The purest of hearts, the bravest of souls
The strongest of spirit
He changed the world.
The strifes he overcame, the boundaries he unbounded, inspired.
The joy, the hope he brought to pass remains important, unlimited; extraordinary.
A shy quality pervaded his whole being, his quiet laughter, that child-like and effervescent smile.
The media, merciless in its pursuit, never held him down too long, like the phoenix, he always rose from the ashes they created and blanketed him beneath.
Pale as winter yet as bright as the sun, he shone down on us and shines down on us.
With the gold dust of greatness sprinkled all about him, his presence will be known and heard through the ages, always remembered, always cherished, never forgotten.
July 10, 2009
June 25, 2009
Vogue
There is an immense amount of prestige tied with the title Vogue; it automatically suggests style and class. Images of style icons of yesteryears immediately infiltrate your mind's eye at the mere mention of the word, possibly followed by the singing of Madonna's catchy tune, under your breath, of course.
The feature articles have substance; a quality that sets them apart from many others. They are well written and avant garde, the stories are innovatory and inspiring. Real women with real stories. Cutting edge fashion and cutting edge journalism. Accomplished writers such as Joan Didion once graced the pages of this publication, and she is well known to be extremely capable with words.
It's writers like these that give Vogue an immense amount of credibility which, in turn, wins it a loyal readership.
To some, fashion publications may seem to be devoid of actual substance because they seem solely focussed on the superficial.
But Vogue seems to strike a balance between the editorial authority of Vanity Fair whilst retaining the glamorous culture and free spirit of less text driven publications, making it fresh and strictly now. On the other end of spectrum you have magazine's such as Heat, which you can hardly accuse of being wolves in sheep's clothing. You can distinctly see what kind of publication Heat is simply by looking at the cover. Magazine's such as these are merely guilty pleasures.
Celebrity gossip, written solely for shock value, will not satisfy the reader of Vogue.
Nor will articles on how to get that Summer body in just two weeks, or the generic “15 ways to become a happier you” bit that often rears its uninspired head in some other fashion magazines.
The women who read Vogue are fashion and body conscious, fashion inspires them, as does travel and culture.
I'd say the average Vogue reader is in their mid to late 20's to their late 40's and 50's. The advertisements alone show a vast array of ages: Emporio Armani shows a young and flawless woman modeling their clothing whilst Dior shows an aging Sharon Stone advertising anti-aging cream.
There are many beauty and cosmetics advertisements; foundations, skin creams, tanning lotions, lipsticks, eyeliners and all manner of hair products, you name it, they advertise it. That tells us that these women like to take care of their appearance. There are a good number of Jewelery advertisements too, which just proves that diamonds still remain a girl's best friend.
Perhaps the readers are socialites, or merely career savvy, independent or its opposite, and intelligent. Whatever their various financial standings may be, these women have these characteristics in common.
Some may have the money to buy the couture on display and other's may just fantasize, or have lofty aspirations for the future, either way these women know good fashion, they would love nothing more than to wear a Chanel mini dress coupled with Jimmy Choo shoes and Miu Miu eyewear, but they also know a good read.
The feature articles have substance; a quality that sets them apart from many others. They are well written and avant garde, the stories are innovatory and inspiring. Real women with real stories. Cutting edge fashion and cutting edge journalism. Accomplished writers such as Joan Didion once graced the pages of this publication, and she is well known to be extremely capable with words.
It's writers like these that give Vogue an immense amount of credibility which, in turn, wins it a loyal readership.
To some, fashion publications may seem to be devoid of actual substance because they seem solely focussed on the superficial.
But Vogue seems to strike a balance between the editorial authority of Vanity Fair whilst retaining the glamorous culture and free spirit of less text driven publications, making it fresh and strictly now. On the other end of spectrum you have magazine's such as Heat, which you can hardly accuse of being wolves in sheep's clothing. You can distinctly see what kind of publication Heat is simply by looking at the cover. Magazine's such as these are merely guilty pleasures.
Celebrity gossip, written solely for shock value, will not satisfy the reader of Vogue.
Nor will articles on how to get that Summer body in just two weeks, or the generic “15 ways to become a happier you” bit that often rears its uninspired head in some other fashion magazines.
The women who read Vogue are fashion and body conscious, fashion inspires them, as does travel and culture.
I'd say the average Vogue reader is in their mid to late 20's to their late 40's and 50's. The advertisements alone show a vast array of ages: Emporio Armani shows a young and flawless woman modeling their clothing whilst Dior shows an aging Sharon Stone advertising anti-aging cream.
There are many beauty and cosmetics advertisements; foundations, skin creams, tanning lotions, lipsticks, eyeliners and all manner of hair products, you name it, they advertise it. That tells us that these women like to take care of their appearance. There are a good number of Jewelery advertisements too, which just proves that diamonds still remain a girl's best friend.
Perhaps the readers are socialites, or merely career savvy, independent or its opposite, and intelligent. Whatever their various financial standings may be, these women have these characteristics in common.
Some may have the money to buy the couture on display and other's may just fantasize, or have lofty aspirations for the future, either way these women know good fashion, they would love nothing more than to wear a Chanel mini dress coupled with Jimmy Choo shoes and Miu Miu eyewear, but they also know a good read.
June 14, 2009
Red Balloon
I've recently been hired as Red Balloon's freelance blogger!
Red Balloon is an arts and crafts website which informs the public of all things arty and crafty going on in South Africa, from painting classes and supply shops to handcrafted products and markets.
www.redballoon.co.za, have a look!
Red Balloon is an arts and crafts website which informs the public of all things arty and crafty going on in South Africa, from painting classes and supply shops to handcrafted products and markets.
www.redballoon.co.za, have a look!
June 13, 2009
Symptoms
There could be all manner of explanations as to why you feel certain ways on certain days, miss. But I am telling you now, there is nothing wrong with you. Physically, you're as healthy as a horse.
And looking at her, you would tend to agree - the sight of her is something to behold.
She has immaculate skin- a pale complexion, which by no means means she is less healthy than a more tanned, healthier looking woman, quite to the contrary in fact. Her eyes are black. Natures black; a dark shade of brown.
A good looking girl, so good looking in fact, that one might say she wouldn't need much in the way of brains, because everyone knows that if you are good looking you don't really need brains. It's just a perk if you have them.
But this good looking girl suffers. Which may make some people of the jealous variety rather happy to hear.
She gets bizarre headaches almost daily. They come in all shapes and sizes, these headaches. And the headaches are just the beginning.
Thus, she sits here, in the trusty doctors room and irritably taps her fingers on his dark wood desk.
I don't understand doctor, I certainly do not feel anywhere near as healthy as a horse. Quite the opposite in fact. Have I not come to you on many an occasion complaining of these very symptoms? Surely the mere fact that they are reoccurring is proof enough that I am most certainly not as healthy as a horse?
Or are you inadvertently suggesting that I am not altogether right up here?
As she said this, she pointed to her head.
Do you think I am imagining these headaches doctor? Because I can tell you right now, there are far better things I could be imagining, I can assure you of that!
And quite frankly doctor, I'm rather appalled at the very notion that you may suggest such a thing. I am not a crazy woman.
I simply am not well. And the more you tell me other wise, the more panicked I get and I am not a very sweet lady once panicked. So please, if you'll be so kind...
And with that she got up, took off her red coat and began toward the patient's bed behind the white curtain.
There were pokings and proddings and general testings of various body parts and then the doctor said right, you may get dressed.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, like I said, as healthy as a...
Sigh.
And looking at her, you would tend to agree - the sight of her is something to behold.
She has immaculate skin- a pale complexion, which by no means means she is less healthy than a more tanned, healthier looking woman, quite to the contrary in fact. Her eyes are black. Natures black; a dark shade of brown.
A good looking girl, so good looking in fact, that one might say she wouldn't need much in the way of brains, because everyone knows that if you are good looking you don't really need brains. It's just a perk if you have them.
But this good looking girl suffers. Which may make some people of the jealous variety rather happy to hear.
She gets bizarre headaches almost daily. They come in all shapes and sizes, these headaches. And the headaches are just the beginning.
Thus, she sits here, in the trusty doctors room and irritably taps her fingers on his dark wood desk.
I don't understand doctor, I certainly do not feel anywhere near as healthy as a horse. Quite the opposite in fact. Have I not come to you on many an occasion complaining of these very symptoms? Surely the mere fact that they are reoccurring is proof enough that I am most certainly not as healthy as a horse?
Or are you inadvertently suggesting that I am not altogether right up here?
As she said this, she pointed to her head.
Do you think I am imagining these headaches doctor? Because I can tell you right now, there are far better things I could be imagining, I can assure you of that!
And quite frankly doctor, I'm rather appalled at the very notion that you may suggest such a thing. I am not a crazy woman.
I simply am not well. And the more you tell me other wise, the more panicked I get and I am not a very sweet lady once panicked. So please, if you'll be so kind...
And with that she got up, took off her red coat and began toward the patient's bed behind the white curtain.
There were pokings and proddings and general testings of various body parts and then the doctor said right, you may get dressed.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, like I said, as healthy as a...
Sigh.
June 12, 2009
A small death
I just, well, I think we, um... I don't, that is I fear we... Have come to the end of our road, so to speak. I think perhaps we'd be better off as just...Friends.
She blinks up into the late morning sun seeing only his outline. His hands are placed nervously on his hips as he shifts from his left foot to his right and back again.
She looks down at her soiled hands, full of dirt and roses. Pink. They're shaking ever so slightly giving away, but only slightly, the state of her heart.
Every break up is a small death to us human folk. It's a fact. We lose something, something ends, abruptly or its opposite. Something dies.
Of course it doesn't have the finality of actual physical death, as there is always a chance, however small, that a break up is only temporary, a momentary lapse in love, as opposed to death of the flesh, which as we all know is pretty final.
Cars whir by, somewhere in a neighbours yard a dog barks, more cars. The sun becomes unbearably warm against her bare skin. She places the picked roses down beside her and lifts the garden scissors from the moist grass and begins again. Concentrating.
He shifts again.
More cars, more dogs.
Another batch of perfectly pink roses. She inhales and finds it rather difficult to exhale, he sighs. She sighs.
She gets up off ground, roses and scissors in hand, wipes her hands on her dirty not-so-blue jeans and begins up the garden path back toward the house, to the front door. She closes it behind her and runs a bath.
She blinks up into the late morning sun seeing only his outline. His hands are placed nervously on his hips as he shifts from his left foot to his right and back again.
She looks down at her soiled hands, full of dirt and roses. Pink. They're shaking ever so slightly giving away, but only slightly, the state of her heart.
Every break up is a small death to us human folk. It's a fact. We lose something, something ends, abruptly or its opposite. Something dies.
Of course it doesn't have the finality of actual physical death, as there is always a chance, however small, that a break up is only temporary, a momentary lapse in love, as opposed to death of the flesh, which as we all know is pretty final.
Cars whir by, somewhere in a neighbours yard a dog barks, more cars. The sun becomes unbearably warm against her bare skin. She places the picked roses down beside her and lifts the garden scissors from the moist grass and begins again. Concentrating.
He shifts again.
More cars, more dogs.
Another batch of perfectly pink roses. She inhales and finds it rather difficult to exhale, he sighs. She sighs.
She gets up off ground, roses and scissors in hand, wipes her hands on her dirty not-so-blue jeans and begins up the garden path back toward the house, to the front door. She closes it behind her and runs a bath.
June 11, 2009
Caress the detail, the divine detail
I'll tell you my dear; I'd be a wanderer, compass-less and afraid of the sun. The sky would remain blue and colourless.
Another one who doesn't know a damn thing.
It's in you. The darker blue which rims the lighter in your eyes, the
details.
My dear, you see, I maintain you know me well, you know me and you love me and I know you. Every beauty spot, every mole, every mark.
Never disillusioned. I know you.
Another one who doesn't know a damn thing.
It's in you. The darker blue which rims the lighter in your eyes, the
details.
My dear, you see, I maintain you know me well, you know me and you love me and I know you. Every beauty spot, every mole, every mark.
Never disillusioned. I know you.
June 10, 2009
E.N.E.R.G.Y
Fulfilling your dreams; what an assignment, such a responsibility!
What happens when you’ve been bound in one direction but suddenly find yourself dispirited, ambling toward a future you have lost the desire to obtain?
It happens so often nowadays, we become bored with our chosen career track, a bit blasé. Stoical, we get up every morning and hoist ourselves up on that treadmill and begin the mundane working day. It’s difficult to find the energy to start over, to begin everything again and your anxiety, the inevitable reservations you have, zap even more energy, spent worrying.
Energy, besides being the name of a Taiwanese pop boy band, is, by definition, the physical capacity to perform work, the ability to make something happen.
But we’re so programmed these days to achieve, achieve, achieve! No time for error or failure, you should know in your last couple of years of high school exactly what you want and where you wish to go.
And it’s great if you do, but a lot of the time we just choose the lesser of evils and go with it. Get a degree or diploma in business when what we really want to do is write, or paint.
And then we wake up 3 years later with the stark realization that we are unfulfilled and desperate to break free.
And what comes with that realization? An immense amount of fear.
And if we have been working hard in those years we’re also left beat and burned out.
Energy, like courage, is imperative to your contentment.
Take Joaquin Phoenix, a well respected, award winning actor who has admitted that he cares very little for the acting process and has decided to pursue a career in Hip Hop music. Although rumours are rife that it is all a big joke, which I would imagine is not the greatest compliment, as his talent in this area remains to be seen, he remains hell bent on proving them wrong.
More and more I hear of people changing, or wishing to change their choices, but just how easy is it? Sure, for someone like Joaquin Phoenix it is easier because he has the financial stability to pursue his untapped dreams, but he also risks losing credibility – Hollywood is, after all, extreme in its unforgiving nature. Not unlike many other industries out there.
All we have is our energy, but where is this elusive commodity?
So often we waste energy on things we don’t need. We go through life accumulating stuff – mostly unnecessary – using precious energy in the process. We then proceed to form attachments to said things and find it difficult to discard them.
We put them in order, build shelves for them, and move them around from one place to another even though we no longer have any real use for them. Stuff piles up, almost suffocating us. Excess baggage is nothing but a burden blocking our energy.
Get rid of the clutter, you tell yourself, that Chinese inspired top you’ve had since you were 16, the one you keep around just in case such an event arises in which you will absolutely need to wear it, that friendship which isn’t so much a friendship anymore but an obligation that zaps your energy, activities which become too much. We also have more energy when we can let go of past injustice, resentments and pain. Holding onto anger takes an immense amount of energy – letting go can set you free.
You’ve been wasting so much energy thinking about doing that tax return that’s been lying on your kitchen counter for the past 5 weeks instead of just doing it; the satisfaction of having done it will unblock the energy flow for sure. So why don’t you just sit down and get started? The chores we don’t do make us more tired than the ones we actually manage to do.
So, in conclusion, adopt Nike's famous and so true slogan: Just do it!
What have you got to lose, really?
What happens when you’ve been bound in one direction but suddenly find yourself dispirited, ambling toward a future you have lost the desire to obtain?
It happens so often nowadays, we become bored with our chosen career track, a bit blasé. Stoical, we get up every morning and hoist ourselves up on that treadmill and begin the mundane working day. It’s difficult to find the energy to start over, to begin everything again and your anxiety, the inevitable reservations you have, zap even more energy, spent worrying.
Energy, besides being the name of a Taiwanese pop boy band, is, by definition, the physical capacity to perform work, the ability to make something happen.
But we’re so programmed these days to achieve, achieve, achieve! No time for error or failure, you should know in your last couple of years of high school exactly what you want and where you wish to go.
And it’s great if you do, but a lot of the time we just choose the lesser of evils and go with it. Get a degree or diploma in business when what we really want to do is write, or paint.
And then we wake up 3 years later with the stark realization that we are unfulfilled and desperate to break free.
And what comes with that realization? An immense amount of fear.
And if we have been working hard in those years we’re also left beat and burned out.
Energy, like courage, is imperative to your contentment.
Take Joaquin Phoenix, a well respected, award winning actor who has admitted that he cares very little for the acting process and has decided to pursue a career in Hip Hop music. Although rumours are rife that it is all a big joke, which I would imagine is not the greatest compliment, as his talent in this area remains to be seen, he remains hell bent on proving them wrong.
More and more I hear of people changing, or wishing to change their choices, but just how easy is it? Sure, for someone like Joaquin Phoenix it is easier because he has the financial stability to pursue his untapped dreams, but he also risks losing credibility – Hollywood is, after all, extreme in its unforgiving nature. Not unlike many other industries out there.
All we have is our energy, but where is this elusive commodity?
So often we waste energy on things we don’t need. We go through life accumulating stuff – mostly unnecessary – using precious energy in the process. We then proceed to form attachments to said things and find it difficult to discard them.
We put them in order, build shelves for them, and move them around from one place to another even though we no longer have any real use for them. Stuff piles up, almost suffocating us. Excess baggage is nothing but a burden blocking our energy.
Get rid of the clutter, you tell yourself, that Chinese inspired top you’ve had since you were 16, the one you keep around just in case such an event arises in which you will absolutely need to wear it, that friendship which isn’t so much a friendship anymore but an obligation that zaps your energy, activities which become too much. We also have more energy when we can let go of past injustice, resentments and pain. Holding onto anger takes an immense amount of energy – letting go can set you free.
You’ve been wasting so much energy thinking about doing that tax return that’s been lying on your kitchen counter for the past 5 weeks instead of just doing it; the satisfaction of having done it will unblock the energy flow for sure. So why don’t you just sit down and get started? The chores we don’t do make us more tired than the ones we actually manage to do.
So, in conclusion, adopt Nike's famous and so true slogan: Just do it!
What have you got to lose, really?
June 9, 2009
Creepy
The sound of the rain and the appearance of the rain clouds were suitably atmospheric. As is often the case with scary stories. And as he told the scary story, the crackle of the fire directly behind him added a certain element to the way in which the words lazily left his mouth and rose in the stuffy air and disappeared with the smoke from the fire, which, it has to be said, was a touch out of control as far as indoor fires go. Of course, they were in the middle of nowhere, and of course the electricity had long been cut off due to the storm.
So now Jerry took to telling some not so scary scary stories for the benefit of his three friends who were mighty peeved that the weather had turned out to be so not what they had planned when they had planned this midweek getaway to the middle of nowhere. The plan had initially been sun and fun.
Yawns could be heard, and there was much sighing and much lighting of cigarettes, because, as everyone who smokes knows, to light a cigarette is to combat complete and utter boredom for as long as it takes to smoke that cigarette, which I've heard is around 5 to 7 minutes, depending on whether you smoke the cigarette right down to the end of the tobacco road, or, if you take flimsy puffs and eventually realise you didn't feel like the cigarette to begin with whereupon there is premature stabbings of butts in ashtrays. Or, if you're not allowed to smoke inside and your smoking outside and trying to make haste because no one likes to smoke outside, especially in the heat, or the rain or the wind, you become decidedly impatient and throw said cigarette, unfinished, over a wall or drop it and squash it with the heel of your shoe. 5 to 7 minutes. Give or take.
Yawning, sighing and smoking.
The rain is noisy and Jerry gives up, and one could hardly blame him. Tough crowd.
The fire is the only major source of light in the humble little cottage. The cottage's only redeeming factor is a large lake mere minutes, the number of which you could count successfully on one hand minus your opposable thumb, walk away. To be specific.
There's jerry, who considers Natural Born Killers to be the ultimate love story. He is inexplicably fond of Poodles and is known to frequent bars of the gay variety for reasons admittedly unmentioned by his three closest friends, Maureen, Casey and Phillip, for fear of the severe silence which inevitably ensues upon any mention that he may be just a little bit gay.
Phillip aka Philly aka Phil is, unlike Jerry, proudly and openly gay. He wears a lot of Pringle and Lacoste and he gels his hair back, not unlike Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale in American Psycho.
Maureen is pretty. Pretty in the way that Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz was. Is. Pretty. It has to be said that she is no hippie. She is a lawyer. Lawyers simply cannot be hippies. That's a fact known well.
Casey is, unbelievably, a teacher, of the pre-school persuasion. Unbelievable because Casey here is a closeted Nazi sympathizer as well as one of the most impatient people any of the three of her friends had ever come across and they had come to quite a bit of impatience, the three of them.
All in all, a creepy lot.
So there they sit, those four creepy friends, in the creepy cottage with the creepy weather outside.
It would seem to any sane person, or a knower, a knower who knows things like who Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale and Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz is, that this foursome is just more than a little creepy. If you are not a knower of such trivialities, Google it. But what it wouldn't seem like to a sane person or a knower or anyone else for that matter, is that this particular trio plus one or twosome plus two are, well, aliens.
Now, I know what you're thinking.
At least, I can guess, and my guess is that you think I'm lying.
You would be right.
They are not aliens.
So now Jerry took to telling some not so scary scary stories for the benefit of his three friends who were mighty peeved that the weather had turned out to be so not what they had planned when they had planned this midweek getaway to the middle of nowhere. The plan had initially been sun and fun.
Yawns could be heard, and there was much sighing and much lighting of cigarettes, because, as everyone who smokes knows, to light a cigarette is to combat complete and utter boredom for as long as it takes to smoke that cigarette, which I've heard is around 5 to 7 minutes, depending on whether you smoke the cigarette right down to the end of the tobacco road, or, if you take flimsy puffs and eventually realise you didn't feel like the cigarette to begin with whereupon there is premature stabbings of butts in ashtrays. Or, if you're not allowed to smoke inside and your smoking outside and trying to make haste because no one likes to smoke outside, especially in the heat, or the rain or the wind, you become decidedly impatient and throw said cigarette, unfinished, over a wall or drop it and squash it with the heel of your shoe. 5 to 7 minutes. Give or take.
Yawning, sighing and smoking.
The rain is noisy and Jerry gives up, and one could hardly blame him. Tough crowd.
The fire is the only major source of light in the humble little cottage. The cottage's only redeeming factor is a large lake mere minutes, the number of which you could count successfully on one hand minus your opposable thumb, walk away. To be specific.
There's jerry, who considers Natural Born Killers to be the ultimate love story. He is inexplicably fond of Poodles and is known to frequent bars of the gay variety for reasons admittedly unmentioned by his three closest friends, Maureen, Casey and Phillip, for fear of the severe silence which inevitably ensues upon any mention that he may be just a little bit gay.
Phillip aka Philly aka Phil is, unlike Jerry, proudly and openly gay. He wears a lot of Pringle and Lacoste and he gels his hair back, not unlike Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale in American Psycho.
Maureen is pretty. Pretty in the way that Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz was. Is. Pretty. It has to be said that she is no hippie. She is a lawyer. Lawyers simply cannot be hippies. That's a fact known well.
Casey is, unbelievably, a teacher, of the pre-school persuasion. Unbelievable because Casey here is a closeted Nazi sympathizer as well as one of the most impatient people any of the three of her friends had ever come across and they had come to quite a bit of impatience, the three of them.
All in all, a creepy lot.
So there they sit, those four creepy friends, in the creepy cottage with the creepy weather outside.
It would seem to any sane person, or a knower, a knower who knows things like who Patrick Bateman aka Christian Bale and Susan Atkins aka Sadie Glutz is, that this foursome is just more than a little creepy. If you are not a knower of such trivialities, Google it. But what it wouldn't seem like to a sane person or a knower or anyone else for that matter, is that this particular trio plus one or twosome plus two are, well, aliens.
Now, I know what you're thinking.
At least, I can guess, and my guess is that you think I'm lying.
You would be right.
They are not aliens.
June 8, 2009
Unforgotten
How lucky we are.
Lucky doesn't even begin to describe it.
Mothers smothering their babies for fear that the German officers would hear their screams and find them.
Fathers and grandfathers humiliated, beaten, ordered off the pavement and into the gutter.
Humiliated doesn't even begin to describe it.
Families torn apart, brutally thrust out of each others arms, separated, forever.
Wives weeping for their husbands. Walking and weeping, searching.
Their loves , their lives, vanished.
Torn.
No peace, quiescence.
Irrevocably and irreversibly afraid. Every bomb blast, every gun fire, every scream or knock on the door.
Burning bodies on the street, children starving to death nearby.
Trembling hands, quivering lips. Sadness.
Shamed.
Soul disfigured.
The law. Merciless, pitiless, relentless.
Savage.
Humans eliminated like vermin for a man's sickness. For a man's hate.
Those people I will remember, and love.
They couldn't possibly have died, like that, in vain.
Unforgotten.
Lucky doesn't even begin to describe it.
Mothers smothering their babies for fear that the German officers would hear their screams and find them.
Fathers and grandfathers humiliated, beaten, ordered off the pavement and into the gutter.
Humiliated doesn't even begin to describe it.
Families torn apart, brutally thrust out of each others arms, separated, forever.
Wives weeping for their husbands. Walking and weeping, searching.
Their loves , their lives, vanished.
Torn.
No peace, quiescence.
Irrevocably and irreversibly afraid. Every bomb blast, every gun fire, every scream or knock on the door.
Burning bodies on the street, children starving to death nearby.
Trembling hands, quivering lips. Sadness.
Shamed.
Soul disfigured.
The law. Merciless, pitiless, relentless.
Savage.
Humans eliminated like vermin for a man's sickness. For a man's hate.
Those people I will remember, and love.
They couldn't possibly have died, like that, in vain.
Unforgotten.
June 7, 2009
A thought on the afterlife
I don't pretend to know what the afterlife will be like, or if there even is an afterlife to imagine at all. These are things I know very little of, and by very little I mean nothing whatever. I know I am here and that is where my surety ends. I don't have faith in large amounts or, at times, much at all; I have an unending list of questions of which I have very few answers and the answers that I do have are unsatisfactory to say the very least. So. I don't know.
I hope for something wonderfully surprising.
I know how I think it should be and how I'd like it to be.
I know that I wouldn't want to worship a god who would send someone to burn in a hell for eternity.
But I believe in a God, a higher power who watches from above, our creator.
I know I can't sit in a crowd whilst a man stands upon a stage and tells me how to live and feel and what to think and do. A man who has been told by another man and that man has been told by another and so on and so forth.
I tried it once and never felt more alone. More rotten. More lied to.
I know I don't believe a book that has been written and re-written by man for thousands of years to be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.
This is what I know of myself.
Of what I believe.
I'd like to think, as horribly cliched as it may seem, that soul mates merge together once they die and never leave each other, and live on. On to another life. Together. With families and friends and joy.
And all the hurt and doubt and fear dissipates and never returns. I'd like to believe that.
That would be my Heaven.
I'd like to believe that everybody, at their core, is good.
It's hard. Probably the hardest hope to hope.
Someone once wrote that one cannot go through life with one's eyes always open and that sentence has stuck with me. Though there may be many interpretations of it, I know what it means to me.
I know I have to believe in the good.
Other wise, what is there and more importantly how do we get through it?
I hope for something wonderfully surprising.
I know how I think it should be and how I'd like it to be.
I know that I wouldn't want to worship a god who would send someone to burn in a hell for eternity.
But I believe in a God, a higher power who watches from above, our creator.
I know I can't sit in a crowd whilst a man stands upon a stage and tells me how to live and feel and what to think and do. A man who has been told by another man and that man has been told by another and so on and so forth.
I tried it once and never felt more alone. More rotten. More lied to.
I know I don't believe a book that has been written and re-written by man for thousands of years to be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.
This is what I know of myself.
Of what I believe.
I'd like to think, as horribly cliched as it may seem, that soul mates merge together once they die and never leave each other, and live on. On to another life. Together. With families and friends and joy.
And all the hurt and doubt and fear dissipates and never returns. I'd like to believe that.
That would be my Heaven.
I'd like to believe that everybody, at their core, is good.
It's hard. Probably the hardest hope to hope.
Someone once wrote that one cannot go through life with one's eyes always open and that sentence has stuck with me. Though there may be many interpretations of it, I know what it means to me.
I know I have to believe in the good.
Other wise, what is there and more importantly how do we get through it?
May 29, 2009
Life is simple for Lisa
As happy as a cupcake in frilly packaging, she wears frilly dresses and frilly smiles, and even though one would scarcely use the word frilly to describe a smile, it seems appropriate to describe Lisa's smile. It's what she was made to do. That sweet girl. With her frilly smile.
She runs about with her camera all day long taking happy snaps of happy moments on happy days where the sky is always blue and if not blue then a wonderful shade of gray.
For nothing and no day is less than wonderful for Lisa and she'll be the first to have you know it.
She poses and pouts and thinks oh how fair I am, she parades her pictures for the world to see, so proud of her eyes and her hair and her lips. A mirror and a lens is all she needs.
And perhaps a piece of paper, because writing it down is lovely too.
So pretty.
So empty.
Life is simple for her. Because she fakes a frilly smile.
Life is simple for her. Because she sees only her reflection.
She runs about with her camera all day long taking happy snaps of happy moments on happy days where the sky is always blue and if not blue then a wonderful shade of gray.
For nothing and no day is less than wonderful for Lisa and she'll be the first to have you know it.
She poses and pouts and thinks oh how fair I am, she parades her pictures for the world to see, so proud of her eyes and her hair and her lips. A mirror and a lens is all she needs.
And perhaps a piece of paper, because writing it down is lovely too.
So pretty.
So empty.
Life is simple for her. Because she fakes a frilly smile.
Life is simple for her. Because she sees only her reflection.
May 27, 2009
A hopeful ghost
So I am a writer of the freelance variety, and right now I am writing and earning money as a, suitably named, 'ghostwriter'.
In the literary world, the one I admire so much, I am, by all intents and purposes, a ghost. The way I see it, perhaps the way I attempt to console myself, is I am gaining experience skulking about in the shadows so that when, eventually, I walk out into the light ,I'm ready.
The light; so damn daunting.
Lack of confidence stems from fear. A fear that, as one might find oneself in the wrong queue at the Department of Home Affairs, I've somehow ended up in the wrong career queue.
Everything seems stupid when it fails.
So I'm hopeful that this is clever.
In the literary world, the one I admire so much, I am, by all intents and purposes, a ghost. The way I see it, perhaps the way I attempt to console myself, is I am gaining experience skulking about in the shadows so that when, eventually, I walk out into the light ,I'm ready.
The light; so damn daunting.
Lack of confidence stems from fear. A fear that, as one might find oneself in the wrong queue at the Department of Home Affairs, I've somehow ended up in the wrong career queue.
Everything seems stupid when it fails.
So I'm hopeful that this is clever.
The Edward Delusion
He has pallid skin, an all-consuming stare, carelessly kept hair and he says all the right things in all the most paradisaical locations and he stares at the girl he has been waiting for his whole life – and that’s a long time - with those deep, intensely mysterious eyes; he is perfection personified, out-of-this-world-romantic, flawless and…
He’s not real.
Edward Cullen is a character written for the purpose of being every girl’s fantasy, every girl’s dream and I haven't met a girl yet who doesn't agree. Stephanie Meyer has certainly succeeded but in doing so, has she created irrevocably unrealistic expectations of beautiful men for young women?
We’ve seen it before, smitten tweens the world over glorifying the male stars that appear in teenage romance films, my Robert Pattinson was Leonardo Di Caprio and I remember how obsessed I was with him. My friends and I must have watched Romeo + Juliet a thousand times just for glimpses of him in the early morning light, smoking a cigarette whilst writing profound poetry of an unintelligible nature, at least unintelligible for a 12 year old, or for those adorable scenes by Juliet’s pool after the Capulet soiree.
But we’ve never encountered such a perfect character as Edward, sure, Leo was Romeo but Edward is the modern day Romeo and a vampire to boot, and vampires are oh so popular right now. Vampires of yesteryears have hardly been portrayed as gentle and loving beings, like the Cullen family are, but they are fast becoming known as just that.
We’ve been idolizing stars since the dawn of time and every so often you ask yourself why, when they are so flawed, and we can blatantly see that when we pick up Heat magazine on any given day, and we are constantly reminded that the beauties we see on the covers of fashion magazines rarely if ever look that stunning. The faces and bodies we see on those covers are all thanks to the wizardry of air brushing. The conclusion I draw is that we see their roles in film as who they are; we like to think we know the difference and we do, to some degree, but we still see them as their perfect, or perfectly imperfect roles on screen. We’ll always see Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen, the lion in a vampiric love story. Mostly, when girls speak of him, they say Edward, not Robert, which is proof enough.
Yes, Robert Pattinson has sex appeal, and he's possibly quite charming and probably a little bad and all those other characteristics that women love to love and hate in men but, as can be said for every celebrity out there, he is not the role he plays on screen. If he was, he would be a promising young wizard who died during the Triwizard Tournament, a surrealist painter who was a little left of center and died at the age of 84. The list could go on.
I've always been intrigued by celebrity culture, what's not intriguing about it? But to worshipfully gaze upon them as somehow superior, the very epitome of perfection is unhealthy, especially to young minds in their formative years.
Having said all that, I really admire the Twilight stories for their romanticism. The films themselves are shot beautifully in my favourite kind of weather; rainy. And even though I no longer crush obsessively on male celebrities, I can fathom what all the fuss is about.
He’s not real.
Edward Cullen is a character written for the purpose of being every girl’s fantasy, every girl’s dream and I haven't met a girl yet who doesn't agree. Stephanie Meyer has certainly succeeded but in doing so, has she created irrevocably unrealistic expectations of beautiful men for young women?
We’ve seen it before, smitten tweens the world over glorifying the male stars that appear in teenage romance films, my Robert Pattinson was Leonardo Di Caprio and I remember how obsessed I was with him. My friends and I must have watched Romeo + Juliet a thousand times just for glimpses of him in the early morning light, smoking a cigarette whilst writing profound poetry of an unintelligible nature, at least unintelligible for a 12 year old, or for those adorable scenes by Juliet’s pool after the Capulet soiree.
But we’ve never encountered such a perfect character as Edward, sure, Leo was Romeo but Edward is the modern day Romeo and a vampire to boot, and vampires are oh so popular right now. Vampires of yesteryears have hardly been portrayed as gentle and loving beings, like the Cullen family are, but they are fast becoming known as just that.
We’ve been idolizing stars since the dawn of time and every so often you ask yourself why, when they are so flawed, and we can blatantly see that when we pick up Heat magazine on any given day, and we are constantly reminded that the beauties we see on the covers of fashion magazines rarely if ever look that stunning. The faces and bodies we see on those covers are all thanks to the wizardry of air brushing. The conclusion I draw is that we see their roles in film as who they are; we like to think we know the difference and we do, to some degree, but we still see them as their perfect, or perfectly imperfect roles on screen. We’ll always see Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen, the lion in a vampiric love story. Mostly, when girls speak of him, they say Edward, not Robert, which is proof enough.
Yes, Robert Pattinson has sex appeal, and he's possibly quite charming and probably a little bad and all those other characteristics that women love to love and hate in men but, as can be said for every celebrity out there, he is not the role he plays on screen. If he was, he would be a promising young wizard who died during the Triwizard Tournament, a surrealist painter who was a little left of center and died at the age of 84. The list could go on.
I've always been intrigued by celebrity culture, what's not intriguing about it? But to worshipfully gaze upon them as somehow superior, the very epitome of perfection is unhealthy, especially to young minds in their formative years.
Having said all that, I really admire the Twilight stories for their romanticism. The films themselves are shot beautifully in my favourite kind of weather; rainy. And even though I no longer crush obsessively on male celebrities, I can fathom what all the fuss is about.
May 26, 2009
Just ordinary Friday night screams
She sits on her bed chatting carelessly to a friend
Cushions supporting her back supporting the life perfectly formed in her stomach.
They creep and crawl in the sticky night canyon warmth
Cutting the telephone lines, trudging up the hill, over the fence and down the driveway
There's a Porsche, a yellow Firebird and a Camaro.
He sits on the side of the bed next to his pregnant friend
They're talking and laughing and happy.
He's drinking beer. He's probably high.
Bang. There's a boy in a car and one kills him.
She too is in bed, the brunette. She's reading. She's comfortable.
She's safe. She's content.
One goes to the electric gate to keep guard
She spies the dead boy in the car.
The three others go around the back and break in.
He's laying on the big beige sofa in a mescaline daze
He too is safe, he too is content.
One enters and sees a man on a big beige sofa, seemingly asleep.
Another one checks the bedrooms and sees the beautiful mother-to-be in bed chatting to her friend who is probably high sitting on the side. And she sees the brunette in another bed in another room, immersed in a book yet she looks up and waves. The another one goes back and informs the other two that there are three others in the house.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote howls. The only sound for miles.
The one holds a gun to the head of the man dozing on the big beige sofa.
Who are you?
I'm the devil and I'm here to do the devil's business.
The neighbours will recall hearing screams.
Just ordinary Friday night screams.
Cushions supporting her back supporting the life perfectly formed in her stomach.
They creep and crawl in the sticky night canyon warmth
Cutting the telephone lines, trudging up the hill, over the fence and down the driveway
There's a Porsche, a yellow Firebird and a Camaro.
He sits on the side of the bed next to his pregnant friend
They're talking and laughing and happy.
He's drinking beer. He's probably high.
Bang. There's a boy in a car and one kills him.
She too is in bed, the brunette. She's reading. She's comfortable.
She's safe. She's content.
One goes to the electric gate to keep guard
She spies the dead boy in the car.
The three others go around the back and break in.
He's laying on the big beige sofa in a mescaline daze
He too is safe, he too is content.
One enters and sees a man on a big beige sofa, seemingly asleep.
Another one checks the bedrooms and sees the beautiful mother-to-be in bed chatting to her friend who is probably high sitting on the side. And she sees the brunette in another bed in another room, immersed in a book yet she looks up and waves. The another one goes back and informs the other two that there are three others in the house.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote howls. The only sound for miles.
The one holds a gun to the head of the man dozing on the big beige sofa.
Who are you?
I'm the devil and I'm here to do the devil's business.
The neighbours will recall hearing screams.
Just ordinary Friday night screams.
May 19, 2009
Sanity, gone with the wind
Kahil Gibran had it right when he said, “For what is it to die, but to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?” Only, I don't think he meant it in quite the same way I mean it.
It's windy and I'm moody. Why?
Bob Dylan thinks the answer is blowing in the wind, I beg to differ. It's all quite scientific actually. There is a logical albeit completely unsatisfying reason for the madness in the wind. Ions. Or atoms. Or charged molecules. Now without getting too much into the science of it, and by too much I mean not really at all, it has something to do with the friction of these ions, negative and positive (which as it happens, is not so positive a word in this case). Essentially, it messes with our bodies and our moods.
The Santa Ana winds for example, which blow through the desert like the devil, are extremely dry and powerful, violent and unpredictable. According to Joan Didion, it's the wind that shows us how close to the edge we are.
I've never experienced this legendary wind, though I've read about it in literature, old and new, and I've heard it referred to in music and film, and as dangerously damaging as it sounds, I'd like to, at least once, experience the sheer force of it.
It kindles fires; burning hills, burning passions.
The wind encircles you, entwines itself around and through you, enveloping you. Merciless in it's scorching speed, it weaves around shop corners and parks.
Tempestuous, boisterous, wild and bombastic. Meandering.
It has to be said that I truly, truly detest the wind. Messing up perfectly good hair is not the only thing which disturbs and agitates me, although, yes, it is a definite factor.
I once knew a girl who would refuse to go to school if it was windy. I was never that extreme, but I get it.
I'd rather be a-soaking in the rain or dancing in the gentle pearly snow; wind is the element that would keep me indoors.
Myth has it that suicide and homicide rates reach all time highs during the Santa Ana winds, which reminds me of something else my favourite journalist, Joan Didion, wrote. “The season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.”
Wind is quite literally my worst nightmare, what hell would be like if hell existed.
Bad winds cause a plethora of physical torments such as headaches (give me Chinese water torture before a headache any day!), nausea (see previous bracketed comment), fatigue (see also: lazy, like a ceiling fan slowly, lethargically turning), asthma, water retention and a slower reaction time. And that's just the physical aspects...
Emotional, nervous, irritated, listless, insecure? Apathetic, anxious, depressed? Blame it on the wind.
Wind provokes me, it jeers as it wisps past in a hurry. I claim temporary insanity. All bets are off.
Pablo Picasso once said that the older you get the stronger the wind gets, and that it's always in your face. Now that I believe.
It's windy and I'm moody. Why?
Bob Dylan thinks the answer is blowing in the wind, I beg to differ. It's all quite scientific actually. There is a logical albeit completely unsatisfying reason for the madness in the wind. Ions. Or atoms. Or charged molecules. Now without getting too much into the science of it, and by too much I mean not really at all, it has something to do with the friction of these ions, negative and positive (which as it happens, is not so positive a word in this case). Essentially, it messes with our bodies and our moods.
The Santa Ana winds for example, which blow through the desert like the devil, are extremely dry and powerful, violent and unpredictable. According to Joan Didion, it's the wind that shows us how close to the edge we are.
I've never experienced this legendary wind, though I've read about it in literature, old and new, and I've heard it referred to in music and film, and as dangerously damaging as it sounds, I'd like to, at least once, experience the sheer force of it.
It kindles fires; burning hills, burning passions.
The wind encircles you, entwines itself around and through you, enveloping you. Merciless in it's scorching speed, it weaves around shop corners and parks.
Tempestuous, boisterous, wild and bombastic. Meandering.
It has to be said that I truly, truly detest the wind. Messing up perfectly good hair is not the only thing which disturbs and agitates me, although, yes, it is a definite factor.
I once knew a girl who would refuse to go to school if it was windy. I was never that extreme, but I get it.
I'd rather be a-soaking in the rain or dancing in the gentle pearly snow; wind is the element that would keep me indoors.
Myth has it that suicide and homicide rates reach all time highs during the Santa Ana winds, which reminds me of something else my favourite journalist, Joan Didion, wrote. “The season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.”
Wind is quite literally my worst nightmare, what hell would be like if hell existed.
Bad winds cause a plethora of physical torments such as headaches (give me Chinese water torture before a headache any day!), nausea (see previous bracketed comment), fatigue (see also: lazy, like a ceiling fan slowly, lethargically turning), asthma, water retention and a slower reaction time. And that's just the physical aspects...
Emotional, nervous, irritated, listless, insecure? Apathetic, anxious, depressed? Blame it on the wind.
Wind provokes me, it jeers as it wisps past in a hurry. I claim temporary insanity. All bets are off.
Pablo Picasso once said that the older you get the stronger the wind gets, and that it's always in your face. Now that I believe.
April 21, 2009
March 20, 2009
Religious Experience or; Jeff Buckley
Having nothing to do with Jesus, the Pope or any rabbi, nor Haile Selassie or Buddha, or Oprah; my help comes from a voice of a man long gone.
When I am in need of some spiritual healing, or just some good old fashioned wallowing, as is the case so often, I turn to a voice that sends those shivers down my spine, the ones that love songs always speak of. The voice belongs to a man named Jeff Buckley, the album: Grace, my knee jerk reaction to sadness or melancholy; I automatically rummage through my endless array of loose compact discs, my eyes trained to spot the white text on black; my therapy.
It’s not so much the fact that the lyrics drifting around me and eventually blanketing me heal me, per se, it’s the lyrics coinciding with the whiskey warmness of the voice and the sound of the melody, the sound of the guitar strings. The combination feeds the hungriest souls.
Listening, I feel neither comfort nor it’s opposite. There’s anxiety, something tight which leaves me vulnerable, almost exposed.
The music is there in that moment, only for you. The way music always is.
When I am in need of some spiritual healing, or just some good old fashioned wallowing, as is the case so often, I turn to a voice that sends those shivers down my spine, the ones that love songs always speak of. The voice belongs to a man named Jeff Buckley, the album: Grace, my knee jerk reaction to sadness or melancholy; I automatically rummage through my endless array of loose compact discs, my eyes trained to spot the white text on black; my therapy.
It’s not so much the fact that the lyrics drifting around me and eventually blanketing me heal me, per se, it’s the lyrics coinciding with the whiskey warmness of the voice and the sound of the melody, the sound of the guitar strings. The combination feeds the hungriest souls.
Listening, I feel neither comfort nor it’s opposite. There’s anxiety, something tight which leaves me vulnerable, almost exposed.
The music is there in that moment, only for you. The way music always is.
Ms Adams’ engagement
Gabriella Adams has absolutely no interest in the past – I do. She says she sees no point in rehashing moments that don’t exist anymore; she wishes she had Alzheimer’s or some such brain disease to let her live today and not let yesterday interfere. She knows I don’t agree so I don’t tell her again.
A weeping woman beholds Ms Adams’ beauty from afar and flashes of white surround us constantly, moving with us as we make our way to the iridescent night coloured limousine. I can’t quite fathom this woman, on her knees with awe, she doesn’t seem unfortunate looking to me nor does she seem particularly desperate for attention of any kind. Yet there she is on a heated sidewalk, seemingly in mourning for a superstar. It is not so much of a rare sight yet it still disturbs me, I don’t give it any extra thought though after my initial observation, we’re late.
Despite Gabriella’s insistence that she didn’t keep up with where the beautiful people ate, she always managed to pick the spot where they did and, subsequently, where the vultures with large lenses hung out for that specific reason. I knew this too but like so many things I didn’t say anything so as not to agitate her further. She always seemed to be somewhat agitated. Almost as if she was always on the defensive, ready to fight if provoked by anyone. It seemed to me that this kind of state of being made her guilt visible, her flakiness. A visibility she was unaware of I assume.
There were many things about Ms Adams that seemed artificial; her absolute love of a stiff drink for one. I happen to be quite an observant creature and over the years I have noticed that upon receiving her Brandy, or Whiskey, she would wait quite a while before her first sip, now, I can’t be unmistakably sure, but I suspect she waited for the ice to dilute the alcohol somewhat. This is a small testament to her flakiness, granted, but I’ve always believed it’s the small things that are the big things.
We’re in the limousine now and she is quiet, almost lethargic I notice. Maybe she ate too much. She seems lost in the light that streams in from the window and as I watch the strands of hair that swim around her unnaturally beautiful face I wonder what thoughts fill her mind, she leads such an unexamined life, I wonder if she took the time to really get to know herself, what would she discover? Would she feel less alone if she knew the rest of the world felt alone too?
Gabriella primped and preened herself before interviews and press junkets, before red carpet events and quick trips to the grocery store, a sight which, even in all my years with her, still amazed me. She loved the media and their pens. She loved that they held such fascination and interest in her. She loved that they always seemed to want to talk with her, and they seemed to her to really listen. I think that is why she loved them. They listened to the thoughts and stories that those around her were bored of, or, even worse, that those around her were never interested in to begin with.
Media whores, such attention seekers.
Her fiancé was a true man of routine; he got home between 19:30-19:35 every evening, almost always his phone was pressed to his ear as he entered the front door. He’d pour himself a Bourbon and head to the master bedroom whereupon he would undress whilst taking slow sips of his drink. He would then walk into the shower; he never turned the water on all the way as he preferred a light trickle as opposed to hard rain. He would then traipse around in his fluffy black robe for the remainder of the night. He also liked to light up a joint sometime between his shower and dinner. Ms Adams never liked to get stoned. She told me once why. Everything felt like a show, she said. Like a movie, everyone had their generic roles – and played them well. It always terrified her. And she said it always took her far too long for the smoke to lift, and instead of giggling and enjoying the highness she’d feel depressed, kind of neurotic, looking into what her life must be; an endless parade of parties, facials and diluted drinks. It all seemed so obvious to her when she was stoned but when she arose from the mist she’d try to forget and eventually she would.
It also never occurred to Ms Adams that people die. Whenever there was a death in her circle she’d retreat for weeks, sometimes months, weeping why, why, why? How did this happen? Impossible, she’d shout.
After a few days she’d calm down but I much preferred hysterical to blank eyes. She’d lay in the darkness at noon, she’d lay there on the soft carpet, sleuthing, writhing around like somebody trying to fall asleep in a heat wave, always sighing.
After the initial shock wore off, after the weeks of indifference to anything, she’d begin the process of forgetting.
I remember the sugary, milk-like emulsion in bottles of medicinal syrup, she said vaguely once, in her zombie-like state. It’s whiteness, the sweetness. She said she used to sneak sips of it whenever there was a bottle in the fridge.
It’s these little trinkets of memory which seem to take ownership over her mind during these times. She felt hardly nostalgic, au contraire, she felt silent anger.
She told me she’s always eaten like she’s read; too much and too fast. This is true. She orders too much food for one relatively small woman and wolfs it down much like someone who is being chased down by the hounds of hell. As a result of this she’ll probably end up not so relatively a small woman. It’s like she’s waiting for something or someone to take her plate from her; she’s as irrational as it gets sometimes, that is why these moments of lucidity whence she recaptures childhood whims, disturb me so. She never looks back, she takes heed from Lot’s wife, she believes that looking back is detrimental to one’s sane life. She believes this because she knows that no one gets over anything bad, one never forgets, at least she knows she never has. One merely learns acceptance.
In the limousine I am thinking of all these things as I stare at her. I remember details and minutes which always seem more like hours with her. She holds such gravity, an immense weight. My eyes roam from the diamond rock on her ring finger to the nervous picking of her fingernails. She looks at me and smiles. She trusts me I think, more than anyone else. I presume it’s partly because I’m a woman and she’s always trusted women, and partly because I seem harmless and uncompetitive. The opposite of ruthless, the opposite of ambitious. I don’t communicate myself well; I’ll be the first to admit. Probably no one really knows me. Least of all myself. But she seems to think she does and that’s good enough for her I suppose. I suppose that’s even good enough for me. I don’t need to be anyone specifically; I can be anyone, whatever the day calls for.
We arrive at the dilapidated building in the centre of an industrial waste ground. The photographer has gained plenty of notoriety in that he always shoots his “models” in the ugliest of surroundings so as to make them appear even more immaculate than they already are, and if the dirty background doesn’t do the job effectively, a couple minutes air brushing in his studio will most certainly do the trick.
Gabriella’s sombre countenance adds wonderfully to the mood of the shoot, so Miguel says and leads us to wear my favourite people are: the make-up girls. I adore listening to them banter and gossip, there really is no need to form a thought of your own whilst in their presence.
The shoot runs longer than anticipated, which leaves Ms Adams tense; it always does. She has a fear of time, Chronophobia I believe they call it. I’m not certain as to why; it could be a number of things. It could be the fact that her mortality has been shown to her many times in the form of friends who have passed away and this accelerates her need to be constantly busy, never wasting a moment, this is the theory I least believe. There are too many holes in it, the contents of which I won’t get into at this time. Another theory is that she is wound too tight. This is more of an observation than a theory but it could certainly be the root of her time issues. Or it could be a frustration with people for not being on time, or not finishing on time. She is always consistently courteous, albeit, highly strung when it comes to her time and the time of others and she detests it when she is not extended the same courtesy.
I could theorise the ways of Ms Adams all day without taking a breath but I would never be any closer to understanding her. She is every woman, as Shaka Khan sang many a moon ago.
The sun was beginning to make its decent into the sea when the shoot was finally wrapped. Ms Adams was at the end of her rope, she needed sustenance and she needed it fast. I remembered seeing a Pizza Hut on the way and I proposed we stop by and get a take away. Gabriella was like a little child when it came to pizza, although I imagine that every female star concerned with body image behaved like a child when they could see pizza in their near future, she became immediately responsive, excited and chatty. I enjoyed seeing her this way, almost selflessly, I say almost because it made me feel as if I was 14 again, on my way to a girl’s only slumber party. We’d eat pizza and sweets and play with each other’s hair, paint each other’s toe nails and speak of boys and watch romantic films. I snapped out of my reverie when I heard my name. My stomach dropped as it frequently did on utterance of my name.
Do you have a cigarette, Ms Adams asks.
I keep emergency cigarettes for her in the side pouch of my bag. I don’t smoke.
I hand one to her and proceed to light it with a match. She takes a deep puff and calls to the driver. She requests that we turn around and head back home, she would like to get dressed to the nines and go out for dinner instead. I sigh.
I am an assortment of moods, I can devastate with my surly countenance and charm with my smile. I have an unattainable compulsion to know everything every minute and occasion to take myself apart; to put myself back together again can take an era and what takes place in the time between the two I cannot say. Will this be a problem, asked the young lady of the young man. They sat face to face in the large lounge of a ritzy restaurant and while he appreciated her candor he felt wearisome and rather perturbed. You may call me severe if you like, she said, or perhaps you think I am abstruse? She asked, in such a way that he instinctively knew not to answer.
Upon meeting her he noticed her green eyes and her polished nails; he observed and remarked on the ring she wore; an iridescent diamond, the shade of an ageing bruise. His blood felt boiled as he began to tell her of himself. He wondered why he felt so unarmed around her.
She had the face of someone he was sure he’d seen before, perhaps in a dream.
I’m a sales manager, he said, almost ashamedly, he felt sure her occupation was far more glamorous.
The conversation carried on in a similar vein all evening until the bill made its way to the table.
Shall I walk you home, he asked tentatively. She merely shook her head and.
A weeping woman beholds Ms Adams’ beauty from afar and flashes of white surround us constantly, moving with us as we make our way to the iridescent night coloured limousine. I can’t quite fathom this woman, on her knees with awe, she doesn’t seem unfortunate looking to me nor does she seem particularly desperate for attention of any kind. Yet there she is on a heated sidewalk, seemingly in mourning for a superstar. It is not so much of a rare sight yet it still disturbs me, I don’t give it any extra thought though after my initial observation, we’re late.
Despite Gabriella’s insistence that she didn’t keep up with where the beautiful people ate, she always managed to pick the spot where they did and, subsequently, where the vultures with large lenses hung out for that specific reason. I knew this too but like so many things I didn’t say anything so as not to agitate her further. She always seemed to be somewhat agitated. Almost as if she was always on the defensive, ready to fight if provoked by anyone. It seemed to me that this kind of state of being made her guilt visible, her flakiness. A visibility she was unaware of I assume.
There were many things about Ms Adams that seemed artificial; her absolute love of a stiff drink for one. I happen to be quite an observant creature and over the years I have noticed that upon receiving her Brandy, or Whiskey, she would wait quite a while before her first sip, now, I can’t be unmistakably sure, but I suspect she waited for the ice to dilute the alcohol somewhat. This is a small testament to her flakiness, granted, but I’ve always believed it’s the small things that are the big things.
We’re in the limousine now and she is quiet, almost lethargic I notice. Maybe she ate too much. She seems lost in the light that streams in from the window and as I watch the strands of hair that swim around her unnaturally beautiful face I wonder what thoughts fill her mind, she leads such an unexamined life, I wonder if she took the time to really get to know herself, what would she discover? Would she feel less alone if she knew the rest of the world felt alone too?
Gabriella primped and preened herself before interviews and press junkets, before red carpet events and quick trips to the grocery store, a sight which, even in all my years with her, still amazed me. She loved the media and their pens. She loved that they held such fascination and interest in her. She loved that they always seemed to want to talk with her, and they seemed to her to really listen. I think that is why she loved them. They listened to the thoughts and stories that those around her were bored of, or, even worse, that those around her were never interested in to begin with.
Media whores, such attention seekers.
Her fiancé was a true man of routine; he got home between 19:30-19:35 every evening, almost always his phone was pressed to his ear as he entered the front door. He’d pour himself a Bourbon and head to the master bedroom whereupon he would undress whilst taking slow sips of his drink. He would then walk into the shower; he never turned the water on all the way as he preferred a light trickle as opposed to hard rain. He would then traipse around in his fluffy black robe for the remainder of the night. He also liked to light up a joint sometime between his shower and dinner. Ms Adams never liked to get stoned. She told me once why. Everything felt like a show, she said. Like a movie, everyone had their generic roles – and played them well. It always terrified her. And she said it always took her far too long for the smoke to lift, and instead of giggling and enjoying the highness she’d feel depressed, kind of neurotic, looking into what her life must be; an endless parade of parties, facials and diluted drinks. It all seemed so obvious to her when she was stoned but when she arose from the mist she’d try to forget and eventually she would.
It also never occurred to Ms Adams that people die. Whenever there was a death in her circle she’d retreat for weeks, sometimes months, weeping why, why, why? How did this happen? Impossible, she’d shout.
After a few days she’d calm down but I much preferred hysterical to blank eyes. She’d lay in the darkness at noon, she’d lay there on the soft carpet, sleuthing, writhing around like somebody trying to fall asleep in a heat wave, always sighing.
After the initial shock wore off, after the weeks of indifference to anything, she’d begin the process of forgetting.
I remember the sugary, milk-like emulsion in bottles of medicinal syrup, she said vaguely once, in her zombie-like state. It’s whiteness, the sweetness. She said she used to sneak sips of it whenever there was a bottle in the fridge.
It’s these little trinkets of memory which seem to take ownership over her mind during these times. She felt hardly nostalgic, au contraire, she felt silent anger.
She told me she’s always eaten like she’s read; too much and too fast. This is true. She orders too much food for one relatively small woman and wolfs it down much like someone who is being chased down by the hounds of hell. As a result of this she’ll probably end up not so relatively a small woman. It’s like she’s waiting for something or someone to take her plate from her; she’s as irrational as it gets sometimes, that is why these moments of lucidity whence she recaptures childhood whims, disturb me so. She never looks back, she takes heed from Lot’s wife, she believes that looking back is detrimental to one’s sane life. She believes this because she knows that no one gets over anything bad, one never forgets, at least she knows she never has. One merely learns acceptance.
In the limousine I am thinking of all these things as I stare at her. I remember details and minutes which always seem more like hours with her. She holds such gravity, an immense weight. My eyes roam from the diamond rock on her ring finger to the nervous picking of her fingernails. She looks at me and smiles. She trusts me I think, more than anyone else. I presume it’s partly because I’m a woman and she’s always trusted women, and partly because I seem harmless and uncompetitive. The opposite of ruthless, the opposite of ambitious. I don’t communicate myself well; I’ll be the first to admit. Probably no one really knows me. Least of all myself. But she seems to think she does and that’s good enough for her I suppose. I suppose that’s even good enough for me. I don’t need to be anyone specifically; I can be anyone, whatever the day calls for.
We arrive at the dilapidated building in the centre of an industrial waste ground. The photographer has gained plenty of notoriety in that he always shoots his “models” in the ugliest of surroundings so as to make them appear even more immaculate than they already are, and if the dirty background doesn’t do the job effectively, a couple minutes air brushing in his studio will most certainly do the trick.
Gabriella’s sombre countenance adds wonderfully to the mood of the shoot, so Miguel says and leads us to wear my favourite people are: the make-up girls. I adore listening to them banter and gossip, there really is no need to form a thought of your own whilst in their presence.
The shoot runs longer than anticipated, which leaves Ms Adams tense; it always does. She has a fear of time, Chronophobia I believe they call it. I’m not certain as to why; it could be a number of things. It could be the fact that her mortality has been shown to her many times in the form of friends who have passed away and this accelerates her need to be constantly busy, never wasting a moment, this is the theory I least believe. There are too many holes in it, the contents of which I won’t get into at this time. Another theory is that she is wound too tight. This is more of an observation than a theory but it could certainly be the root of her time issues. Or it could be a frustration with people for not being on time, or not finishing on time. She is always consistently courteous, albeit, highly strung when it comes to her time and the time of others and she detests it when she is not extended the same courtesy.
I could theorise the ways of Ms Adams all day without taking a breath but I would never be any closer to understanding her. She is every woman, as Shaka Khan sang many a moon ago.
The sun was beginning to make its decent into the sea when the shoot was finally wrapped. Ms Adams was at the end of her rope, she needed sustenance and she needed it fast. I remembered seeing a Pizza Hut on the way and I proposed we stop by and get a take away. Gabriella was like a little child when it came to pizza, although I imagine that every female star concerned with body image behaved like a child when they could see pizza in their near future, she became immediately responsive, excited and chatty. I enjoyed seeing her this way, almost selflessly, I say almost because it made me feel as if I was 14 again, on my way to a girl’s only slumber party. We’d eat pizza and sweets and play with each other’s hair, paint each other’s toe nails and speak of boys and watch romantic films. I snapped out of my reverie when I heard my name. My stomach dropped as it frequently did on utterance of my name.
Do you have a cigarette, Ms Adams asks.
I keep emergency cigarettes for her in the side pouch of my bag. I don’t smoke.
I hand one to her and proceed to light it with a match. She takes a deep puff and calls to the driver. She requests that we turn around and head back home, she would like to get dressed to the nines and go out for dinner instead. I sigh.
I am an assortment of moods, I can devastate with my surly countenance and charm with my smile. I have an unattainable compulsion to know everything every minute and occasion to take myself apart; to put myself back together again can take an era and what takes place in the time between the two I cannot say. Will this be a problem, asked the young lady of the young man. They sat face to face in the large lounge of a ritzy restaurant and while he appreciated her candor he felt wearisome and rather perturbed. You may call me severe if you like, she said, or perhaps you think I am abstruse? She asked, in such a way that he instinctively knew not to answer.
Upon meeting her he noticed her green eyes and her polished nails; he observed and remarked on the ring she wore; an iridescent diamond, the shade of an ageing bruise. His blood felt boiled as he began to tell her of himself. He wondered why he felt so unarmed around her.
She had the face of someone he was sure he’d seen before, perhaps in a dream.
I’m a sales manager, he said, almost ashamedly, he felt sure her occupation was far more glamorous.
The conversation carried on in a similar vein all evening until the bill made its way to the table.
Shall I walk you home, he asked tentatively. She merely shook her head and.
March 19, 2009
An unidentified Moment
An unidentified purple liquid in a Bonaqua water bottle; litchi flavoured, I wonder briefly what it is and then I notice the man with curly, peppered hair; the bottle stands next to his desk and I realise I don’t want to know anymore. A room full of generic mediocrity depresses me for a moment and in a moment I’m lifted up onto a pedestal of my own creation; of course I’m better. Of course.
I’m so hot.
I can’t shake the feeling of blindness in this room, some kind of evasion; cynicism and knowledge going hand in hand as I twirl my hair around my fingers countless times, I can’t say what comfort that brings me; now, it feels better than just sitting here.
An overweight blonde two rows up speaks, not unlike a child; an insecure girl too eager to please, too fragile to live. I cringe, I don’t know why. I can’t help but wonder when last she felt attractive... When last a man looked twice. I’m hot; distracted.
But not distracted enough to ignore the young coloured man outside cleaning chairs, or the geriatric smoking a Vogue Slim on a bench in the sun, and I draw many conclusions as to why they’re there doing these things in this moment, and then I wonder the same of myself.
What am I doing here?
The day is warm, hot and getting hotter, as I imagine the Serengeti to be mid February and the second I notice the smoke I hear the alarm. Surprisingly I don’t start, dazed, I get up and follow the bodies trying to leave through the door as one person. Lethargy trumps panic and I glide beside no one, I can barely see them in the yonder, in the smoke.
Eventually I reach the rest outside, and I rest. My eyes burn and I rub them as I hear the ironically chilling sound of sirens.
I must look shocked, scared, because the overweight woman puts her arms around me, apparently this fire is more serious than I’d thought.
I’m so hot.
I can’t shake the feeling of blindness in this room, some kind of evasion; cynicism and knowledge going hand in hand as I twirl my hair around my fingers countless times, I can’t say what comfort that brings me; now, it feels better than just sitting here.
An overweight blonde two rows up speaks, not unlike a child; an insecure girl too eager to please, too fragile to live. I cringe, I don’t know why. I can’t help but wonder when last she felt attractive... When last a man looked twice. I’m hot; distracted.
But not distracted enough to ignore the young coloured man outside cleaning chairs, or the geriatric smoking a Vogue Slim on a bench in the sun, and I draw many conclusions as to why they’re there doing these things in this moment, and then I wonder the same of myself.
What am I doing here?
The day is warm, hot and getting hotter, as I imagine the Serengeti to be mid February and the second I notice the smoke I hear the alarm. Surprisingly I don’t start, dazed, I get up and follow the bodies trying to leave through the door as one person. Lethargy trumps panic and I glide beside no one, I can barely see them in the yonder, in the smoke.
Eventually I reach the rest outside, and I rest. My eyes burn and I rub them as I hear the ironically chilling sound of sirens.
I must look shocked, scared, because the overweight woman puts her arms around me, apparently this fire is more serious than I’d thought.
A Valentine’s Day in the 80’s!
Eyes still stuck together with sleep, hungry eyes blasts absurdly loud for a Saturday morning, I’m sure it must still be before 9am. I see him throwing balloons from the door, prancing almost fairy-like in and out, in and out, throwing purple, pink, yellow balloons all the while Eric Carmen sings his famous 1988 hit. Next comes the glitter, and the streamers in a spray can, I remember the smell vaguely, I remember the feeling more; wet at first, then dry, stuck. More than that I remember his face as he jumps back into bed with me. After I’m done laughing I enquire of the time, 7:30 he says.
My baby has prepared for me a day so rare, reminiscent of an era I adore; the 80’s! He’s compiled a large box full of 1980’s paraphernalia; from sweets and drinks that were popular, to the inspired fashions and cinema. Amongst many things, an electric blue midriff baring shirt with tassels for arm sleeves with the caption “All I want is a sunny day” in white cursive. Brilliant.
For excellent, albeit cheesy, viewing pleasure, he has gotten his extraordinary hands on Some Kind of Wonderful, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, which sees Sean Penn as you are unlikely to see him now, a stereotypical surfer dude, Valley Girl with doe eyed Nicolas Cage, Mystic Pizza, one of Julia Roberts’ firsts, Who’s that Girl, Madonna’s that girl, Footloose and Xanadu, a musical with Olivia Newton John.
80’s horror movie posters cover almost every inch of the room... and the 80’s hits keep coming, much to my amazed delight. His plan is simple, we are to eat sweet things and watch 80’s cheese all day and for dinner he is making, from scratch, pizza from my favourite overseas pizzeria, Pizza Hut, he found their secret recipe. I wonder if he knows he hatched the most unbelievable day, my perfect day.
Sometime between breakfast and Valley Girl, the door bell rings and he hands me the keys, it’s for me he says. Hesitantly I take the keys and open the door where I am greeted with the most beautiful white orchid I have ever seen. I can’t believe he is mine.
February 26, 2009
HQ Competition - Do you love shoes as much as we do?
A friend of mine recently came across a competition in one of her many daily forwards and asked me to write an entry for her... The question being, "do you love shoes as much as we do?". So I did and a little while later they called her and invited her and a date, the date being me of course, to a shoe party as one of their finalists!
Here's what I wrote:
W.W.K.D, like those “What would Jesus do” material bracelets, I ask myself: what would Kate do? I ask this vital question to determine which pair of shoes will team best with my LBD (little black dress).
I don’t have much time, the shop assistant will only be busy at the cash register for a moment, her pesky peepers will soon be on me again.
I need a colour that is neutral, something which doesn’t imprison the ankle, I hate that. I stare out at the vast array of wonders before me, all polished and preened and ready to grace my unworthy yet desperate feet. A pair of Salvatore Ferragamo knee highs here, a pair of Christian Louboutin wedges there. Jewelled Miu Miu’s, magenta Yves Saint Laurent’s, shoes of every variety; metallic, satin, Swarovski Crystal, suede, studded, multi bow, my mind reels, my heart races.
I spot the perfect ankle boots as I risk a quick glance at the shop assistant, I have a few seconds at best. In what I hope is a casual manner, I glide toward the stacks of boxes beneath the shoe on show, size 5, size 7... No size 6! Damn.
I can feel the sweat beads forming on my hairline, I can hear the assistant and the customer exchanging farewell pleasantries, it’s now or never.
My weakness for pretending to fit into a 5 when in actuality I am a 6 takes over. In record time, I lift the lid off the box, stuff the pair in my oversized but oh-so fashionable bag and neatly, albeit hastily, arrange everything as was, not leaving a box out of place.
My heart pounding at an accelerated pace, I exit the door, and run.
I check the time as I run then round a corner to catch my breath. I have no more than 10 minutes to make it to the premiere. Checking to see if anyone noticed, staying absolutely still to hear for police sirens, I pull out the R989 pair of beauties and slip them on, well, it was more of a struggle than a slip, giving the old saying “desperate times call for desperate measures” an entirely new meaning.
Thanks to my Achilles Heel, grave desperation and, of course, my infinite love for all creatures that go on my feet, I’m on time and fashionably flushed, looking better than Kate ever could.
Here's what I wrote:
W.W.K.D, like those “What would Jesus do” material bracelets, I ask myself: what would Kate do? I ask this vital question to determine which pair of shoes will team best with my LBD (little black dress).
I don’t have much time, the shop assistant will only be busy at the cash register for a moment, her pesky peepers will soon be on me again.
I need a colour that is neutral, something which doesn’t imprison the ankle, I hate that. I stare out at the vast array of wonders before me, all polished and preened and ready to grace my unworthy yet desperate feet. A pair of Salvatore Ferragamo knee highs here, a pair of Christian Louboutin wedges there. Jewelled Miu Miu’s, magenta Yves Saint Laurent’s, shoes of every variety; metallic, satin, Swarovski Crystal, suede, studded, multi bow, my mind reels, my heart races.
I spot the perfect ankle boots as I risk a quick glance at the shop assistant, I have a few seconds at best. In what I hope is a casual manner, I glide toward the stacks of boxes beneath the shoe on show, size 5, size 7... No size 6! Damn.
I can feel the sweat beads forming on my hairline, I can hear the assistant and the customer exchanging farewell pleasantries, it’s now or never.
My weakness for pretending to fit into a 5 when in actuality I am a 6 takes over. In record time, I lift the lid off the box, stuff the pair in my oversized but oh-so fashionable bag and neatly, albeit hastily, arrange everything as was, not leaving a box out of place.
My heart pounding at an accelerated pace, I exit the door, and run.
I check the time as I run then round a corner to catch my breath. I have no more than 10 minutes to make it to the premiere. Checking to see if anyone noticed, staying absolutely still to hear for police sirens, I pull out the R989 pair of beauties and slip them on, well, it was more of a struggle than a slip, giving the old saying “desperate times call for desperate measures” an entirely new meaning.
Thanks to my Achilles Heel, grave desperation and, of course, my infinite love for all creatures that go on my feet, I’m on time and fashionably flushed, looking better than Kate ever could.
February 13, 2009
Meat
A man who holds the highest degree of worth, a miscreant and one who boasts of his prowess, these men are amongst many whom I notice at the party. I proceed aimlessly through the throngs of faces, some faces not all together unpleasing, and notice with innocent delight that I am one of few woman at this gathering; therefore I hold a certain mesmerism; a curiosity.
With insistent rapidity I begin chatting with these men, batting my lashes at them; sounding false, seeming sincere and interested.
Stiff conversations here, a roar of laugher there and me; rooted to the spot where I stand, surrounded by the more negligible sex, sporadic glances from mine.
I look around and search facial expressions, and eyes, collecting thoughts; tallying up.
I see raised eyebrows, arrogant smirks – the worst kind.
I watch body movements, the unspoken language, and the obviousness of it; if it weren’t so vile it might be almost pure.
My delight disappears instantaneously and instead of feeling like the prize, I feel like a whore.
I’m on display, on show; on sale to the highest bidder, and the madam of the house is me; the boss and the goods.
The air around me begins to smell; it begins to reek of something meaty, something unclean and unromantic.
It stifles me and I push past the large bodies, stepping on a few toes along the way, and I bump straight into a man so spectacular looking, yet I see a look behind the magnificent colour of his eyes and suddenly he is repulsive. I push him out of the way, in desperate need to escape this cliché.
I can feel the disgusted expression on my face taking form, holding firmly in place as I pass man after man after woman after man. I can tell freedom is just up ahead as I feel less of the heat created by the bodies and the breath and more of the cool night air streaming in from the entrance way.
The pungent smell of desperation leaves my nose as the night takes its place. I am alone on the street amass with revellers and out here it doesn’t seem so bad.
A shiver makes its way down my spine as I blow into my hands in an attempt to warm them. The night is over for me; a few things are over for me in this moment.
With insistent rapidity I begin chatting with these men, batting my lashes at them; sounding false, seeming sincere and interested.
Stiff conversations here, a roar of laugher there and me; rooted to the spot where I stand, surrounded by the more negligible sex, sporadic glances from mine.
I look around and search facial expressions, and eyes, collecting thoughts; tallying up.
I see raised eyebrows, arrogant smirks – the worst kind.
I watch body movements, the unspoken language, and the obviousness of it; if it weren’t so vile it might be almost pure.
My delight disappears instantaneously and instead of feeling like the prize, I feel like a whore.
I’m on display, on show; on sale to the highest bidder, and the madam of the house is me; the boss and the goods.
The air around me begins to smell; it begins to reek of something meaty, something unclean and unromantic.
It stifles me and I push past the large bodies, stepping on a few toes along the way, and I bump straight into a man so spectacular looking, yet I see a look behind the magnificent colour of his eyes and suddenly he is repulsive. I push him out of the way, in desperate need to escape this cliché.
I can feel the disgusted expression on my face taking form, holding firmly in place as I pass man after man after woman after man. I can tell freedom is just up ahead as I feel less of the heat created by the bodies and the breath and more of the cool night air streaming in from the entrance way.
The pungent smell of desperation leaves my nose as the night takes its place. I am alone on the street amass with revellers and out here it doesn’t seem so bad.
A shiver makes its way down my spine as I blow into my hands in an attempt to warm them. The night is over for me; a few things are over for me in this moment.
Sunny Side Up
During the lunch interview I ask Ms Adams what she thinks of Amy Winehouse. She says she thinks she was a porn baby. I ask what this means and she tells me that a porn baby is a child conceived accidentally by its adult actress mother during filming. I suspect she doesn’t really mean it; it’s just something clever, albeit cruel to say, something fitting due to Amy’s drug habit and lady of the night-like appearance. I say she is the way she is because of her good for nothing husband, I say he ruined her, introduced her to this bottom feeder lifestyle, maybe because she was so talented and he couldn’t bear to see her succeed. Or he was just an asshole.
Ms Adams shrugs and takes another sip of her mint tea, staring listlessly out the cafe window. It’s a warm morning, the kind you always wished for when you were young, the kind you could rarely enjoy now.
I ponder the menu, in the mood for something sweet. She, Ms Adams, tells me of the time when she was 9, I think syrup waffle, vanilla ice cream. When she was 9 her name was Melissa Goodman. She lived in a nondescript neighbourhood somewhere near the Hollywood sign. She lived with both her parents who were married, to other people. Two dads and two moms. It was confusing when she was younger but as she grew up she learnt to hate them all the same. What chance did they honestly attempt to give her to come out right when most kids had only their actual parents and still turned out bad? Melissa Goodman sometimes thought she was lucky, blessed, she tells me, until she received an unwelcomed surprise in the form of an unrelated brother. When she was 9, she tells me, Devon, said unrelated brother decided he wanted to learn how to drive, without a teacher. He made Melissa open the garage door and keep a look out for any adult-type figures and give him fair warning if she saw one. Melissa stood dutifully in the driveway, wanting desperately to impress and befriend this monster who had invaded her home, her things, and her life. She hardly had an inkling of how he came to be in the first place but she knew she had to accept him and learn to live with him, even after he hit her over the head with a golf club giving her 15 stitches, even after he poured steaming water all down her leg.
As her head was turned to the right, squinting into the sun she heard the roar of the car’s engine, nervous, she turned quickly to the left to make sure no one was coming and before she had time to look straight ahead or run out of the way, Devon had reversed right over her.
She spent 5 weeks in hospital and not once did he come to visit, or apologize. Both sets of parents put the calamity down to silly children’s games gone wrong and not a word was said regarding it ever again. Well, at least not in the presence of Melissa Goodman, who left home approximately 7 years later.
I listen attentively as I try to picture Ms Adams as that little girl on the driveway. I imagine what her natural hair colour must have been, I suspect ash blonde but I can’t be sure. I try to imagine innocence in her eyes, hurt and disappointment are easier to place there.
I ask her about her upcoming wedding and she sighs, almost woefully. I say almost because she is about to wed an extremely wealthy man and I can tell she is more than ok with this happening. Her first husband, he was a pig of a spectacular kind; he died of a heart attack mid orgasm. Ms Adams happened to be overseas at the time, at a spa in Jamaica after citing exhaustion.
“Boy don’t try to front I (I) know just just what you are (are are)...”
Ms Adams begins to tap her fingers on the linoleum table surface, humming to the pop song playing softly on a speaker somewhere far away.
“You got me goin’...”
The yellow haired waitress walks by and I put my hand up self consciously to get her attention. She looks at me, arching her left eyebrow expectantly. I say I want the chocolate brownie, with chocolate ice cream. Oh, and another cup of coffee.
“You’re oh so charmin’...”
I’m looking forward to it she says. She had the dress custom made of course, its silky white. She says she thought of a different colour, not white, as she is hardly a virgin any longer, but she figured it just seems more wedding-y with a white dress and all the traditional trimmings. She had no desire to now, after 34 years, be different. That is the last thing she wanted, she said.
“But I can’t do it...”
I make a note in my inconspicuous notepad. What is your fiancé like, I ask. She shrugs that nonchalant shrug and half smiles half scowls.
From what I gather he’s a busy man, a late worker, something to do with finance. I’m half listening now.
“U womanizer...”
I wonder vaguely when this song will end as my brownie is placed in front of me together with a hot cup of caffeine. How long has it been playing?
How long have I been sitting in this cafe with Gabriella Adams, with all her world famousness and beauty?
The marriage soon to take place seems insignificant now as I sit across from her, seems uninteresting in comparison to her herself. How she got to where she is now is a question I feel I don’t need to ask, I feel I know the answer, it seems obvious. I resolve to just enjoy and savour my remaining moments with her, pushing aside tempting questions into her infamous personal life and exploits. She seems medicated, sedated, probably she is and I don’t care because like so many in the world around us I am just happy to be here in her light, sharing her air, watching her every move. She doesn’t look happy, in the real sense of the word, but that’s what we want, isn’t it?
This woman, this seeming antithesis of the almost tragic Amy Winehouse, stares out into the day and I wonder what she wonders.
What is the truth?
Ms Adams shrugs and takes another sip of her mint tea, staring listlessly out the cafe window. It’s a warm morning, the kind you always wished for when you were young, the kind you could rarely enjoy now.
I ponder the menu, in the mood for something sweet. She, Ms Adams, tells me of the time when she was 9, I think syrup waffle, vanilla ice cream. When she was 9 her name was Melissa Goodman. She lived in a nondescript neighbourhood somewhere near the Hollywood sign. She lived with both her parents who were married, to other people. Two dads and two moms. It was confusing when she was younger but as she grew up she learnt to hate them all the same. What chance did they honestly attempt to give her to come out right when most kids had only their actual parents and still turned out bad? Melissa Goodman sometimes thought she was lucky, blessed, she tells me, until she received an unwelcomed surprise in the form of an unrelated brother. When she was 9, she tells me, Devon, said unrelated brother decided he wanted to learn how to drive, without a teacher. He made Melissa open the garage door and keep a look out for any adult-type figures and give him fair warning if she saw one. Melissa stood dutifully in the driveway, wanting desperately to impress and befriend this monster who had invaded her home, her things, and her life. She hardly had an inkling of how he came to be in the first place but she knew she had to accept him and learn to live with him, even after he hit her over the head with a golf club giving her 15 stitches, even after he poured steaming water all down her leg.
As her head was turned to the right, squinting into the sun she heard the roar of the car’s engine, nervous, she turned quickly to the left to make sure no one was coming and before she had time to look straight ahead or run out of the way, Devon had reversed right over her.
She spent 5 weeks in hospital and not once did he come to visit, or apologize. Both sets of parents put the calamity down to silly children’s games gone wrong and not a word was said regarding it ever again. Well, at least not in the presence of Melissa Goodman, who left home approximately 7 years later.
I listen attentively as I try to picture Ms Adams as that little girl on the driveway. I imagine what her natural hair colour must have been, I suspect ash blonde but I can’t be sure. I try to imagine innocence in her eyes, hurt and disappointment are easier to place there.
I ask her about her upcoming wedding and she sighs, almost woefully. I say almost because she is about to wed an extremely wealthy man and I can tell she is more than ok with this happening. Her first husband, he was a pig of a spectacular kind; he died of a heart attack mid orgasm. Ms Adams happened to be overseas at the time, at a spa in Jamaica after citing exhaustion.
“Boy don’t try to front I (I) know just just what you are (are are)...”
Ms Adams begins to tap her fingers on the linoleum table surface, humming to the pop song playing softly on a speaker somewhere far away.
“You got me goin’...”
The yellow haired waitress walks by and I put my hand up self consciously to get her attention. She looks at me, arching her left eyebrow expectantly. I say I want the chocolate brownie, with chocolate ice cream. Oh, and another cup of coffee.
“You’re oh so charmin’...”
I’m looking forward to it she says. She had the dress custom made of course, its silky white. She says she thought of a different colour, not white, as she is hardly a virgin any longer, but she figured it just seems more wedding-y with a white dress and all the traditional trimmings. She had no desire to now, after 34 years, be different. That is the last thing she wanted, she said.
“But I can’t do it...”
I make a note in my inconspicuous notepad. What is your fiancé like, I ask. She shrugs that nonchalant shrug and half smiles half scowls.
From what I gather he’s a busy man, a late worker, something to do with finance. I’m half listening now.
“U womanizer...”
I wonder vaguely when this song will end as my brownie is placed in front of me together with a hot cup of caffeine. How long has it been playing?
How long have I been sitting in this cafe with Gabriella Adams, with all her world famousness and beauty?
The marriage soon to take place seems insignificant now as I sit across from her, seems uninteresting in comparison to her herself. How she got to where she is now is a question I feel I don’t need to ask, I feel I know the answer, it seems obvious. I resolve to just enjoy and savour my remaining moments with her, pushing aside tempting questions into her infamous personal life and exploits. She seems medicated, sedated, probably she is and I don’t care because like so many in the world around us I am just happy to be here in her light, sharing her air, watching her every move. She doesn’t look happy, in the real sense of the word, but that’s what we want, isn’t it?
This woman, this seeming antithesis of the almost tragic Amy Winehouse, stares out into the day and I wonder what she wonders.
What is the truth?
Valentine’s Day or; Bastard Creation
An unbeautiful day, whence love is advertised and sold or; a day, pure in nature, to celebrate loves magnificence.
An insult to loves woes is the comparison between getting hit with an arrow by Cupid to the distress love sometimes causes.
To the single; an inappropriate date,
To the loved; a romantic conception.
It seems one never has an identical reaction to Valentine’s Day every year. This year you may be in love and looking forward to it, or simply feel indifferent toward it, whereas last year it could have been a source of offence, a day to dread, a day to curse.
A flurry of red hearts and teddy bears in store windows mark the day’s coming rather boldly, often a long time prior to the actual day, and it begs the question: what’s it really all about? Money? Should we be so cynical, should we not just enjoy the romance of the day, buying heart shaped chocolates and sweetly scented cards, a mass of glitter and red? I wonder if I feel it is all about money making for card companies and restaurants, or if it is a day when lovers truly wish to acknowledge the importance of their significant other in their lives.
Because love is the most important thing in life and people are aware of it, so why shouldn’t they want to celebrate it? But...
Shouldn’t love, of any age, be a celebratory occasion every day?
You should be able to feel so loved every day; and I do, I am. I would wish it on anybody; everybody.
Happy Valentine’s Day my beautiful Fiancé. You are and always will be the love of my existence.
An insult to loves woes is the comparison between getting hit with an arrow by Cupid to the distress love sometimes causes.
To the single; an inappropriate date,
To the loved; a romantic conception.
It seems one never has an identical reaction to Valentine’s Day every year. This year you may be in love and looking forward to it, or simply feel indifferent toward it, whereas last year it could have been a source of offence, a day to dread, a day to curse.
A flurry of red hearts and teddy bears in store windows mark the day’s coming rather boldly, often a long time prior to the actual day, and it begs the question: what’s it really all about? Money? Should we be so cynical, should we not just enjoy the romance of the day, buying heart shaped chocolates and sweetly scented cards, a mass of glitter and red? I wonder if I feel it is all about money making for card companies and restaurants, or if it is a day when lovers truly wish to acknowledge the importance of their significant other in their lives.
Because love is the most important thing in life and people are aware of it, so why shouldn’t they want to celebrate it? But...
Shouldn’t love, of any age, be a celebratory occasion every day?
You should be able to feel so loved every day; and I do, I am. I would wish it on anybody; everybody.
Happy Valentine’s Day my beautiful Fiancé. You are and always will be the love of my existence.
My Midsummer Night's Dream
As black as the most starless sky, the darkest of nights; yet as iridescent as still water beneath a sky amass with stars and the brightest, fullest moon. My hair is this mass of wavy black shimmer, pulled into a tidy bun on the nape of my neck and my fringe; a neat mess on my forehead. My eyes glow, lights and love reflected in the green. My lips are full, blood red.
Sliding my hands down the sides of my adorned body - the material is the colour of my hair, silky under my fingertips – I grab the roses as red as my lips and step forward and instantly feel the immense weight of eyes on every inch of me. People will talk, I knew they would, and I‘ve never felt so beautiful. As my eyes wonder excitedly, instantly to the front of the room, I see he thinks so too.
Ooh’s and ah’s and flashes; I walk. My eyes rimmed black graze over the faces I love – the girls; natural and box dye blondes, brunettes, straightened curls and curled thin hair already falling flat, the boys; a combination of slickly gelled and bed-head - and the face I love the most. And there my eyes stay; they cannot be anywhere else now.
I can feel as my perfect pout begins to transform into a wide smile, of the goofy variety, I don’t care. I’m walking toward a life with open arms as I never thought I would. My skin feels warm underneath, as if my blood has been boiled and then poured into my veins.
The two girls who stand up for me look like the brides in their pretty white frocks; an innocent aura surrounds them as they smile at me, getting closer and closer. Having them stand there being one of very few things we’ve done traditionally on this day; him and I, original in every way.
Now, as I near the end of the aisle and reach the future, the slow motion I seem to have been travelling in speeds up to a preferred pace; not unlike my habit of always walking ahead: I just want to be next to him. This person I could never live through losing, he holds my life and I his.
Marriage – always an interesting, albeit confusing concept to me – to promise somebody that you will love them till the day you cease breathing. How could you? Hard for me to wrap my mind around the vows when all over the world, everyday, they’re being broken; until I knew him.
I am certain.
And this dream, this day, was written so long ago, somewhere. In the stars?
Sliding my hands down the sides of my adorned body - the material is the colour of my hair, silky under my fingertips – I grab the roses as red as my lips and step forward and instantly feel the immense weight of eyes on every inch of me. People will talk, I knew they would, and I‘ve never felt so beautiful. As my eyes wonder excitedly, instantly to the front of the room, I see he thinks so too.
Ooh’s and ah’s and flashes; I walk. My eyes rimmed black graze over the faces I love – the girls; natural and box dye blondes, brunettes, straightened curls and curled thin hair already falling flat, the boys; a combination of slickly gelled and bed-head - and the face I love the most. And there my eyes stay; they cannot be anywhere else now.
I can feel as my perfect pout begins to transform into a wide smile, of the goofy variety, I don’t care. I’m walking toward a life with open arms as I never thought I would. My skin feels warm underneath, as if my blood has been boiled and then poured into my veins.
The two girls who stand up for me look like the brides in their pretty white frocks; an innocent aura surrounds them as they smile at me, getting closer and closer. Having them stand there being one of very few things we’ve done traditionally on this day; him and I, original in every way.
Now, as I near the end of the aisle and reach the future, the slow motion I seem to have been travelling in speeds up to a preferred pace; not unlike my habit of always walking ahead: I just want to be next to him. This person I could never live through losing, he holds my life and I his.
Marriage – always an interesting, albeit confusing concept to me – to promise somebody that you will love them till the day you cease breathing. How could you? Hard for me to wrap my mind around the vows when all over the world, everyday, they’re being broken; until I knew him.
I am certain.
And this dream, this day, was written so long ago, somewhere. In the stars?
February 4, 2009
Social Ceremony
Nothing could be more absurd, I thought as I bounded up the stairs, or more amusing, I pondered as I looked down on the crowd below.
An incalculable amount of acquaintances, and more to meet still; unwelcomed introductions and politely insincere smiles between strangers, I fought a powerful urge to turn and flee from this event, a little piece of hell here on earth.
I recognized sparsely scattered faces and spotted the guest of honour, whom I used to know quite well, walking toward the buffet table in the centre of the room. It was beautiful, the room; marble floors shining like liquid with the assistance of the lights above; a massive chandelier in the middle surrounded by its many minions.
I targeted her and walked swiftly in that exact direction, not looking anywhere else but in front of me, mildly concentrating on not getting my dress stuck in the heels of my shoes. Damn formal soirees.
She looked up, slight recognition in her eyes and there appeared a fragmentary smile and the inevitable greeting. Before I knew it I was caught up in a bear hug, a soft, excited scream in my ear.
And so began a night of hugs and screams and wow, how long has it been’s.
The music played relentlessly, and loudly, as I swayed and sipped my champagne, I smiled sweetly at people I vaguely knew and put in a word here and there in random conversations about new employments and failed marriages, travels and pregnancies and I stifled a yawn as the clock struck 10:00.
I couldn’t believe I was here again, in this room with these people. Hadn’t I been adamant that I would never subject myself to this company, this mindless chatter again? Doubtless I had been quilted by the hostess, but why did I succumb? Hadn’t that very quality also been dead and buried in me for what seemed like an eternity. It had been almost an eternity since I last saw some of these faces and I wondered to myself what we had had in common all those years ago, if anything. This felt not unlike a high school reunion, and I felt more relieved as the minutes ticked by bringing me closer to freedom, bringing me closer to breathing.
I realised I knew no one.
Not even the guest of honour. She had been a friend in my formative years; an integral part of my life back then, but who was she now? And when had we drifted so far apart? I couldn’t remember a time or an event, or a moment when it happened; it had just happened.
All I knew was that I wasn’t that person they knew, and they were not the people I had known and as I stood there dragging on a cigarette I realised I was a stranger to them. I had a life so far removed from the one of yesteryears and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This was not and hadn’t been the place I belonged, the life I had chosen and I felt glad I had made that choice. I was surrounded by an immense amount of phoniness and it made me uncomfortable.
I glanced at my watch; it read 11:25, an acceptable time to leave if ever there was one, I thought. I knew the goodbyes would take at least 10 minutes so I looked around to see if I could spot the hostess, my former friend.
I saw her sitting down across the room and walked over, bracing myself. She looked in my direction and before I opened my mouth her words reached me. You’re leaving already? She asked, unsurprised, resigned. I felt something like remorse but not quite, and then I remembered the beginning of the end of this part of my life.
I had removed myself slowly, leaving earlier and earlier and eventually declining invites all together.
They came looking for me, and sometimes they found me, but I wasn’t the same, and neither were they.
And as I walked out of this life for the second time, I breathed in the cool night air and smiled.
I had chosen my life, and the people in it.
An incalculable amount of acquaintances, and more to meet still; unwelcomed introductions and politely insincere smiles between strangers, I fought a powerful urge to turn and flee from this event, a little piece of hell here on earth.
I recognized sparsely scattered faces and spotted the guest of honour, whom I used to know quite well, walking toward the buffet table in the centre of the room. It was beautiful, the room; marble floors shining like liquid with the assistance of the lights above; a massive chandelier in the middle surrounded by its many minions.
I targeted her and walked swiftly in that exact direction, not looking anywhere else but in front of me, mildly concentrating on not getting my dress stuck in the heels of my shoes. Damn formal soirees.
She looked up, slight recognition in her eyes and there appeared a fragmentary smile and the inevitable greeting. Before I knew it I was caught up in a bear hug, a soft, excited scream in my ear.
And so began a night of hugs and screams and wow, how long has it been’s.
The music played relentlessly, and loudly, as I swayed and sipped my champagne, I smiled sweetly at people I vaguely knew and put in a word here and there in random conversations about new employments and failed marriages, travels and pregnancies and I stifled a yawn as the clock struck 10:00.
I couldn’t believe I was here again, in this room with these people. Hadn’t I been adamant that I would never subject myself to this company, this mindless chatter again? Doubtless I had been quilted by the hostess, but why did I succumb? Hadn’t that very quality also been dead and buried in me for what seemed like an eternity. It had been almost an eternity since I last saw some of these faces and I wondered to myself what we had had in common all those years ago, if anything. This felt not unlike a high school reunion, and I felt more relieved as the minutes ticked by bringing me closer to freedom, bringing me closer to breathing.
I realised I knew no one.
Not even the guest of honour. She had been a friend in my formative years; an integral part of my life back then, but who was she now? And when had we drifted so far apart? I couldn’t remember a time or an event, or a moment when it happened; it had just happened.
All I knew was that I wasn’t that person they knew, and they were not the people I had known and as I stood there dragging on a cigarette I realised I was a stranger to them. I had a life so far removed from the one of yesteryears and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This was not and hadn’t been the place I belonged, the life I had chosen and I felt glad I had made that choice. I was surrounded by an immense amount of phoniness and it made me uncomfortable.
I glanced at my watch; it read 11:25, an acceptable time to leave if ever there was one, I thought. I knew the goodbyes would take at least 10 minutes so I looked around to see if I could spot the hostess, my former friend.
I saw her sitting down across the room and walked over, bracing myself. She looked in my direction and before I opened my mouth her words reached me. You’re leaving already? She asked, unsurprised, resigned. I felt something like remorse but not quite, and then I remembered the beginning of the end of this part of my life.
I had removed myself slowly, leaving earlier and earlier and eventually declining invites all together.
They came looking for me, and sometimes they found me, but I wasn’t the same, and neither were they.
And as I walked out of this life for the second time, I breathed in the cool night air and smiled.
I had chosen my life, and the people in it.
The Edge of No Return
Walking to edge of no return, they laugh, a scowl; a howl,
Minds blank or filled with too much, they begin
The plan, which seems more impulsive
But a plan nonetheless.
They lose themselves today
Or perhaps the two were lost a time ago,
When ideas were formed and decisions made;
Innocence betrayed.
Superior and justified; they want fame, notoriety and mayhem,
Their anger is the anger of thousands,
A lesson to be taught by them; the youth -
They will make the world pay and we will be intrigued
With the weapons of man and mind,
They will kill.
They walk and stand on the edge, a hesitant moment doesn’t last;
They begin.
Minds blank or filled with too much, they begin
The plan, which seems more impulsive
But a plan nonetheless.
They lose themselves today
Or perhaps the two were lost a time ago,
When ideas were formed and decisions made;
Innocence betrayed.
Superior and justified; they want fame, notoriety and mayhem,
Their anger is the anger of thousands,
A lesson to be taught by them; the youth -
They will make the world pay and we will be intrigued
With the weapons of man and mind,
They will kill.
They walk and stand on the edge, a hesitant moment doesn’t last;
They begin.
Strip
Eyes like a wild animal, like a dog, saliva almost visible at the corners of his old mouth and sweaty, sticky, wrinkled hands. He fills an emptiness.
Wide, eager pupils dilate, mouth ajar, perspiration streaming down the sides of his young face. He fulfils a curiosity.
A judgmental stare from a girl with a flat chest and a boyfriend who brought her here; for fun. Her eyes scrutinize every inch of the body before her. She feeds her insecurity.
Oily limbs, silicone breasts and 3 hours a day spent in an air conditioned health centre. She peeks through the red velvet curtain and her stomach slowly begins to untie itself.
She will walk out and bare herself to a room full of strangers and feel something like terror and relief, something like sex and dirt.
And she’ll see herself in the audience.
Stripped.
Wide, eager pupils dilate, mouth ajar, perspiration streaming down the sides of his young face. He fulfils a curiosity.
A judgmental stare from a girl with a flat chest and a boyfriend who brought her here; for fun. Her eyes scrutinize every inch of the body before her. She feeds her insecurity.
Oily limbs, silicone breasts and 3 hours a day spent in an air conditioned health centre. She peeks through the red velvet curtain and her stomach slowly begins to untie itself.
She will walk out and bare herself to a room full of strangers and feel something like terror and relief, something like sex and dirt.
And she’ll see herself in the audience.
Stripped.
January 30, 2009
Immersion or; Like a Tin Can
A deep yet shadowy vice; this immersion, he ponders. A cold book store at the end of a street not far from anywhere else, a man, this man, is sliding the rough tip of his finger along the spines of aged books.
He glances at passersby, young, dirty hands turning glossy pages of rhyming words and colourful pictures, teenagers pouring over celebrity gossip magazines; middle aged women too.
He looks back to the bound pages of knowledge before him and slowly walks down the aisle.
This is his safe harbour; his port in the storm, a storm which rages every other minute he is elsewhere.
He scrunches his nose upward as his eyes take careful note of the title before him, so familiar. A work of fiction he had read a long time ago; with her. John Irving’s story had entertained them for months, they grabbed hours every chance they got to submerge into the world according to Garp.
He looked briefly at the cover, an almost teal green, turned it over to glance at the back, and then swiftly squeezed it in between the two books housed on either side of it again. He tried to concentrate on the next row of books but his mind kept remembering, wondering. He hated to think of her.
Feeling an emotion rise up inside of him like a troublesome wave in the ocean he decided to leave. He stepped out into the heat which was a shocking contrast to the coolness of the store and immediately focused his adjusting eyes on the commotion across the car strewn street.
An indirect brush with mortality; he saw ambulances and tow trucks and people in uniforms; he heard sirens and hooters and gasps.
He wondered silently, as he stared at the mess, how long he had been immersed in the book store, the bodies, or what was left of them, were already gone; all that was left were the vehicles, almost unrecognizable to him now, crushed.
For a minute he stood rooted to the sunny pavement, pondering whether or not he should get into his car, this sight made him think twice. How easily this could happen, how quickly, he thought. In the blink of an eye, life as you know it ends.
This man was never one to stand and gape at such spectacles, normally he would try to avoid looking, driving by as quickly as possible, but today, this sight sent something down his spine and he couldn’t move, his eyes darting from smashed car to smashed car, this calamity had him in a trance of some kind.
He focused on each vehicle; zooming in, he could see blood, a lot of blood and he felt he could almost smell it in the air, as if an unkind breeze was sending the acidic, rust-like smell toward him. His stomach tightened for a moment and relaxed again; it was just his imagination.
He wondered how the paramedics had gotten the bodies out of the cars, it could have been no easy feat, he wondered if there were any bodies to retrieve, or if there were only parts of bodies to retrieve. He shuddered involuntarily, he could not look away, and he stayed fixed.
All of a sudden he wished he’d never left the book store, he wished he could retrace his steps, start the day again and avoid this encounter as he was having an unusual reaction to it, it surprised him and he wasn’t sure how to respond to how his emotions were behaving. He thought of her, and he thought of how fragile the human body is; how quickly, how easily it can be destroyed.
He felt his eyes begin to burn, with what? He rubbed them as if he’d gotten something solid in them and when he looked down at his hands he saw the tears there, staring up menacingly at him.
He felt confused, strangers passing by, the sun frying his face as he stood and stared. He felt a tug in a direction he was unwilling to go toward, such a familiar tug, such a sensation!
In the presence of life and death he felt strangely high. He felt a strength suddenly, and his legs began to walk, and walk, and walk.
They took him to her house. The house looked the same, the grass was the same length, the trees the same height; it was as if no time had passed, he could have been here yesterday or the day before, last week even. It had been 6 years, 4 months.
He saw his finger come up in front of him to press the doorbell; it felt more like he was observing someone else’s finger.
He waited out on the doorstep for what felt like an eternity, but in actuality was no more than a few seconds, until finally, the dark door opened a crack and a single misty blue eye peeked out at this man.
All that had happened did not disappear, their hearts did not suddenly forget, but their eyes locked and all the years, all the resolve, melted away like an ice cream in a child’s hand on a warm day and what was left was a sweet, thick liquid, a happy day.
A happy day was all they had, and they knew it.
He glances at passersby, young, dirty hands turning glossy pages of rhyming words and colourful pictures, teenagers pouring over celebrity gossip magazines; middle aged women too.
He looks back to the bound pages of knowledge before him and slowly walks down the aisle.
This is his safe harbour; his port in the storm, a storm which rages every other minute he is elsewhere.
He scrunches his nose upward as his eyes take careful note of the title before him, so familiar. A work of fiction he had read a long time ago; with her. John Irving’s story had entertained them for months, they grabbed hours every chance they got to submerge into the world according to Garp.
He looked briefly at the cover, an almost teal green, turned it over to glance at the back, and then swiftly squeezed it in between the two books housed on either side of it again. He tried to concentrate on the next row of books but his mind kept remembering, wondering. He hated to think of her.
Feeling an emotion rise up inside of him like a troublesome wave in the ocean he decided to leave. He stepped out into the heat which was a shocking contrast to the coolness of the store and immediately focused his adjusting eyes on the commotion across the car strewn street.
An indirect brush with mortality; he saw ambulances and tow trucks and people in uniforms; he heard sirens and hooters and gasps.
He wondered silently, as he stared at the mess, how long he had been immersed in the book store, the bodies, or what was left of them, were already gone; all that was left were the vehicles, almost unrecognizable to him now, crushed.
For a minute he stood rooted to the sunny pavement, pondering whether or not he should get into his car, this sight made him think twice. How easily this could happen, how quickly, he thought. In the blink of an eye, life as you know it ends.
This man was never one to stand and gape at such spectacles, normally he would try to avoid looking, driving by as quickly as possible, but today, this sight sent something down his spine and he couldn’t move, his eyes darting from smashed car to smashed car, this calamity had him in a trance of some kind.
He focused on each vehicle; zooming in, he could see blood, a lot of blood and he felt he could almost smell it in the air, as if an unkind breeze was sending the acidic, rust-like smell toward him. His stomach tightened for a moment and relaxed again; it was just his imagination.
He wondered how the paramedics had gotten the bodies out of the cars, it could have been no easy feat, he wondered if there were any bodies to retrieve, or if there were only parts of bodies to retrieve. He shuddered involuntarily, he could not look away, and he stayed fixed.
All of a sudden he wished he’d never left the book store, he wished he could retrace his steps, start the day again and avoid this encounter as he was having an unusual reaction to it, it surprised him and he wasn’t sure how to respond to how his emotions were behaving. He thought of her, and he thought of how fragile the human body is; how quickly, how easily it can be destroyed.
He felt his eyes begin to burn, with what? He rubbed them as if he’d gotten something solid in them and when he looked down at his hands he saw the tears there, staring up menacingly at him.
He felt confused, strangers passing by, the sun frying his face as he stood and stared. He felt a tug in a direction he was unwilling to go toward, such a familiar tug, such a sensation!
In the presence of life and death he felt strangely high. He felt a strength suddenly, and his legs began to walk, and walk, and walk.
They took him to her house. The house looked the same, the grass was the same length, the trees the same height; it was as if no time had passed, he could have been here yesterday or the day before, last week even. It had been 6 years, 4 months.
He saw his finger come up in front of him to press the doorbell; it felt more like he was observing someone else’s finger.
He waited out on the doorstep for what felt like an eternity, but in actuality was no more than a few seconds, until finally, the dark door opened a crack and a single misty blue eye peeked out at this man.
All that had happened did not disappear, their hearts did not suddenly forget, but their eyes locked and all the years, all the resolve, melted away like an ice cream in a child’s hand on a warm day and what was left was a sweet, thick liquid, a happy day.
A happy day was all they had, and they knew it.
Windswept, rushed, afraid
Ahead I see you, bright colourful lights shining behind your head; you’re motioning for me to take your hand.
The cars on either side of us seem to be flying at an unfathomable speed and I feel something like panic.
My hair is tangled and whipping violently at my face, I can barely see; but I see you and I’m holding your hand.
The lights get brighter and it makes the scenery behind me seem dull, lifeless.
I feel dull and lifeless; a momentary lapse in self esteem,
You bring me back again and the wind turns into a slight breeze, calming to the core.
The cars on either side of us seem to be flying at an unfathomable speed and I feel something like panic.
My hair is tangled and whipping violently at my face, I can barely see; but I see you and I’m holding your hand.
The lights get brighter and it makes the scenery behind me seem dull, lifeless.
I feel dull and lifeless; a momentary lapse in self esteem,
You bring me back again and the wind turns into a slight breeze, calming to the core.
January 29, 2009
Bruise
The shadows under her eyes reveal her tender state – she has been thinking a lot lately, perhaps she’s been thinking too much, but she feels, she knows, a change is coming.
She needs to decide what is valued highest and what she can live without, because sidling on the edges leaves her tired and nauseated and fed up. In a day, in a month, in a year things can change so drastically, as they have for her, your mind could still be spinning, your heart could still be racing, and in all the craziness you can realise things you were blinded to before, and sometimes your dreams can make you wake up and realise them.
It happened to her. She woke up, on a chilled morning sometime in January, after having dreamt something seemingly arbitrary, and she knew almost certainly, what it meant. The days, the events leading up to that late night show in her subconscious tie into it so immaculately, making it hard to button and harder still to ignore.
She knew it would be a hurt, a pain to live with for a while, but worse still would be denying the reality; the reality of how she felt and the reality of how they feel. And they don’t feel as she would, and they don’t know all that she does, and they don’t care.
She will be bruised for a while, but the truth heals wounds; eventually.
Because you have to weigh the good and the bad, the things you can live with and the things you would rather not.
She needs to decide what is valued highest and what she can live without, because sidling on the edges leaves her tired and nauseated and fed up. In a day, in a month, in a year things can change so drastically, as they have for her, your mind could still be spinning, your heart could still be racing, and in all the craziness you can realise things you were blinded to before, and sometimes your dreams can make you wake up and realise them.
It happened to her. She woke up, on a chilled morning sometime in January, after having dreamt something seemingly arbitrary, and she knew almost certainly, what it meant. The days, the events leading up to that late night show in her subconscious tie into it so immaculately, making it hard to button and harder still to ignore.
She knew it would be a hurt, a pain to live with for a while, but worse still would be denying the reality; the reality of how she felt and the reality of how they feel. And they don’t feel as she would, and they don’t know all that she does, and they don’t care.
She will be bruised for a while, but the truth heals wounds; eventually.
Because you have to weigh the good and the bad, the things you can live with and the things you would rather not.
A Perfect Design
She still can’t fathom herself deserving of such good fortune; you.
Such an imperfectly perfect design; made with the finest touches and the finest brushes.
There’s nothing about you that is normal, or plain; all of you is magnificent – from your eye lashes, reminiscent of a fine black feather duster, to your hands, strong, patient.
To look at you is to look at art of the highest quality, of the steepest value.
And she has you.
And she, feeling as though some balance has been put out.
She hears the words and looks dripping from you, from your mouth and from your eyes and she stands amazed; unbelieving, but sure.
Such an imperfectly perfect design; made with the finest touches and the finest brushes.
There’s nothing about you that is normal, or plain; all of you is magnificent – from your eye lashes, reminiscent of a fine black feather duster, to your hands, strong, patient.
To look at you is to look at art of the highest quality, of the steepest value.
And she has you.
And she, feeling as though some balance has been put out.
She hears the words and looks dripping from you, from your mouth and from your eyes and she stands amazed; unbelieving, but sure.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
