own children don't respect me as it is! Ahhh I won't get into my children right now, maybe later. I should have peeled all the post cards, photos, magazine cut outs off of my locker with care, and admired the darkened marks the blue tac had left of them. I should have strolled slowly through each building to look at it and know inside it an immense amount of knowledge was wedged into my brain.. Oh the coloured rooms, I want to remember the way we call you by your colour and not your number.

It's an open wound and it needs to be closed! Yet it hurts so good because I'm so fucking happy that I'm done, I'm done.