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Friday, April 30, 2004
Fifteen Days of Photography Day 1 It was a cold night so it made sense that the fire was lit, although its flames were somewhat fledgiling as there had only been damp kindling and wet wood to be used for fuel outside the wood cabin. Joanne, a middle aged woman with youngish looks has been staring into the fire for a couple of minutes, marvelling at what she has made, but also marvelling at the spectacle of a fire. It crackles without seeming to cause argument, its heat penetrates everything in the room and in return everything is happy. The leather couch she sits on is warm, the hide almost gooey from the fires heat. The metal duck which she used to stoke the fire stares at her, freshly cleaned as she felt bad to leave it in such a state of uncleanliness. 'That metal duck' she thinks. A heavy object. A blunt object. An object that could draw blood if swung with enough ferocity. An object that has drawn blood, or was it her that drew the blood from her husband? When she swung the duck it was hot on her hands having been sitting next to the fire for an hour or so. It had not always been her intention to use the duck to murder him, indeed it had not been her intention to kill, only to disfigure, to gain some respect. But when she swung she not only hit his skin with a cruel slap of the duck's rear end on his temple, but singed his hair line as she paused at the end of her swing. With her hand clasped tightly around the duck's neck she pummeled her husband, a hollow noise floating out of the duck's beak as it hit clothes and skin and bone and eventually blood and tears. Her husband had long been removed from the room. She had lost track of time, but knew that she must have been gone awhile in the woods lugging and burying him in his shallow grave because the fire was barely alive when she gave back. She found some drier wood on the cabin porch, changed her rain soaked clothes and then made herself a warm cup of cocoa. She sits staring at the fire, the metal duck staring at her, it's beady cut out eyes awakened by the flames that burn brightly behind it. Silence echoes through the hollow duck. "You murderer. You did this. It's not my fault." And with that she throws the duck on the fire, watching as it slowly loses it's colours until the fire has no more heat to give. The duck is stripped back to a metal corpse, slightly burnt, but still alive. Thursday, April 29, 2004
WoW 1. There is nothing more poweful in a film than...? 2. Subtitles = X? 3. When it's cold I expect it to be...? 4. I trust my own instincts as far as I can...? 5. Sometimes I forget my own history and others remind me of it. Discuss. I feel empty now that I'm not obligated to write ever day, but I still have the strange cumpulsion to do so. Tuesday, April 27, 2004
The Weekly Review Seen: Elephant. **** Cleo From 5 to 7. *** Jacquot de Nantes. ***** Ten. ****1/2 Tais Toi. *** Read: Big Sur, by Jack Kerouac. ***1/2 Heard: Bare, Annie Lennox. ***1/2 Purchased: Membership to Adelaide Cinematheque 2004 season at the Mercury Cinema. Screens every Monday for 8 months, only $54. Weekly Words: A Prophetic Statement Fulfilled. Week Rating: ***1/2 Monday, April 26, 2004
Day 21/21 My life. bi-bip. hangs in the balance. bi-bip. from breath to breath. bi-bip. i know not where i am. bi-bip. i can hear voices. bi-bip. but they do nothing but. bi-bip. reminice. bi-bip. anonymous as they are. bi-bip. they still hurt me. bi-bip. wait. bi-bip. i've heard these voices before. bi-bip. but not what they said. bi-bip. like now and before i don't/can't. bi-bip. listen to them. My Life. bi-bip. first, conception. bi-bip. born into a family. bi-bip. making history without me. bi-bip. born to be a simpleton. bi-bip. i stopped and thought. bi-bip. no longer making me a simpleton. bi-bip. did i hear what you said? bi-bip. of course. bi-bip. but what you don't know. bi-bip. is that the comatosed hold their breath. bi-bip. but they live on. bi-bip. low on fuel for thought. bi-bip. low; cruel. bi-bip. bi-bip. bi-bip. next in time was filler. bi-bip. the time between my death. bi-bip. i waited for a while. bi-bip. nothing ever came. i got given a brother. bi-bip. the same as me. bi-bip. but totally different. bi-bip. and a mother who. bi-bip. took payments to take care. bi-bip. of us. bi-bip. our hearts sank. bi-bip. when we saw the cheque. bi-bip. what i had lied to. bi-bip my brother about was true. bi-bip. and so we went about changing to seem. bi-bip. different. bi-bip. me, quiet. bi-bip. he, loud. bi-bip. all superfluous. bi-bip. all the truth. bi-bip. but nothing changed us. bi-bip. into anything but blood. bi-bip. bi-bip. bi-bip. My life. bi-bip. hangs beyond the edge of perception. bi-bip. he sits at my bed. bi-bip. with his wife. bi-bip. my mother to the left. bi-bip. his children laughing. bi-bip. I lay. bi-bip. slipping away. bi-bip. a religious shrine. bi-bip. for pity. bi-bip. strangers come and go. bi-bip. i must have known them. bi-bip. pretended to know them. bi-bip. wanted to know them. bi-bip. or maybe they're just stangers. bi-bip. it doesn't matter know. bi-bip. death is close. bi-bip. bi-bip. bi-bip. and like all things. bi-bip. death is. bi-bip. stigmatised. bi-bip. with one generic feeling. bi-bip. which I can't help but hold. bi-bip. but will never again know. bi-bip. bi-bip. bi-bip. bi-bip. bi-bip. 'say goodbye to uncle anonymous'. bi-bip. goodbye. bi-bip. fuck off. bi-bip. one final rasp. bi-bip. then release. bi-bip. bi-bip. bi-bip. .... "time of death: 4:27pm." Sunday, April 25, 2004
Day 20/21 To me she looked thirteen, a little girl trying out white for the first and last time; a virgin bride. I suppose it's inevitable, this feeling of unease towards someone you already know. But it's not just him, it's him and my daughter. Where once they were seperate, they're now together and all the information that I know about him can't be conveyed. I remember the first time I met him, he stuck his finger up at me and smiled devilishly. And I suspect now that this might have been his plan all along, from the very first day he met my daughter. I must admit I was quite impressed with him, a complete stranger still at the time, his manners were convenient and never seemed to be given with any conviction to cause a good impression. He seemed to know a little bit of something, whether it was important or not, he had something to add. I'd call him a real smooth talker if I didn't like him, but I do, not that it pains me much. I just wonder how someone can say so much, but speak of very little. He never followed trend as far as I saw, never disrespectful but always a hint of contempt in his action, never with malice so you could never pin him down with anger. At first my daughter payed no attention to him, not that he was striving for affection. In the car on regular lifts I used to offer him he'd tell us both far fetched stories about woman and girls, parties and places. In the beginning of her youth my daughter was impressed. The stories so truthful about himself kept us intrigued because they said nothing of the world he really lived in, the world he would leave to visit ours. And it was on the day that my daughter made an effort to make a car trip with him that I knew there was trouble. I had seen him smile at her when she was passing, caught his winks and stuck out tongues when they both thought no one else was watching. Then later that day, both sweaty and red faced from playing they met at the bar. He served her like a gentleman waiter, almost profesional, although I had no idea what his exact occupation was. And from this innocent comunication about a can of Pepsi came a request from my daughter. Her name wasn't Katie with a sigh anymore, it was Kaitlan with a smirk. Now my name associated to hers has been torn away. I'm no longer attached; replaced by a stranger I know. Saturday, April 24, 2004
Day 19/21 The saddest thing to find out would be that love is easily found. He told me he didn't remember any of it, that he blacked out at a point in time and woke up at the computer; typing furiously. I sat in the bean bag one night, my back to the television and my glass tilted towards Nathan who was sitting at the computer, completely oblivious to my prescence. He was part alcoholic, part unpublished author. His life was something you could write about, but he had no imagination or temptation for self loathing. He wrote about his friends, most of which were drug addicts in their imagination and sex fuelled junkies, pimps and terrorists in his. This particular night our circle of freinds had taken speed and then hit the clubs, unaware of anything besides their own egos. I had stayed behind because I was drowning in alcohol; Nathan had stayed behind because he was socially underveloped, or so he told his girlfriend who we later found out had slept with our friend Mark. Nathan had dropped more speed than anyone so to be able to write he drunk a half bottle of bourbon to equalise. It may just have been me blinking in and out of sleep, but he seemed to do this within a minute before sitting himself in front of the screen and tapping away at an undefined topic in his head. Later that morning as the sun rose and peirced through the lounge room blinds I woke up, lying uncomfortably across two bean bags and resting my head on a embroidered cushion. I had slobbered all over it. The computer was buzzing, but Nathan wasn't sitting at it anymore and after careful inspection I noticed that he wasn't in the house, only the party goers from the city who had returned sometime in the late morning, even then some were unaccounted for. So to kill time and wait for the person lying in the shower to wake up I read some of Nathan's ramblings. I can only imagine that Nathan's mind was in slow motion, fuelled by the alcohol and his hands were given life by the speed. There was over 20,000 words in the document. Some of the saddest lamentations on life I've ever read. And it must be the way sadness is: a mind slowed through desperation and a body frenetic to make up for mistakes, to search for something. Next day I went to the computer as I had seen Nathan working the morning of delayed hangover, obviously unable to sleep, but anable to throw up either. His sad musings had changed, they had lost all there honesty, only the remnants of what he had been feeling were left. Names had been added and subtracted, thoughts and words had been rearranged and placed in other people's hearts. The great scribings of the unconscious had become the lies of a conscious fear. Friday, April 23, 2004
Day 18/21 "I would say my favourite place on this earth is Nepal, or is it Tibet, I always get them confused. A fools mistake. My brain fails me in such detail." I sit listening to this old man, firstly because I was scared of him and when scared I tend to pay attention rather than flee the scene or ignore the action. After initial openings I sat waiting for my bus, asking question that weren't important in this man's continuous monologues. My questions were a pause for breath rather than affect. He was undeterminably ethnic with a thick worldy accent, a trimmed white mustache, dishevelled grey hair and a brown woolen jumper. "The people of Nepal, they are like birds, you know. In the morning they wake up and they are chirpy, chirpy, especially in the markets. They sell all kinds of fruit, those ones that are green and bumpy, black bumps I think. There was a small woman in the market who would carry a cart load all the way from her small village down to town. She must have been no more than a childs weight, I don't know, but she had the most angelic face, it was worn and worked, coloured by the dirt that she pulled the fruit from, but always a smile. Even when she was carrying this cart up a steep hill. Strange, you know there was never much there to remember, but I remember as if it were a city; no signposts, no maps or tourist guides given directions, but I knew where to go. A city, you don't gte any of that. I've been to Delhi and London and New York and Moscow. I think the only capital I haven't visited is that of my own country." "And what country is that?" But the thing about cities is that they all smell the same, they may look different and have different tastes and people, but they all smell the same. that is the last thing to go. Food goes last they say, food goes last, but they lie. The food goes and then the smell of the country goes. It's smells like road and paper and building and rubbish. The people smell like nothing except cheap aftershave and sweat and no love. That's right, I have only ever found love in the outcrops of live, beyond the edge of perception. The city is right there, against your nose and up it with its cruel wofts and its neverending changes. Nothing is still, always moving, which is good and bad. Soemtimes there is a bad move and we know not what to do because the move is unchangable; we have to live with it I guess." Thursday, April 22, 2004
Day 17/21 how u doing? its nice 2 no ur an honest guy! please dont go gettin mean on me. I dont think u could if u tried. Love always, k He stares at this SMS, bored shitless with nothing to do. An 'honest guy'; he laughs at his own misfortune. He would rather be called a liar, but he has already been called that. He doesn't understand this message. Despite his better judgement he goes to reply, but then remembers that it's three o'clock in the morning. 3:07 to be precise. There is no precision at this time of the morning though. Seconds turn into minutes, minutes will turn into hours if he falls asleep. He doesn't, he just lies there trying to suffocate himself with a pillow; he hopes to breathe in so much of his own carbon dioxide that it makes him feel sleepy. It doesn't. His eyes are tired so he can't read, there is nothing on television, music makes him sad because he only has c.d's with sad music. He decides to reply. Good. I think. Bored. Probably. Intrigued. Still. D. He realises he has the grammar all wrong but he has already sent the message. There should be more question marks. He hastily goes to write another one, not realising the tragic mistake until the message has been received. There's no food left in my house. I'll be eating out for the rest of the week. I'll be eating in town tomorrow if it interests you. He sleeps uncomfortably, waking early in the morning with a throbbing head ache, grasping for his bed as his bedroom spins wildly. He screams, then runs towards the bathroom, stumbling over objects in the hallway until he finally falls into the shower cubicle. the cold water pours over him as he sits naked on the floor, his skin still burning with fever, his head still hurting. He wakes up sometime around miday lying in the hallway, covered only by a dirty shirt from the laundry pile he was going to wash yesterday, but didn't. He reaches for his mobile phone which is suprising close at hand. It looks as though it's been thrown against the wall, the cover at in his bedroom, other parts littered along the hallway and the core in his hand. It's already 2pm. He reads the one message on his phone. Sorry i slept thro lunch. u doing alright? The answer is no so he doesn't reply. He can only think one moment at a time. First to shower, next, to move on. Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Day 16/21 One time I was fucking a girl and I hated her. I knew her so well that I had to hate her. It was a problem. I couldn't... you know. So I drew her head close to mine; so close I could have kissed her dry, crackled lips. Then I leant my head over her shoulder and thought about someone else as I thrusted upwards. This girl was pale green. The girl in my head was black, as dark as good soil would be. In my hands she was moist and soft; she smelt natural. The girl whose shoulder I was using as a pillow for my dreams about the black girl moaned into my right ear. Her eyes were closed, her lips searched for some sort of flesh to let her know that I was still underneath her. She knew I was there though. She sat on me as I did all the work, helping her body to rise and fall on my crotch. I watched it go in and out a few times, waiting for the corresponding moans that I would put into the mouth of the black girl. She didn't like to moan though; she whispered her pleasure through sweet kisses that touched my lips in an embrace that wasn't meant to find me, but found me anyway. The pale green girl had grown tired and although my arms were still able to lift her body she called for me to stop. We changed positions. She was no longer interested in me. Her eyes, wide open, looked at me as if to share some endeariung quality. I fucked the black girl in my dreams of hope; hope that I could fulfill something more than a sexual urge and forget about the girl that was now lying underneath me, legs in the air and wrapped around me. The black girl began to lose her colour, she started to fade, first from black to a fire's ashes, little orange embers flickering and then dying in her eyes. Then she was brown until her skin was attacked by a plague of grey flakes across her skin. I clawed at her face, legs then breasts and the scales were removed and pink flesh was revealed, red raw from my desperate need to hold onto her. From these wounds poured blood; a thick syrup of red charcoal. I removed the blood with my tongue; underneath the wounds were healed, but the skin had turned grey and was scattered with green bruises where I had tried to remove all the other layers of skin. I removed my face from the pale green girl's shoulder, letting out screams of agony as I tried to hold in my cum; my showing of ecstacy to her. I couldn't and it made it all the more worse that I had tried. She looked up at me, pleased that I was pleased; pleased in herself more than anything. She had drained me of all my juices. WoW 1. We all have to get through to one person. Who have you gotten through to? 2. Oprah defines hardship. Discuss. 3. My mother wanted me to become a banker, I told her, "..."? 4. If you can't understand someone you should....? 5. Finish this line: I didn't quite see your eyes, but I'm sure... Thou shalt not fail without attempt. Tuesday, April 20, 2004
The Weekly Review Seen: Monster. ***1/2 Monster's Ball.**** The Virgin Suicides.***** Eyes Wide Shut.****1/2 In The Bedroom. ***1/2 The Barbarian Invasions. ***1/2 The Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind. ****1/2 Minority Report. **** Kill Bill Vol. 1. **** Read: Boyhood: A Memoir, by J.M. Coetzee **** Borrowed: Big Sur, by Jack Kerouac. Fortunate Son, by P.T. Hatfield. White Noise, by Don Delillo. Weekly Words: Niggling Tendencies. Week Rating: ***1/2 Day 15/21 Is there anything more shocking than killing a 4 day old baby? Yes. Waiting that extra day so that it loses it's innocence; waiting all through the night in an apartment across the street with the cross hair sitting just above the babies bald skull. The clock will strike 3am and the baby, with one flick of the finger will lose the life it was just born into, it's peachy cream skin and prestine brain cells splattered against the blue wall of the nursery. If you're asking why wait a day then you're already in his mind - he knows you - and you know him. The year is 2077. The population of the world has grown to a point where food is scarce, even for first world countries. The second world lives off the scraps of the first, the third only exists in archival news footage. My friend is a part of a brand new government agency, Rentokil. Although this agency is supposed to be top secret he talks about it as openly as everyone else. It has become the truest of urban myths. Strange people floating in and out of city dwellings like ghosts; killing the young, the elderly and finishing off the diseased. His role, along with many others, is ' the pain and suffering for the greater good of a future society'. A political term obviously, lacking in sentimentality, as cold as death itself. This is what we have been resorted to doing to eachother to survive. Once everyone found out that cancer, aids and other diseases were lab prototypes released by the government there were riots on the street. Government seized the opportunity and started selling off the rights to cures left right and centre. The rich lived, the poor were given a new way to be ostracized and humiliated; death. My friend found comfort in the new way of population control. "A free licence to kill" is what he called it. Take away the licence and he's just a cold blooded killer. But his reasoning existed only on the level that he could kill anyone, therefore making it fair. Naturally, the rich bunkered down and the poor were easy targets. But I guess you already know what group you're in and you just want to know if he killed the baby. He did. Bang! One clean shot. The baby still looked asleep when the mother came in to check on it. Bang, bang! Not only did he kill the baby, he killed the source. My friend wants everyone to be desexed, or if you prefer his terms: choked, rubbered, fucked fuckless. He believes in death to save life. He promised me he'd kill our unborn child. Bang, bang! Monday, April 19, 2004
Day 14/21 They sit in relative silence. He the boy and she the girl in this romantic story. Only there is one thing missing and that is the will for either to be romantic. They have already exchanged warm pleasantries; they are afterall friends of many years. But they have nothing to talk about, so as to avoid talking about nothing (which the boy despises) they don't talk at all. Now this would be alright if they could just walk away from this situation or show interest in someone else, but they can't. he has come over to her house to see her. He is by himself and no one else is in the house, besides the girl's pet dog. A year ago this would have been enjoying the others company; both sitting in this relative silence watching her tap away on the computer. He wishes he was more interested in the computer and her connection to the piece of work than he is just simply interested her. It is a strange feeling he has watching her; a feeling that has travelled through time and no longer has the power of lust or the sentimentality of love. It is neither uncomfortable or complacent; it's just there. She looks over at him; he is playing eight ball. She taps away and keep on tapping until they finally start moving the stuttered conversation towards the finale of him leaving. He is severely disapointed as he reaches his car. One, because she didn't come out to the car, and two, because he doesn't understand what just happend in the last three hours. Where did it all go? He becomes scared, but not through confusion or uncertainty. He becomes scared because he senses an inevitability in this situation; an ending that won't surprise him. Sunday, April 18, 2004
Day 13/21 I woke up in my bed this morning. This didn't suprise me. I was covered in sweat, my sheets clinging to my torso and smelling like a locker room, or to be more precise, my underarms. I stared at my alarm clock wondering how such a small onject could make so much noise and still not manage to wake me up. Patients become immune to their medication, it stops working. Alcoholics get used to having a belly full of intoxicating liquid, they constantly need to keep the tank full. Me, I have an alarm clock that can't wake me up anymore, although that is not technically true. It wakes me up, but I'm never fully awake, much like I never fully fall asleep these days, mostly in the fear that I will never wake up. My alarm clock won't disturb me; it can't disturb me. I walk around in my sleepless little body thinking about sleep but never attaining any. Much like Christmas Eve as a child every night of the year. I want to go to sleep, feel time rush past me until I suddenly wake from dreams that have me checking if reality is still the same as I left it the night before. Sleep becomes a constant reminder of my unfulfilled life. I put myself in a room that contains no air, but still lets me breathe; it has no bed or bedding but stills keeps me comfortable and warm. I'm blanketed by complete darkness and I float, evading the forces of gravity. There are no disturbances. There is no fear of falling asleep and not waking up in time. but then I start to wonder, if I have nothing that will wake me up, will I wake at all? My body is tired, as is my mind, I'm sure of that. If I manage to find this room and sleep in it will I be trapped between worlds? Without something to wake me, any inspiration to move or a reality to wake up and check I can hover for all time between a world that is supposed to inspire my dreams and a brain that can create a better one. Saturday, April 17, 2004
Day 12/21 (Four older gentlemen sit at a functions bar. One looks into his drink solemnly, another maintains interest in the conversation the other two are sharing, but never joins in.) So who's marriage are you here for? It's me niece. She's marrying an Asian business man. What business he in? Corporate something. Wouldn't have a fuckin' clue to be honest. It's like that, you get old an then everything seems to slip by, hell, I didn't even know that my son's wedding was on until four days ago. What's your son's name again? John. That's right, and the other one...? Matthew. Geez, I wouldn't have seen them since they were knee high. Matthew married yet? Yeah, Caroline, fuckin' nice girl. Good mother, they've got a kid now. Oh, so you're a grandpa. yeah, next thing you know it I'll be in the grave. First retirement, now grandpa. There ain't much time left before I'll be pushing up daisies? What are you doing now that you're retired? Fuck, I can't believe I'm asking that? I know, seems just the other day I was hungover after a night over drunken shenanigans. These days I don't even get out the house to drink, just invite everyone else over. But to answer your question; I'm just doing some handy man working; you know, cleaning gutters, planing doors, mowing lawns. Keeps you busy? Keeps me busy. Say, do you remember when we used to go mow the lawns of Mr. West as kids. We'd be there a full day and he'd pay us twice the amount we deserved. Good times those, fuckin' good times. You remember his kid Scott? Nah. Nah, you wouldn't you old cunt. Bah, but anyways, heard about him a while back. How's he going? Oh, he's dead. Fuck. Lung Cancer. That's a rough way to go. Yeah, spoke to his wife Charlotte. Not good, she didn't give many details but you could tell it was a long, painful thing. Give me a stroke or massive heart attack any day. If I'm going to go I want to go quick. Here, here. (Both men drink beer from their schooners). I actually saw Charlotte upstairs. How's she going now? Face looks shinier than a worked on cricket ball. Think she's been to the surgeon. Why bother at our age. Nah, you should have seen the bags she was carrying under her eyes when I saw her. That was just after Scott had finally died. She probably hadn't slept in years you know. Scott would have been rasping for air at the best of times, at the worst he would have been coughing and spluttering, choking on his own mucas and what not. Yeah, give me something quick. Car crash, embelism, death in my sleep. Anything but the God damn cancer. Let's drink to that. (Both men clink their glasses and speak at the same time). Here's to not getting cancer! Friday, April 16, 2004
Day 11/21 Interview with Del Patterson, 76 years old, convicted serial killer. Del, in previous interviews you've been told that you say some very profound things for a man who uses such simple words. Care to comment? Well, I'll be honest. I didn't like those people asking those questions and I probably won't like you. I'm only doing this so I can get my second book published. But to answer your question I'll say that politicians got me convicted and if that don't make no sense to me then no wonder people think I make more sense then them. Do you think it's interesting that you share the same name as the Democratic Presedential candidate? No. Care to elaborate on that? Well he's an ugly sort isn't he. Skin looks like the gristle sliced of a fatty bit of meat. He can barely wear his suit jacket without his belly popping the button. Fat pig. What do you think? I don't take political allegiances. I don't know what that means but it sounds like the biggest load of cadswallop I've heard in a while... What do you think about them optioning your first book, A Killers Memo? First I've heard of it. Does that mean it'll go to the cinemas? Probably get some young sprout to play me, like Robert Redford or whatever. Put me in wooden rocking chair talking about how I regret doing what I did. And do you? Sometimes I think I could have done it better. Cleaner I guess. I don't enjoy pain and blood. I don't really enjoy anything about it. I just have too. Can you understand that? Not really. I mean you can't just go around ritualistically slaughtering people and think that you're going to get away with it can you? Politicians do. Priests do. Generals do. I guess I was found out because I'm the button they're pushing. So you blame your own behaviour on society? Yes and No. Yes, the world sucks. No, because I should have control over myself, but I don't. I'm a room without walls, I'm space without a seeing eye glass to know how big it is. Del Patterson's latest book, Life and Death: Death and Taxes, comes out on the shelves this time next week. Back to the studio with Rob. Thursday, April 15, 2004
Day 10/21 Charlie Gavin McGraw worked maintenance at the wood mill. He was named Charlie after Prince Charles, who was born three weeks before Charlie. Nowadays three weeks is two lifetimes and it's old news before it even becomes new, but back then the birth of the future king filtered slowly throughout the country. From London to Sydney. Sydney to Wodonga, until it finally reached the rural outcrop of Norm, where Charlie [the future king of Norm] was born. Charlie sat in a small office with green carpet most days, drinking coffee and reading newspapers. He liked crosswords and comics, the racing guide and small political columns with pictures. His position at the mill required him to wait for a fuck up in the machines. If there was no fuck up on a certain day his job was essenitally null and void. Most days there were minor problems: a broken bandsaw, a misfiring piston and so on and so forth. Charlie's life consisted of waiting on a fuck up so that he could do something with his day. Doing something meant following procedure. Hit the isolation switch. Turn the machine off. Clear the sector. When he was young and just starting at the mill all problems seemed different, but now as he came closer to retirement (pension) age they all seemed to be a small variation on a theme. He had figured over his years that there were three simple ways to fix a problem: Ignore it until it fixed itself, call somebody else claiming no prior knowledge or dismantle the entire machine and reassemble it in the hope that it might return to working function. In truth, Charlie's life was one of ignorance and shifting the problem into someone elses lap. He watched his machines attentively, but knew not what to do with them on the off chance that there was a problem. For fear of losing a hand, an arm, or even his life to the machines, he didn't dare tinker without the utmost feeling of safety in his mind. It goes to say that Charlie Gavin McGraw held life close to his chest, instead of living it. Wednesday, April 14, 2004
WoW 1. Everyone needs...? 2. Addiction is the culmination of...? 3. The worst pesent you never asked for? 4. The best Jerry Springer episode title you can think of? 5. They're publishing an updated version of the 10 Commandments. Write 1 or more Commandments you'd like to see. I wish the Internet was available as much as I am. Day 9/21 I hope he's good at this. I think I'm good at this but it doesn't really matter does it? He does most of the work himself. It's all in the head for him. Me, I have to work with him on what I want. Honestly, if you'd like to know, I would gladly stay home and let a machine do this. But I'm oldish, as in thirties and I've had to succumb to the power of the dildo all throughout my mid twenties. I think it is the anticipation that makes it happen for me. That moment where he sticks his hand down my pants (well, hopefully my pants are off because that is just uncomfortable) and starts fondling through my pubes down towards my clit. Doe she know what he's doing? How much porn does he watch? Is it good porn? If it is he'll have some idea what he's doing and I won't have to guide him all the way. the Contiki tour of the vagine as I like to call it. On your left you have the labia, on the right the inner thigh, despite popular believe in sex videos we woman really don't care if you kiss there or not. Although, if your down there with something to kiss we're probably appreciating the effort. Unless your going to blow your nose, or pretend your blowing bubbles. I don't know about any other woman but when I get wet all over my man's face I almost feel guilty. I mean we have the choice with the cum. Spit. Swallow. Carpet stain. Us women, we're just bleeding bodily fluids all over them and they have to keep on going. This is a joke though. I don't really care. This guy is crap. I guess I better help him. If he knocks back my help like that guy last week then I'll lose it and just jump him, go dry, I don't care if it's awkward and gives him too much friction. I've had to put up with the chance of getting raped all my life, he can deal with a bit of pain. I hope he hates it, I'll enjoy it more. Bastard. Mother Fucker. Husband. Fuck it. Should've married the Energizer bunny. Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Day 8/21 When he thought of her, he looked as if he was thinking of a prostitute. If she knew this she surely wouldn't have agreed to meet him for coffee. She surely wouldn't have agreed to 33 minutes of time wasting conversation, two shots of flavoured caffeine and a strange stare from old man in the corner who was busily tapping away at his laptop. So what have you been up to? he said. Oh, you know. Yeah, I've being doing much the same. Grinding myself against the corporate stone. How is that? Some days good. Some days bad. Who needs balance? Fluctuation is what makes the market tick. She half expected him to drink his cappucino and make his hand speak at the same time. He didn't, and the conversation meandered on until they gave brilliant reasons for both to leave. He wondered (afterwards, men can't think on their feet and therefore do so retrospectively) how many men had treated her badly as to make her so cold; or if indeed it had only been one man, but that she loved him so much that her cruelty was left to be given to others. A father? A lover? Mr. Anonymous? It was surely the work of a a man; woman treat people badly with malice, not carelessness, or so he thought. A work of a woman is done so that the victim can complain with reasons as to why they're so upset. A man says something he will never remember, or even better says nothing at all and it can upset someone, even shatter them if they place such importance on the individual. But there is no point of reference, no explanation. All that is left to do is become cold and wear darker jackets. The pair depart on friendly terms, she hugs him, most strange seen as they're both wearing business suits. He says nothing and walks away, still feeling the intensity of the hug. She thinks of nothing as she makes her way to the sidewalk, she can find no reason to feel anything. The Weekly Review Seen: Strayed. *** Buffalo Solidiers. ***1/2 Read: Minority Report, By Philip K. Dick. *** Bought: Buffalo Solidiers. Adaptation. Weekly Words: (Home) Away from home. Week Rating: ***1/2 Day 7/21 A password. No shorter than 5 letters. Numbers allowed. Numbers often preffered. Phone numbers. Birthdays. Lotto numbers. Lucky numbers. Pet names are popular. Starsky. Piddles. Pussy. Puppy. Big fish. Password deined. No spaces allowed. Disregard. Pet names are easily guessed. Loved ones usual suspects. Nosy brother. Suspicious mother. Jealous cousin. All in order. Question those loved most first. Word plus number combination. Harder to guess. Name plus age slightly obvious. Be creative. Think films, books and lovers. Torrid love affairs. Hated ex-lovers. Charlotte. Any name beginning in A. Ex-lovers. Lovers you secretly hate. Obscure fantasies. Smart girls dressed as sluts. Oxymorons. Sex, love. Unbridled passions. Alcohol. Real passions? Chocolate. A true love? A name I can slur. Passwords are keys. Keys open doors. Cars. Houses. Locks. A 10 year-old's diary. Secret thoughts. Accumulated identifiers. Non-biodegradable semi-natural things. Forgot your password? Answer a question. What does nobody else know? Answer: my password. Pin numbers. Loved ones. Obscure words. Random numbers. Unknown combinations. I have them all. pyramid11. an4900. Iheartjesse. 4767-0. Once blind, now I see. There's a random thought. A given code. A teenage crush long gone. A catchy tune. I have it all. E-mail. Web account. Personal diary. Bank account. I'll do this. In seconds they're all gone. Goodbye. Share them. You can't remember them all. Trust your password to someone. Love thy password. Change it when nobody's watching. Access granted. Subject secure. Password forgotten. Sunday, April 11, 2004
Day 6/21 "What kind of fish will we catch?" "Snapper mainly. Possibly Silver Birch and some Pilchards." Two men, one old and one young, sit in a dinghy looking at an undefined spot between the rising sun and the water. Despite the valid attempt to divert their gaze from the horizon and the wearing of dark tinted sunglasses both squint constantly. "If we catch some Pilchards then we'll chuck them in that plastic bag and hook them on to the end of our lines later." Looking at the bloodied blue plastic bag the young man says, "So Pilchards don't have any real use?" "Only to catch bigger fish." Both men become engrossed in a long silence, although the silence of the sea is one of shifting winds and currents that keep a constant hush over proceedings. It is by no means uncomfortable or poignant. The young man thinks frenitically about where the fish are, how far away the ocean floor is from the wooden floor of the boat and if he's holding the rod properly. He watches the old man and trys to copy his style, dipping the rods end closer to the water and dragging the line in before casting off again. He has never fished before besides a few childish attempts on the riverbend. He used sticks and fishing line with bread tied on the end and caught small fish that he eventually killed when trying to rescue them from his own hook. The fish would gasp for air as he shrieked to his mother to come help him. Even though they are still inside the relative safety of the marina he thinks about dark objects rising from the sea and landing in the boat. In truth his greatest worry should be if his hook is getting caught in the seaweed. The old man stares patiently at the end of his rod, watching for movement. "You don't know much about fishing do you?" says the old man. "Not really. I suppose I have to ask what happens if we don't catch any fish? Do we just go to the local fish n' chipper?" "Nah. We'll go to that chicken place near home." "Won't the family be expecting fish?" "Yeah, I'm not a fan of fish though." A large trowler glides by as it heads out past the breakwater towards the ocean. The wake reaches the small dinghy and it nods up and down as both men reel in their lines to cast off towards the rocks. Saturday, April 10, 2004
Day 5/21 We’ll blag for a moment before I go talk cod shit to that number. Yeah, single life is all a numbers game. You gotta maximise your chances, so you hit a big flock of sheep like the big, bad wolf and hope you catch the little weak lambs with the tender flesh and fresh ideas about who you are and where your at as far as the social food chain goes. If they’re wearing green they’re sweet and innocent, if it’s red they’re sporty, and anything else is just what you want, a creature of habit and chance, a girl who likes to dance in a way that all good girls should. She dances to draw attention to herself. Now you may think I’m bad and sad, a rhyming cliché, but you don’t know anything about spinning more bad feeds than a DJ. I’m not happy living up to MTV recognition and getting my key in a girls ignition by telling a lie that’s become my life story. There’s no glory for those who can’t rest; for those who don’t sit back to admire a life of truth and the beauty sitting next to them. Those who comprehend lies as truth and believe a good line is the social elixir for all their problems. Friday, April 09, 2004
Day 4/21 A bar downtown. Both men speak over the music so they can be heard by the other. "Did she deserve it?" "She wanted it." "What? To be raped?" "She encouraged him." Silence. Their drinks arrive. "Okay, how did she encourage him?" "You already now the answer to that." "You're right, I just want to see if yours is different to mine." "Okay, whatever. You know those tight little jeans she was wearing..." He nods. " ...with the little black g-string hanging out just above the belt line...? He nods with a smile. "...and the bits of previously unseen flesh that are exposed by that tiny pink top." "Yeah!" "See man, if you were wearing tight pants I'd know for sure that you had an erection, but I'm just gonna guess anyways and say you have got one." "So what if I did? I wouldn't do anything, she's fuckin' fourteen." "Don't apologise man, it's her fuckin' fault, you're just experiencing some sort of primal instinct in reaction to her social camoflauge. It's her fuckin' fault if you bang her '." "But if I do it and she doesn't want to then it's my fault." "Oh no, see that's where you're wrong my man. By dressing the way she does and walking around like a little dick tease giving off all her sub-conscious and conscious flirtations she wants to be fucked right hard in the good spot 'till she bleeds." Silence. "How the fuck can you, of all people, have a girlfriend?" "I guess those little flirtations were for me?" "And all the other times?" "It's always consentual sex to me, man?" Silence. A sip of drinks. A blonde woman wearing large breasts and a small white dress walks into the bar. Through the dress both men can see that she is wearing a white g-string. One licks his lips, the other doesn't. They both grab their drinks and move off in different directions. I don't think anyone believes me when I tell them that Mount Gambier doesn't seem like home to me anymore. Now that I'm here I feel even more strongly the pull towards my real home, Wayville. I feel somewhat guilty that I haven't felt depressed or homesick, that there is no great longing for people, places or feelings from a place that feels somewhat alien to me now. I'm not trying to be above it, I just find it difficult to find my niche in a place I no longer belong. Right now I crave the city and you could almost say I'm homesick. I guess I've always been a creature built for loneliness, maybe that's what drew me to writing. And when I walk around the city by myself, seemingly alone, I'm filled with stories and ideas despite the observation of seeming alone, I'm very much in a big group of friends. There have been times when I could have succumbed to a melancholy feeling for some sort of stability: endless job and apartment rejections, social isolation and almost getting mugged. I could have cowered in a corner crying, but I felt no desire too. I feel intensely guilty about this, so please believe what I'm telling you is the truth. Don't make me pull out cliches like 'home is where the heart is'. Don't make me because I won't pretend that I'm going home. For me home is a place of endless possibilities. And although my first home of 18 years has dramatically shaped the way I am today I will not compare the home I have now or in the future to my first. Other news... Matt has made the his most 'honest' film so far. It's not because it's auto-biographical, anyone can tell their own version of the truth. It coagulates an idea about a hybrid emotion, because truth is a cliche' that everyone knows, honesty comes from someone sharing something of their soul. Thursday, April 08, 2004
Day 3/21 The sleep on her eyes is cold and moist, she has barely fallen asleep before she is awake again, although this time she will be more subdued than normal. She washes her face and showers before she even realises what her first thought for the day was. She forgets it instantly. It was a thought captured in a moment fossilised by stress. It went: The Deadline. Search. Carpark. Traffic Jam. Driveway. Lost Keys. No Food. Each preceding thought balanced and calculated before her feet have even touched the bedroom floor. What should she wear? Black. White. Something a-sexual. No flesh. She wants to glide through society today. Like a hot knife through butter? No. Like a piece of wet sandpaper applying the final finish. If she is slightly corrosive then it will seem as though she is there, when really she is trapped inside stress and panic; her thoughts frozen in the hope that more pleasant ones are imminent. She looks in the mirror before she leaves the house. She has no time for this but she does it anyway. She knows it will all be over the next time she looks in the mirror. 'One breathe, one step at a time', she tells herself. Although the mirror reflects her image it is a futile attempt to find anything out about herself. The next time she stares at herself in the mirror she will look exactly the same way and this may make her forget that everything about her has changed. Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Day 2/21 When he gets out of bed there is no thought to how I will react to his naked erection. Not hidden by any article of clothing it hangs mid air like an elephants would; looking abstractly brown attached to a body covered with pink flesh. Only the flesh isn’t pink this morning, it’s covered blue with goose bumps and sprigs of yellow and green bruises. He gazes at himself in the mirror and says, “Mutha fucka”, as he reaches for something to make him look a little less disheveled. “Were you talking me?” He doesn’t reply, instead he scrapes away at his skin, first with unchewed fingernails, then with tweezers and finally a razor. Occasionally he turns towards the bedroom, possibly feigning interest in watching me sleep, knowing full well that I’m awake. After he has cleansed every pore on his face, moisturized every follicle and seen to it that he looks nothing like he did thirty minutes earlier, he will come back to bed. His face against my shoulder is colder than his feet, but this is home and I must deal with him and all the other annoyances beyond the end of the bed. He is no longer hard, but soft and moist. He rubs it into the upper part of my leg as if gloating that he is still selfish enough to want to pleasure himself, whereas I’m too lazy to care for my misfortune; too tired to bother finding a cheap thrill. WoW 1. Home is....? 2. My favourite kind of cheese is...? 3. I once ate a hot dog that tasted like brocolli. Explain. 4. Hate turns to love when...? 5. Hate and love are the same thing. Discuss. It's a boy. Giddi-up! Tuesday, April 06, 2004
21 Days of Words.
I will write a piece of flash fiction everday for the next 21 days. Don't be alarmed, it is merely writing for the sake of writing. The Weekly Review Seen: A Man Escaped. **** Reservoir Dogs. **** Requiem for a Dream. **** Adaptation. ****1/2 Minority Report. **1/2 Read: Leaving Las Vegas, by John O'Brien. **** Bought: Sexing the Cherry, By Jeanette Winterson. Weekly Words: Comfortable in my discomfort. Week Rating: **** Day 1/21 A slime covers my teeth. It has no steady consistency, only thick globs between naturally stained teeth that haven't been brushed for days. The brush is too painful to use now. It makes the gums go white, then red, until they bleed in small amounts; dying the crevices between joining teeth a blackened magenta. The blood dries and the taste grows chalky - unfamiliar. Teeth can be cleaned with jelly, bread, napkins, Coca-Cola, just as long as nothing harms the gums. Gums that grow bigger everyday through lack of punishment by something stiff and uncomprimising. Gums that grow enormous as the teeth decay to small gems of golden plaque. A cavity is a sign of weakness. A cavity is a hole in bone that holds flesh; flesh that ripples with displeasure upon appointment. Needle. Swab. Drill. Suction. Drill. Fill. Heat. Treat. Rinse. Ugh! Numbness takes over the face. Drooling becomes a subconscious act, when was it ever conscious? There is no understanding of expression unless seen. No feeling or feelings unless they're externalised. Strange pause for a moment of loneliness. It wears off, as does the numbness and pain. In that order, without exception. |
