if i don't start again you won't know i started this then.
started this before, started this at all.
coupled with my curious fascination with the unenviable, i have a penchant for the unknowable.
it looks like this:
a reputation for drama & how many is too many?
i am tucked into bed with a book the right way up in my hands, and a hard day under my mattress.
it looks like this:
meandbooktherightwayupinmyhandsonthemattress.
niggling.
you call me on your way over and this is how the conversation never unfolds:
"i cried today, today i cried. sent myself home so i could cry alone."
"you cried alone?"
"on my way home."
"oh baby cakes you cried alone."
"mistakes i hate. i hate mistakes. i really hate the mistakes i have to make."
in my dreams there is another car door just beyond the car door i swerve to avoid.
in my dreams i drive the car and ride the bike.
in my dreams i am grounded and airborne.
but when i'm awake i make mistakes i have to make.
you ring me on your way over and this is how the conversation unfolds:
"is that you babe, are you on your way?"
"yes my love, i'll come right up."
"just in time, tonight you are mine."
tomorrow we belong to the morning that will not let us sleep.
Wednesday 26 September 2007
Thursday 20 September 2007
paris for the weekend
i am deep in thought.
i am looking through a virtual photo-album i feel obliged to peruse after being sent the link by a friend i have been tardy in my correspondence with.
famous landmarks and picnics and pretty places i have been to, but don't remember being anything like this.
the phone rings.
i am ssstartled to the p-p-point of spillinging my w..w..ords in a stutteryry nervous mmemess the stranger on the other end may think is my nature.
today it is.
i manage to answer the query. i hang up the phone and return to the smiley pictures making me trip up on the inside.
the faces express nothing.
this contact removes me. no, no i must still be confused. this contact makes me feel removed. remote.
yes.
these photos sent to my address, jammed in among a wad of others, makes me strange.
argh, makes me strange? no ... er ... think ... think ... what is it?
i am more remote and removed from my friend than i was before i clicked to be redirected.
dear jimmy, you look so well. fighting fit.
and amy? happy on your arm.
europe in the fall is nothing like i remember. still.
still, these aren't my pictures.
save as draft. save as draft.
this contact is a fake flower i understand for its sentiment, but gives me nothing more than a chill, a scary clown.
we are stranger strangers.
i am looking through a virtual photo-album i feel obliged to peruse after being sent the link by a friend i have been tardy in my correspondence with.
famous landmarks and picnics and pretty places i have been to, but don't remember being anything like this.
the phone rings.
i am ssstartled to the p-p-point of spillinging my w..w..ords in a stutteryry nervous mmemess the stranger on the other end may think is my nature.
today it is.
i manage to answer the query. i hang up the phone and return to the smiley pictures making me trip up on the inside.
the faces express nothing.
this contact removes me. no, no i must still be confused. this contact makes me feel removed. remote.
yes.
these photos sent to my address, jammed in among a wad of others, makes me strange.
argh, makes me strange? no ... er ... think ... think ... what is it?
i am more remote and removed from my friend than i was before i clicked to be redirected.
dear jimmy, you look so well. fighting fit.
and amy? happy on your arm.
europe in the fall is nothing like i remember. still.
still, these aren't my pictures.
save as draft. save as draft.
this contact is a fake flower i understand for its sentiment, but gives me nothing more than a chill, a scary clown.
we are stranger strangers.
Tuesday 18 September 2007
Try this at home
Tell him you work full time, and have a full time job, and that you love both equally.
Tell him you don't read junk mail but can't bring yourself to put a sign up on your door above the slot for letters saying so. Explain that you like to hear the catalogues and direct marketing delivered because they offer the illusion of mail.
Tell him that's also why the arrival of bills doesn't upset you.
Tell him your earliest memory is of a smell and not an event. Screw your nose as you recall a sandy dry weed beach smell you've not smelt since.
Tell him these small things first like you are laying down cushions to break his fall for later when the heavy stuff lands.
Remember his favourite words and hear them ring like tiny nursery rhyme bells when they are spoken in every day conversation.
Get caught smiling by your boss when he says one of them in a serious meeting.
Lie awake for hours after he falls asleep and type stories and thoughts into your phone so as not to disturb him with the bedroom light on.
When he reads to you make inaudible purring noises and think about licking the backs of your wrists to your cheeks and brow.
Make secret mental notes that you can't help but tell him with fresh-out-of the-oven excitement.
Give him the best bits you've saved especially for him and then let him give them back to you when he insists.
Carry on like you are not fussed to see him and then pounce on him as soon as you are alone together.
Tell him you'd do anything for him and surprise yourself with the words as they arrive.
Memorise his perfect and imperfect skin in the dark and daylight so you can conjure his memory when you are not with him.
Become embarrassed (or pretend to be) when he catches you touching yourself in the dark when you think he is asleep.
Try not to be jealous when he remembers entire conversations you can only recall parts of. Then be glad to have the whole memories restored for later visitation.
Twirl his name around your tongue like bubble gum and blow bubbles with the vowel sounds that punctuate his full name until they burst.
Straddle your legs on either side of him and wonder if anything has ever felt this good under you.
Buy him things he loves because when you try to walk past them you can't and have to go back.
Imagine the artistic representation (animated) of the imminent moment when your feelings for him outgrow your tiny frame.
Constantly update your files with his newest facial expressions and the noises you've never heard him make before.
Feel like the time without him is light and heady, especially when you get to talk about him with no particular relevant context.
Get up and wander down the hall to the kitchen several times in the night to enjoy the feeling of finding him in your bed when you return to your room.
Get dressed up and fidget.
Stand before him and look down at your feet pointing at his.
Feel momentarily self-conscious and forget what your hands are supposed to do when they are not holding something.
Touch the flat of your palm on his shirted chest before you look up and into his eyes to tell him you love him. Because you do.
Tell him you don't read junk mail but can't bring yourself to put a sign up on your door above the slot for letters saying so. Explain that you like to hear the catalogues and direct marketing delivered because they offer the illusion of mail.
Tell him that's also why the arrival of bills doesn't upset you.
Tell him your earliest memory is of a smell and not an event. Screw your nose as you recall a sandy dry weed beach smell you've not smelt since.
Tell him these small things first like you are laying down cushions to break his fall for later when the heavy stuff lands.
Remember his favourite words and hear them ring like tiny nursery rhyme bells when they are spoken in every day conversation.
Get caught smiling by your boss when he says one of them in a serious meeting.
Lie awake for hours after he falls asleep and type stories and thoughts into your phone so as not to disturb him with the bedroom light on.
When he reads to you make inaudible purring noises and think about licking the backs of your wrists to your cheeks and brow.
Make secret mental notes that you can't help but tell him with fresh-out-of the-oven excitement.
Give him the best bits you've saved especially for him and then let him give them back to you when he insists.
Carry on like you are not fussed to see him and then pounce on him as soon as you are alone together.
Tell him you'd do anything for him and surprise yourself with the words as they arrive.
Memorise his perfect and imperfect skin in the dark and daylight so you can conjure his memory when you are not with him.
Become embarrassed (or pretend to be) when he catches you touching yourself in the dark when you think he is asleep.
Try not to be jealous when he remembers entire conversations you can only recall parts of. Then be glad to have the whole memories restored for later visitation.
Twirl his name around your tongue like bubble gum and blow bubbles with the vowel sounds that punctuate his full name until they burst.
Straddle your legs on either side of him and wonder if anything has ever felt this good under you.
Buy him things he loves because when you try to walk past them you can't and have to go back.
Imagine the artistic representation (animated) of the imminent moment when your feelings for him outgrow your tiny frame.
Constantly update your files with his newest facial expressions and the noises you've never heard him make before.
Feel like the time without him is light and heady, especially when you get to talk about him with no particular relevant context.
Get up and wander down the hall to the kitchen several times in the night to enjoy the feeling of finding him in your bed when you return to your room.
Get dressed up and fidget.
Stand before him and look down at your feet pointing at his.
Feel momentarily self-conscious and forget what your hands are supposed to do when they are not holding something.
Touch the flat of your palm on his shirted chest before you look up and into his eyes to tell him you love him. Because you do.
Thursday 13 September 2007
up in the air
when i wrote this to you i forgot to say how beautiful Sydney looked as we landed.
how the promise of an unfamiliar urban sprawl was even more welcome as we came in off the ocean to land.
Sydney is constantly breathtaking.
but has no you.
i forgot to tell you that too.
how the promise of an unfamiliar urban sprawl was even more welcome as we came in off the ocean to land.
Sydney is constantly breathtaking.
but has no you.
i forgot to tell you that too.
Monday 10 September 2007
forced to fall (emily's word)
emily says the pain is worse today.
she says that's the thing about pain. she can rate it on scale from one to whatever you'd like her to - say five or ten or even a hundred if that's the scope you're used to - and she can tell you that it hurts real bad (like lost love or love that she never quite managed to get a proper hold of), even if there are only superficial scrapes and bruises to see, but you'll just have to take her word for it.
her pain will always be her pain.
her threshold may be higher or lower than yours, or than others' who are in it or experiencing it or nursing theirs or having theirs tended to, she might be downplaying or overstating, and she supposes hers could be entirely imagined.
imagine that.
emily has to type differently today, has to get dressed with greater care, and is nervous to get back on her bike despite doing so minutes after she came off yesterday. she swerved to escape colliding with an opening car door.
emily had her faith falter and restored in the time it took to be forced to fall and then beautifully cared for. the best part of all.
you'll just have to trust her on that one.
she says that's the thing about pain. she can rate it on scale from one to whatever you'd like her to - say five or ten or even a hundred if that's the scope you're used to - and she can tell you that it hurts real bad (like lost love or love that she never quite managed to get a proper hold of), even if there are only superficial scrapes and bruises to see, but you'll just have to take her word for it.
her pain will always be her pain.
her threshold may be higher or lower than yours, or than others' who are in it or experiencing it or nursing theirs or having theirs tended to, she might be downplaying or overstating, and she supposes hers could be entirely imagined.
imagine that.
emily has to type differently today, has to get dressed with greater care, and is nervous to get back on her bike despite doing so minutes after she came off yesterday. she swerved to escape colliding with an opening car door.
emily had her faith falter and restored in the time it took to be forced to fall and then beautifully cared for. the best part of all.
you'll just have to trust her on that one.
Sunday 9 September 2007
a perfect picnic
it was busy on the father's day roads and i chose not to drive for that reason. instead i lay on the back seat watching the sky move further away. upside-down till i was dizzy and sick.
an orphans fathers day picnic with my friends whose folks live overseas - or over strait. the weather behaved, and i read poetry and dozed as the frisbee was thrown overhead. it made me think.
perhaps that day i meant to tell you otherwise. over breakfast i meant to say something else. at Ray that morning i wanted to tell you that it isn't my flaws that make me, but instead that everything i get wrong makes it more my own.
happy fathers day, labor day, spring is finally in the air...
eau (building bridges of her own)
an orphans fathers day picnic with my friends whose folks live overseas - or over strait. the weather behaved, and i read poetry and dozed as the frisbee was thrown overhead. it made me think.
perhaps that day i meant to tell you otherwise. over breakfast i meant to say something else. at Ray that morning i wanted to tell you that it isn't my flaws that make me, but instead that everything i get wrong makes it more my own.
happy fathers day, labor day, spring is finally in the air...
eau (building bridges of her own)
Saturday 8 September 2007
my lucky number
when the train arrives i 'm the first to get on.
according to schedule the train will wait at the station for thirteen minutes after it pulls in, but i want the first pick of the seats - more than likely it will be driver's side, one by the window in the second compartment - and i'm the first to get on to make sure i secure it.
i read in a novel that this carriage is less likely to come to harm in the event of an accident, and whether this is in any way based on fact is incidental at this time, the only information worthy of note here is that this thought offers me a sense of calm, even if only with a placebo-like effect.
i grew up in a large family. large by today's standards. back then we were a family on the block like any other. i could illustrate what being a bloke with four brothers and one sister meant using any one of dozens of stories that would flavour that time with comedy and a touch of greed, but the truth is, it means nothing now. i grew up in a big family and so know what it means to make a play for what i want. i have not since ever been prepared to fill my plate with leftover cuts.
or a seat in a second-class carriage.
and i'm used to this stretch. i know exactly where to stand on the platform so when the train comes to a halt, i'm there, perfectly in line with the second door to the second carriage.
my lucky number.
and i have nothing to wait around for, and even if i did have someone seeing me off, i'm not one for drawn out goodbyes. not the kind that take a long time to exchange, nor the kind that make me miss the seat i might not even give up for my girl.
yep. i'm the first on the train when it pulls up, and the first to find a seat. it stops, all nine carriages, and i'm the first to get on.
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