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Thursday, May 27, 2004
I warn you in advance, I will wake up from this. There are no cars, buses or trams anywhere. No bikes, but I don't know why because they're environmentally friendly. I can't see where I am, but I think it's the city. There are the shadows of tall buildings, or large trees, no, tall buildings. Tunnel vision, I can't see past four metres, my dreamy eyes can't handle it. What can I see? The world is troubled by pollution. There are no more cars, so people ride people around. Not any sort of person. The mother isn't crawling around on her hands and knees carrying her children like she is a chimpanzee. There are black people doing this - long trains of black people for big families - and they're from the third world. And suddenly a filmic image rushes into my head. It's New York, it's the stereotypical image of a crowded footpath, heads bobbing up and down. But these people aren't walking, they're riding. The people being ridden are called VAMOOSH, a detail I came up with later. There are old vamooshes, young vamooshes, fat vamooshes for fat people, sporty streamlined vamooshes for sporty streamlined people. The young vamooshes start off with small children, as they themselves are small children. The larger the children get the bigger the blisters get on the vamooshes hands and knees, until finally a large pop is heard coming from the hands and knees of the young vamooshes. Blood and puss squirts out onto the footpath and they begin to squelch like the older vamooshes. Their wounds either heal and they live, or they get infected and they live in even more pain. That's what you can hear, the squelch, squelch, pop, pop, snap, crackle. But what is the snap crackle? Old vamooshes snap and crackle, right before they are discarded, send to the meat factory. First it is the knees, the patellas start to fragment and float around, making the ride very unstable. That can be fixed by the people if they become attached to their vamoosh. They can place the legs of the vamoosh on a cart with wheels on it, just like they do to dogs who have strokes and can't use their back legs. But that only delays the inevitable. The wrists go, then the arms, then the elbows, the weight of their owner pushes the vamooshes head against the bitumen. There was almost a senate law put through for grass to be laid across the roads, but it was too expensive a plan, plus the rain would make it hard going for the vamooshes, as opposed to the bitumen. That's what you hear though, the snap, snap, snap of bones, then the crackle as heads rest on arms and other vamooshes walk over the top of the limp carcass. Other vamooshes don't want to, but their owners who carry whips coax them into it. The vamooshes yell with every blow, the bleating like human car horns. And then I wake, the sun shining in my eyes, my alarm clock bleating like the vamooshes of another world. Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Someone told me the other day, and when I say other day I mean sometime in recent history, that Salman Rushdie, an author I've never read, but know of, said that the city of Adelaide is very gothic. What on earth could someone mean by this, let alone someone like Salman Rushdie. Gothic, I hardly think so, or should I say I hardly thought so, because I've changed my tune and acknowledged the darker side of this quaint country city. The city of churches, as it's known on Channel Nine's cricket coverage, is the first point of reference for such an assumption. In gothic literature someone who associates with supernatural or unexplained phenomenon is often depicted insane, or loopy, in some cases loveable. I've seen many conversing with the supernatural, in dark rooms lit by candles, with large figures in robes standing in front of the thronging, chanting, praying procession. Gothic indeed, if it weren't religious. And what if these people weren't in a church, but on the street, in a park, by the Torrens River shouting at the moon for someone to come save their souls, help them through this droll existence we call life. I imagine seeing this group of chanters on a street corner, a street corner on the west end no less. The west end is by all intents and purposes, grittier. For instance, if I wanted to escape the teen revolution on a Saturday night, the teen revolution being that everyone wants to act like a teenager whether they're thirty or not, I would head away from the east end and go west. The west end has all the characteristics of a gothic setting, it is poorly lit once you step a metre of the commoners path and the party goers are what someone might define as strange. The clubs are more dangerous, a beer sticks to the a bar which hasn't been cleaned in eons, a knife moves in the pocket of a mohawked patron, straight passed the bouncers stoned eye. The west end is gothic, although it puts on a facade of normalcy every Saturday night. And this can be said of gothic literature, it's seemingly nothing that is out of the ordinary, it isn't fantasy or thriller, there are no big character arcs or dramatised situations. The west end is seemingly normal, as are most scenarios that lead into gothic fiction, or, if we're going to plough the depths of the subconscious, a gothic life. In Poe's story, A Tell-Tale Heart, we learn nothing about the setting, or any city that might remotely close to the gothicity, if there is such a word, of Adelaide. As the reader we are trapped inside the head of a murderer; a man who needs to kill the evil eye of another. And that is how we live our gothic lives, trapped inside our head of fears and paranormal activities, seeing things we can question and seeing thing s we take for granted. The east end with all its up market shops and cafes, nice clean sidewalks and upstanding teenagers with their weekly biannual celebration of life. This is where gothic is born, the west end is where gothic lives in Adelaide. Between the city and the suburbs is a 1000 metre stretch of parklands, meaning that there is approxiamately 700 metres from a gay beat to a 7 year old child sleeping innocently in their own bed. Last night, of all nights, I walked down muggers lane, a path that runs through these parklands, noticing the gothicity (there I go again) of this city. This small patch of ground harboured the minority: the gays, the homeless, the insane, the muggers and one japanese crossdressing prostitute named Coco. Walking passed him/her she/he asked me this in a rather optimistic tone, "Can I suck your cock." "I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream." And then I said no, firmly, and bid him/her goodnight, running down the path as quickly as I could. I looked back only when I had left the parklands, this patch that seprated where the majority (the ones lacking gothicity) from where they lived and where they died. So yes, this city I live in, this city of mine if I were to proclaim that I'm truly in love, is and has been a gothic city. Open your eyes people and see it for what it really is. "Citizens!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! And admit the deeds! -- tear of this facade! -- here, here! -- it is the beating heart of this gothic city!" Tuesday, May 25, 2004
The Weekly Review Seen: The Company. **** The Triplets of Bellevile. **** The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. **** Bucking Broadway. **1/2 Ali. ***1/2 Natural Born Killers. *** I Am Sam. ***1/2 The Solitude of a Long Distance Singer. *** The Decay of Fiction. *** The Naked Feminist. *** Screaming Men. ***1/2 It's Like That. ** A Boy's Life. **** Read: By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, by Paolo Coehlo. ***1/2 The Yellow Wall-Paper, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. **** Weekly Words: No Time, Still Deadlines. Weekly Rating: **1/2 Saturday, May 15, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 15 Behind a camera you can hide, you can expose, you can escape. Behind a camera you can become a cold blue eye, no feelings, just an ever present gaze. But how long will it last: a second, a minute, an hour; how long will it last before the eye wants to turn brown, or purple, the cry tears from bloodshot pupils. Behind a camera you can capture sadness, love, cruelty and the stares of strangers. "What do you want?" A boy sits at the bar. His clothes (a tan woolen jumper, gray cargo pants, and an orange shirt) hang off him; he doesn't wear them. "A water." Across the street, peering through the cafe window, a tall woman with natural blonde hair contemplates her own arrival to her date with the boy in the cafe. I wish he wouldn't wear that jumper, it doesn't suit him. I wish he would wear sophisticated clothes. Not even sophisticated clothes, just nice clothes, but not clothes his mother has bought for him. As she watches him he wipes his nose on his sleeve. I wish he would doing that aswell. This story would continue if it had ending to search for, but it doesn't. The woman never crossed the street, instead, she called her friend and met with her at another cafe on the other side of town. Once he realises she isn't turning up, he sends her a message and recieves no reply, assumes something is wrong and rings her. She doesn't answer. He presumes that she has forgotten, or is out of range, he doesn't lose the irony in this fact. Behind the camera life moves faster than thoughts or actions. Behind the camera this image is panned across like the psyche of a mental patient. Seven seconds of footage, two hours of editing time, non-diegetic music added, a less complex image created. Behind the camera is the eye of a creator. Fifteen Days of Photography Day 14 An old lady, possibly three hundred years old or more, sits on a stool next to her front door, ear pressed firmly to the key hole. Her back is hunched - body still - she has assumed this position before. Assumed it only two nights ago in fact. And the night before that and then thirteen days before that night. She listens carefully for fear that if she even whispers a breath the night darkened shapes (she thinks there are three) outside her door will sense her presence. With her ear close to the key hole she can't keep an eye on them, only hope that her ear is trustworthy enough to judge how far away they are. Trained as a scuba diver for seventeen of her three hundred odd years, she is, and can hold her breath for up to half an hour without losing her thoughts. She feels safe that these creatures can't harm her. Although they are large clumps of transient flesh that are only coloured by shadow they are quite merry, even jovial. They swig from bottles and eat apples off her tree, laughing at each others laughter. The first night they had come passed her door she had been plagued with the dilemma of opening her front door or not. Should she surprise them and hope they go away, only to find that, now exposed, she would become a victim of foul play. Or should she stay inside, leave her apple tree, small lawn, blue roses and wooden table and chairs unsecured, unattended, there for the taking. Luckily they didn't take anything on that night, or any of the proceeding nights, but she safeguarded against such acts the next morning of that first visit. She put plastic bags around the clumps of large apples that were growing on the tree. The lawn was painted green so that she might, if anything did occur to her garden, trace the footsteps of the silhouettes to their resting destination. She infused the roses with a powerful toxin, and the wooden table and chairs were chained up in knots and tangles of metal. This night, like every other night she is sitting on her stool, listening to the wind gush through her garden. Tonight, like many other nights, the creatures aren't there. This doesn't matter though; the mere thought of them arriving almost persuades her that they're there. But they're not. And haven't been for oh so long. The apples have grow rotten on the trees, the lawn has died and the top soil, now loose and dead, throws itself against the front door on windy days. A gardener and his wife lay underneath the blue rose bushes, caught in a passionate embrace at the moment of death, their noses blue, their faces even bluer. And the table and chairs, they sit there, chained down like a junkyard dog, nailed down like a nursery rhyme cupboard, caught in chains that jangle in the wind and scrape of paint when someone tries to take a seat. The old lady sits on her stool, ear to the key hole, shuffling around every now and then to take a peek at the elusive shadows in the moonlight. Sneaking and peeking through the key hole night after night, for months on end, the old lady ages faster than she ever has in her life. Fifteen Days of Photography Day 13 Creative Inspirations from Allison Chambers: Red. The Sound of One Hand Clapping. Rubber Ducky. Tigress. Breaking Through hatches. Shoulders. Frog. Suki. Acacia. Cleavage. Tart. Epiphany. Contrary. **** I crashed through a hatch in time, the sound of one hand clapping ringing in my ears. "Being a rubber ducky is difficult, being a rubber ducky with the sexual prowess of a tiger and a cleavage that many other rubber duckies would kill for makes it even harder. I'm envied in every bath tub, in every bathroom, in every house of this god forsaken land. My name is Suki. And I'm an addict." Suki is addicted to bubbles, not a strange thing for a rubber ducky you might think, but who has bubble baths all the time? So, it's not getting her fix from bubbles that makes delusional, it's the yearning that makes her talk to the cake of soap. And as you well know, soap doesn't talk, unless, of course, it's that nasty black soap, which even then, it only grizzles nonsensicals all day long. An epiphany occurs, then we spot it, then we wish we had done something more with it. The hatch in time was nothing startling, a 70 x 40 window that never opened, as in it wasn't constructed to ever open, therefore, it was only a piece of glass. Contrary to what I've told you and the fear of making a liar out of myself I should tell you that on a day when the sun was blazing red and not orange, Suki received help from a clever little brown frog named Acacia. Now, you'll think I'm lying to say that Acacia had long wanted to know what was on the other side of this hatch in time, but anyways, so on this particularly hot day she thought she would escape the heat and jump through the hatch. She launched herself off the rooftop of the neighbouring house into the window, shattering the window with one squelching blow. Acacia stood toe to toe with Suki, who had been sliding around the puddles of the bath tub all day, and for no reason that I could understand, they kissed, Acacia's tongue wrapping around Suki's tonsils. Their embrace lasted forever, letting them transcend from a rubber ducky and frog, to daytime television stars; then long lost lovers. The hatch in time, which Acacia believed in with all her heart, never gave her what she expected, whatever that may have been. Instead, she fell in love with a rubber ducky addicted to bubbles, who called her a tart, but wouldn't let her stand on her shoulders to help her out of the bathroom because she wanted her sexual needs satisfied. Yes, it was a tale of unrequited love for all eternity, a rubber ducky sliding around the bath tub in a state of delirium, a frog feeling slimy from depression, wishing she hadn't fallen through a hatch in time. Friday, May 14, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography A Quick Note from Matt Photographs thirteen, fourteen and fifteen are coming at you later this evening in one final, passionate burst... Wednesday, May 12, 2004
WoW 1. Encouragement fills me with...? 2. The people I envy are usually...? 3. My education provides me with...? 4. Food. Discuss. 5. I french kissed a boy/girl behind the toilets, he/she was...? Don't worry about the rules - someone will tell you if you're breaking them. Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 12 The bedroom is gloriously filthy. Filthified by clothes and paper. And Other nondescript items. Darkness or light? Darkness. The blinds are closed. Rays of light infiltrate. Beams shooting across Himalayan clothes-scapes. The screen hums and glows. And click, click - click, click. The fingers and thumbs fight the screen. The cereal is soggy. 'One more level, then maybe food'. The juice is warm. 'One more checkpoint, then maybe a drink'. Click, click. The creature falls in defeat. "fuckin' hell". Continue? 10. Cereal is shoveled in. 9. Large, messy spoonfuls of. 8. sugar coated wheat. 7. Juice flows passed spoonfuls. 6. A rush to the toilet. 5. Contemplation of sunshine. 4. It is harsh. 3. Real. 2. Ugly. 1. A rush back to the screen. Continue. There's no time to wash. Calcified in dead skin. Comfortable in own skin. Needs to secure victory. Game Over. Start again. Next level. Failure. Cheat codes are eyed off. The urge to cheat is suppressed. Forgiveness is granted. Success comes far to easily. Game finished. Relaxed. Breathing. Opens blinds. Closes blinds. Moves pile of washing to step onto carpeted floor. Floor is moist. Feet are naked. Clothes are dirty. Naked with a blanket. Opens bedroom door. Showers. Dresses. Says, "hello", to Mum. Level One. Begin. The Weekly Review Seen: Vagabond. ** 101 Nights with Mr. Cinema. *** Kung Fu Master. **** Birkin, J. par Varda, A. *** Kill Bill, Volume 2. *** The Dreamers. ***1/2 The Fog of War. ***1/2 The Killing. ***1/2 Read: A Collection of Sharon Olds Poems. **** Weekly Words: Rolling Through the Motions. Week Rating: ***1/2 Monday, May 10, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 11 "There are three keys," said the shop assistant, "One for you, one for him, and one if it gets to heated and you both lose your keys." She smiled because she knew the handcuffs weren't for her. She was happy that the shop assistant thought they could be for her, although she looked down at her wrists, flabby and undefined, and knew this wouldn't be the case. The handcuffs were for her son’s; they were dressing up as prisoners of war for dress up day at school. It was 8:45am, they were running late. She didn't think they understood what they were saying through their costumes, and she knew this for a fact when they ran out of the idling car, with P.O.W. written on the front of their shirts, screaming "Pow! I got you" and "P-O-W wins again." In their minds they were dressed up as wrestlers, super heroes and super villains. She still had the handcuffs in hand. The handcuffs they had to get, that they were late to school because they stopped at the adult shop. The shop assistant had thought the handcuffs were for her; her and her man. She was left in the car, the handcuffs making her fingers cold, the heaters making the car stuffy, motor waiting to for the pick up of the accelerator pushed towards the floor. The handcuffs weren't for her, not for the man of her choice either, but she had them. There hadn't been a man of choice since the one night of frenzied activities, but in that one night she had been given two boys; two boys still innocent enough to think P.O.W's were superheroes. Boys, without handcuffs. Sunday, May 09, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 10 He asks me to smile. I don't want to. He asks again. His persistence makes me smile. The dimples indent my cheeks and his fingers are ready to touch them. "I love these dimples. I love them even though I don't know where they came from," he says, looking at me adoringly, holding the dimples in place. I can't stop smiling. He's right though, where did my dimples come from? No one in the family has dimples, most of my older relatives have hollowed out faces, tall scrawny bodies with minimalist features. I'm five foot, just, with short mousey brown hair and dimples. I save money on clothes because I can fit into kids clothes. He loves my dimples. His bony fingers hold them delicately as if they were gems. His fingers were once soft I imagine, as a child perhaps, but now they are worked in - they contain a certain kind of softness found in old leather seats in railway carriages - they're strong and forgiving at the same time. In times of sadness he holds my face tenderly to make me smile, just, I suspect, so he can touch my dimples. Saturday, May 08, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 9 She put her eye right up next to his cheek. She looked at his skin, her iris only a matter of centrimetres away from the soon to be exposed pimple. The pimple was still formulating - it was only a flesh coloured bump at the moment. She tried not to wake him, wondering how someone couldn't wake with someone so close, 'he must trust me', she thought. She gently caressed the wannabe pimple, forgetting for a moment that this pimple didn't belong to her. She was so close up to his skin that he seemed to disappear, she lost perspective, and he wasn't connected to the intricate details of his own body. He breathed heavily, half through his nose and half through his mouth, sucking in plenty of air to fuel his dreams. She licked his cheek and the imminent skin irratation at the same time, dabbing at it with her tongue. 'No one I know gets pimples of their cheeks', she thought. She drew her fingers up to his cheek (now wet with saliva) and placed her index fingers on either side of the pimple. Gently, she pushed down then inwards. Juxtaposed to the slow movement of her fingers, the pimple, now with a raging white head, came jumping out of his skin. He woke immediately, pushing her away with his left shoulder and grabbing at his face, screaming in tongues of mumbled tiredness. "What did you do that for?" he shouted. "Sorry, I forgot it was your pimple." Friday, May 07, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 8 Rapid thoughts. Rapid thoughts of rage and hate and anger and pent up agression. The world switches mid-sentence from a calm serenity to a hellish pit. "Is the devil in him," says the boy. Paranoia. Planning. Calculated attacks. Cold blooded murder of someone elses reputation. You smug bastard. You smug bastard. Yes, it's you isn't it. I really hate you. Your smug as a bug in your parent's rug. "Why don't you do this?" says the devil. "Can I use your handouts to pay for it." That's right. That's what I would have said. But I wasn't ready. I'd lulled myself into believing I wasn't: hateful, spiteful, hostile - and swallowed enough of this shit to know I'd had a gutful. Next time, you wait, I'll get you. A Tungsten blur will intoxicate my eyes and fuel my tongue. My body will remain flacid, immovable, my tongue my only moving part, flashing in and out of my mouth which is letting out a loud screech aimed at you. You just wait smuggalugs, I'll get you. I won't move, the world will become a blur and then you will be vanquished from my sight. Thursday, May 06, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 7 My Dad is colour blind, not severely, but it does affect the way he sees the world. He can't see the colour orange, or any tint of orange in anything. He told me green traffic lights are more a purple sort of colour. I asked him what colour red was one day and he said, "Green". A small smirk came across his face, his lip moving up towards his nose, pulling at my proverbial leg. "A green stop sign?" I'd ask. "Maybe." "A Purple Sky?" "Not out of the realms." "Yellow Grass?" "Grass can be yellow." "Blue Rasberries?" "It depends how long you leave them out in the gray sun." I could come up with endless possibilities - still can. I figured my Dad's eyes saw life like the sun was a disco ball, reflecting and refracting all the colours to make it more interesting. It was a nice thought, totally naive though. My Dad has to see past shades of gray to get to life, for him, nothing is like anyone else sees it, and he struggles with that. Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 6 The air tastes like chlorine (it makes my lips dry and the rim of my nostrils itchy) and the haze of over cleanliness (transparent) bites at my lungs. The drink (red) is sweet (it has to be) and cuts the chlorine taste that hangs on my tongue (it waits to be swallowed). There are two flavours (green), but I always choose red (just because). I once had green (a friend bought it), it tasted awful (deliciously awful) and that bothered me (feared it was paint stripper). My friend washed his clothes (used generic brand powder) at the same time I did. His smelt like egg yolks (semi-rotten) when they came out, mine smelt like teddy bears (old ones, homely ones), but they both looked to have been given the same treatment (removal of veneer stains, difficult stains faded in varying degrees). The laundry (Harry's Super Laundromat) was open from 6am till 11pm. Twenty four machines in operation (four or so usually broken). Large machines (The Deluxe Queen Stream Super Spinner), small machines (Washer 2001) and dryers (Dry-Eazy). Spillage (large sticky surface under drink dispenser) always noticeable (never cleaned up) and usually a mixture of red and green (predominantly red, a blood red on the brown tile floor). I wash my clothes (the machine does this for me) and insert 20 cents to receive white cup with red liquid inside; (insert no money, beat front of machine with open palm and receive drink) - (green) I wait patiently (I wish I were somewhere else). WoW A Review of 21 Days of Words 1. The Best? 2. The Worst? 3. The most original? 4. Any Quotacious Lines? 5. Your Personal Response? Write you bastard! Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 5 "After the beep say the number into the reciever. The number will be played back. If it is the correct continue on. If the number repeated is wrong, say cancel, and repeat the number after the next beep." She was agitated. She was agitated and cold. Her bum against the laundry floor, her back against the door. She fiddled with the clean laundry she had just taken of the line, damp and dirty from falling off the line onto the concrete slap. 'Must get pegs,' she thought. 'Must get pegs tomorrow.' Beep. "Four." Beep. "Five." Beep. "Seven." Beep. "Nine," she said, mimicking the computer voice of the operator. The conversation starts. The conversation ends quickly. "Oh, you know." The conversation lasted less than three minutes. She placed the phone on the bench, making sure that the reciever sat properly and would be able to recieve calls. She put her ear close to the receiver and heard no dial tone. "What did your folks have to say?" says her room mate, who has been lying on the couch the whole time; she thought he was asleep. "Oh, you know." Monday, May 03, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 4 "I know you've heard stories about: sluts and me, sex and me, drugs and me, stupidity and me. But I don't hear those stories, I only tell them." "But what does that mean?" "I don't know, I guess I'm not listening?" I saw this boy through the darkness, although it was almost a full moon so there wasn't much darkness. And there were lights from the house and the entertaining area of the party, so basically there wasn't any darkness at all! Whatever and Anyways. I was bouncing on the trampoline, the alcohol I had quickly consumed minutes early moving with each bounce up and down through my system, making my voice box drunk at the same time that the liquid fell quickly down through my legs, making them drunk also. I was jumping off the roof onto the trampoline then sitting back on the roof. I did this again and again until everybody stopped watching. A crowd of three assembled at the start. This boy stood next to the trampoline drinking a sugary alcoholic drink. "Does the trick," he said. "That stuff doesn't get me drunk," I said, lying through my teeth, already drunk from exactly the same sort of drink. He started talking about a young girl at the party, a young girl that I knew liked him. But everyone liked him, unless you hated him and even then you kept that to yourself. He talked about being with this girl the way I had heard him talk about being with every other girl. Nothing really changed, just the scenery with which he fell quickly in and out of love with. I liked this girl even though she was ugly. A nice body, but ugly. She was very young and he was very well trained in making people of both gender fall in love with him. I think guys loved him more than girls, but that was part of his appeal. But how do you train yourself to be loved? I suspect it's one of those lessons that you have to learn, but can't be taught. He rambled on about nothing, but I was intrigued, not by anything in particular, just his voice, those moments in the conversation that, if they were a film, would go to dissolve, leave the viewer hanging on the edge imagining what would happen next. He insinuated about nothing and gave very little away. This boy was short, not to any great degree, but he was skinny in a tough weedy sort of way. His cheeks were hollow and his clothes baggy. He put his drink down, or did he throw it towards the back fence of the yard? Either way, he undid the fly of his pants and walked over to the big group of people that made up this particular party. They noticed that he his fly wasn't done up and he screamed meldodramatically like a girl and did it up. Everyone laughed. I stopped bouncing on the trampoline. I was fucked. I lied on the trampoline, now damp from the dew, and wondered why a boy who would be noticed whether he walked into a room with his fly undone or not would do such a thing deliberately. Sunday, May 02, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 3 Tiramisu for who? I know how to cook. I'm sure I knew how to cook, but know I'm not quite sure whether I was cooking or if I was boiling water for a cup of tea. Do i drink tea or coffee? Oh, why does my mind slip from one action to the next without finishing the last [or even knowing that I finished the last?]. Why is the oven on? That's right, Tiramisu. Tiramisu for who? Is it for me? It's 10am and I'm the only one here so who is the tiramisu for? "Who is the tiramisu for? Who is the tiramisu for?" Where's my diary, that'll tell me. What's the date? It's May, yes May, it's overcast outside and the kitchen floor is cold through the callus' on my feet. My feet. There are no shoes on my feet, but I suppose it doesn't matter if I'm only making a cup of tea to sit down with. "Tea bags, tea bags, where are you?" No you silly old girl it's the tiramisu. Oh, the tiramisu. Tiramisu for who? For David. Oh, that's right. I must make a light and fluffy treat for a man that is really sweet. Ooh, a rhyme. "You're funny hunny - funny honey bunny." So what goes in thsi tiramisu? Oh, here it is. 'The beginner's Cookbook'. I'm no beginner. I can make tiramisu with my eyes closed, if only I could remember what goes in a tiramisu. Yes, the picture looks familiar, but what in my cupboard can rise when given heat and fall when punctured by a spoon. I know you taste nice and you make me feel sick when I manage to finish the final bites of you, "But what goes in you, you chocolate, gooey tiramisu." Who will come to eat you? David. That's right. David at 12. You'll never be ready by 12 now, will you? but I have a mixture of you although I couldn't read the measurements on the measuring cup could I? Those blasted tiny little numbers and my tiny weak eyes didn't match. And my damn wrinkly old hands couldn't mix you with any vigour so you might not be what I'm looking for. You stupid tiramisu. You make me feel stupid. Then it's decided. Away with you tiramisu, you stupid rhyming dessert. You give no reason in your rhyme, so away with you down the sink. Who's coming today? I don't know. It must be the children escaping from the summer heat; the sun is out and the kitchen is nice and cool on my feet. Yes, David will be coming, that precious child is my only visitor. "I'll serve him the tiramisu that's baking in the oven." Saturday, May 01, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 2 "You watch the game last night." "Chelsea Arsenal one?" "It was an absolute ripper wasn't it?" "What kind of a call's that ref?! Yeah, still can't belive that offside call though. Probably turned the game your way." "What about that penalty you guys got. Go Tommy, go for goals!" "That was a deadset penalty, who was it... Lampard, that's right. He was a good metre or so from getting the ball in the tackle." "And Henry was only a hare's whisker of getting a spot in the Cirque' de Sole or whatever it is for the dive." "What do you care, you won in the end. Go Hayds, kick through him, strong on the ball, strong on the ball! WOOOOOWWWPP!!! "What's the score here?" "I think it's two zip to Hayden's team." "That's alright, they'll come back in the second half..." "...either that or they'll get steamrolled." "Nah, you see that kid there, what's his name, Joe, kid's got a massive heart, inspires the fuckin' team for victory every week." "Little wog boy should be playing in the wog teams." "Yeah, but anyways... you working on the Tuesday at that job down on the highway?" "Nah, you?" "Nah, I've got the assignment on that crash site down near the cemetery, have to clean up all the car and tree debris." "Heard that kid was two times over the limit." "I heard the same." "Oh, here we go, there starting the second half." "You going to that showroom down at the hardware shop this afternoon?" "Go Hayd's, get Tommy, get him!" "Get your body in the way Tommy, push him back." "Get him Hayd's get him." "Push him Tommy, get the ball, push him!" WOOOOOWWWPP!!! BBBBRRRRRRRRMM!!! "Are you listening Thomas?" "Yes." "Now, next week you better play better than you played today. You better show some ticker, a bit of fight. Hayd's pushed you off the ball today like you were a girl. I was embarresed by your performance, even more so because I was standing next to Hayden's Dad. I don't work all week to pay your fee's just to come out in the cold to watch you quit on me, and quit on the team. You don't see Joe quitting. "Now wipe away those tears and tell your Mother that the blood on your knee is from falling over. I don't want to hear a word about this game once we leave this car. Right? You hear?" "Yes, Dad." |
