Grey turned his head slightly to the left, gazing down the length of the blue-lined corridor. Ten feet away, two scientists had their pistols aimed steadily at his head.
"Hey, 274," the one on the left said. A man's voice. "Hey. So, listen, you need to go back to Fabrication."
The one on the right took half a step forward.
"Yeah," she added. The other one. "It's time to head back. You've had a nice walk around. Wasn't it nice? But it's time to go back."
Grey took half a step backwards. Shoes. He needed shoes. Brown runners. Light brown laces. Memoriesss55s55.~_... 4H.RhH_he pulled himself back, left hand twitching and shaking. He clenched his fist to stop the spasm.
"You're not fully formed yet, 274," the man said.
"You're unstable," the woman said.
"You're unfinished, 274."
"We need to take you back."
"Please, 274. We don't want to have to use these," he said, gesturing with his pistol.
Grey blinked twice.
"hoo..." he began, tasting the words, "hoo-hoo who a'm I eyeye I... ?"
"You need to come with us, 274."
"ggg-raaeey. th-The otherszzs callll cul call me'e greayy. Gh. Gh-ray. Grey."
The man turned to the woman. He whispered something. Grey noticed the whispering. He noticed the lips. He paid attention to the lips. Two? Too... far... Too far gone. Grey understood. Speech was difficult. Thinking was not. Thinking right now, in this moment. Thinking about the pass55stt broO'ught o0n the tremors5s.
"Wilgo. Wil go wit'h yoouu," drooled Grey, turning his palms upwards and slowly walking toward the man and the woman.
The woman's eyes widened slightly, imperceptibly. Grey noticed. An unexpected turn of events. He was nearly within arm's reach. The guns were still pointing.
"That's enough, 274," the man said. His voice wobbling. Grey noticed. The gun still aimed at Grey's head.
Grey stopped.
"why am i?"
The man's eyes darted to his left. That was enough.
Grey stepped over the man's torso, bloody footprints walking with him down the blue-and-red-lined corridor as he advanced on the whimpering woman.
"Puhhh-lee..." she croaked and wheezed out of her crushed windpipe.
Grey stopped in front of her, bending down to stare into her eyes. He showed no remorse. The woman was not going to tell him anything. He gave her the illusion of one last chance.
"Why am I?"
And as he spoke he realised that didn't matter as much as the next question.
"Why am I 274?"
Thirty-Five Minute Special
Whereupon I attempt to refresh my mind, build my skills and probably write about pirates drinking coffee. Thirty minutes of writing, five minutes of editing, post.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Monday, March 19, 2012
Nine
I'm too nice to be a teacher. That's the consensus of my classes. I need to be more strict.
One of my students has told me that I need to be more strict with him or else he doesn't learn. He recognises that he loses focus on his learning and, rather than use this self-acknowledgement as a tool for becoming greater than he is, he turns it around and claims I'm not strict enough with him.
...
In one of my classes I have a group of students that live in Camp Learning Difficulty. Lovely kids, when treated as individuals and disassociated with the classroom. Together, their group focus floats on the breeze like a damaged autumnal leaf, ready to dip and fall at the slightest trembling of thunder.
Thunder storms often.
Five times out of eight I have this class in Period 5 or 6, after lunch in a six period day. Five times out of eight at least one of the kids has gotten into trouble earlier on in the day and causes havoc in this class. Dealing with shit I didn't cause? Love it!
...
"Sir! Sir! He's got my pen!"
- So?
...
One of the girls in one of my classes gets terribly upset when she forces me to tell her that she's done something completely wrong because she jumps into the 'assume' basket. Chances are if I give you a project full of activities to complete, and three weeks to complete them, I'm going to explain the requirements of each and we're going to work through it as a class, over the next three weeks, so that you can give me something worthwhile. Telling me that you're going to finish it by the weekend doesn't endear you.
...
A (hopefully) small part of my brain still functions like a giggling moron. When kids walk into the class and, rather than get books out, ask, "What are we doing today?", I silently answer, "Your mum."
...
I regularly rearrange my classroom because I get bored. Every time I do it, kids wander in groaning, "Sir!? Did you change the desks around?"
Every single time, I answer, "No, it was like this when I got here. No idea why, but we don't have time to change it back. Books out!"
...
Every time I teach a kid named Josh, I tell them that every Josh I've ever known has been a troublemaker. It gives them all such glee to point out that I'm also a Josh, thus I must be a troublemaker. Clearly. Then everyone thinks about it and realises that every Josh they have ever met has been a troublemaker.
I could probably do it with a name I picked out of a hat and kids would find some way to agree with me.
...
I miss having intelligent conversations with others at school. Maternity leave positions are awful. Other teachers see you as a gypsy, students are mortified to learn you'll be leaving at some point and they get the other teacher back. The other teacher who turned into a monster in the process of giving birth.
You never get the good classes, with the good kids, because you'll be leaving anyway and they don't want the smart ones to be 'messed up' by a tinker.
I still have teachers I have never spoken a word to because every time I see them they blinker up and walk right past. Classy.
...
I still wake up every morning wondering why we left a permanent position at a fantastic school (with creative foibles) to move back to bloody-hell-everything's-bloody-expensive-and-all-the-people-are-frazzled-jerks-Sydney, but then I see my five-and-a-half month old daughter playing with her cousins and realise that things could be worse.
One of my students has told me that I need to be more strict with him or else he doesn't learn. He recognises that he loses focus on his learning and, rather than use this self-acknowledgement as a tool for becoming greater than he is, he turns it around and claims I'm not strict enough with him.
...
In one of my classes I have a group of students that live in Camp Learning Difficulty. Lovely kids, when treated as individuals and disassociated with the classroom. Together, their group focus floats on the breeze like a damaged autumnal leaf, ready to dip and fall at the slightest trembling of thunder.
Thunder storms often.
Five times out of eight I have this class in Period 5 or 6, after lunch in a six period day. Five times out of eight at least one of the kids has gotten into trouble earlier on in the day and causes havoc in this class. Dealing with shit I didn't cause? Love it!
...
"Sir! Sir! He's got my pen!"
- So?
...
One of the girls in one of my classes gets terribly upset when she forces me to tell her that she's done something completely wrong because she jumps into the 'assume' basket. Chances are if I give you a project full of activities to complete, and three weeks to complete them, I'm going to explain the requirements of each and we're going to work through it as a class, over the next three weeks, so that you can give me something worthwhile. Telling me that you're going to finish it by the weekend doesn't endear you.
...
A (hopefully) small part of my brain still functions like a giggling moron. When kids walk into the class and, rather than get books out, ask, "What are we doing today?", I silently answer, "Your mum."
...
I regularly rearrange my classroom because I get bored. Every time I do it, kids wander in groaning, "Sir!? Did you change the desks around?"
Every single time, I answer, "No, it was like this when I got here. No idea why, but we don't have time to change it back. Books out!"
...
Every time I teach a kid named Josh, I tell them that every Josh I've ever known has been a troublemaker. It gives them all such glee to point out that I'm also a Josh, thus I must be a troublemaker. Clearly. Then everyone thinks about it and realises that every Josh they have ever met has been a troublemaker.
I could probably do it with a name I picked out of a hat and kids would find some way to agree with me.
...
I miss having intelligent conversations with others at school. Maternity leave positions are awful. Other teachers see you as a gypsy, students are mortified to learn you'll be leaving at some point and they get the other teacher back. The other teacher who turned into a monster in the process of giving birth.
You never get the good classes, with the good kids, because you'll be leaving anyway and they don't want the smart ones to be 'messed up' by a tinker.
I still have teachers I have never spoken a word to because every time I see them they blinker up and walk right past. Classy.
...
I still wake up every morning wondering why we left a permanent position at a fantastic school (with creative foibles) to move back to bloody-hell-everything's-bloody-expensive-and-all-the-people-are-frazzled-jerks-Sydney, but then I see my five-and-a-half month old daughter playing with her cousins and realise that things could be worse.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Beat #1
The fabric torn, collapsing in the wind while the wind sheared on and on
and the power of the people was harnessed in a driving rain
the pain of mistimed opportunities, of drunken raw emotion
of making the right decision then proving themselves wrong
the tied up bastard, covered in sweat and drool and cum,
loneliness, exorbitant feedble-minded emptiness
and the pain of knowing that cunt just tore him a new one
a coffee stain round the blender, a bender, a long tired night of sleeplessness
hopelessness and mildew, dripping inconsistently in a tight rat-a-tah-a-tah-a-tat
and the lost little boy, driving rage before him, consumes him, destroys
the wish that he could wake like his mother, wrapped up in ignorance and hope
a tricky slippery soap, the duck hanging limply from the independence and hate
the bruises, cut sharply, staggered down the face into the ball of incandescent sobbing
a whimpering, slobbering pity
a drunken old city
fresh from the raging rhythm of the night
a single bleak note shattering the still
"Fucking old cunt of a car."
Jimmy turned the key again, the rusted pipes bellowing a cancerous cough into the night. Starting this piece of shit junket was Dave's idea of a good time. Fucking Dave. It had been forty-five minutes since that fucker had slipped into the darkness to find help. The tiny gas station back down the road, with the flickering lightglobe, the retro blue-and-red and the fat man licking his lips and rubbing his nipples as Jimmy handed over his last twenty an hour ago.
Jimmy sighed, got out of the car, tossed the keys into the bushes then began to trudge back down the road.
and the power of the people was harnessed in a driving rain
the pain of mistimed opportunities, of drunken raw emotion
of making the right decision then proving themselves wrong
the tied up bastard, covered in sweat and drool and cum,
loneliness, exorbitant feedble-minded emptiness
and the pain of knowing that cunt just tore him a new one
a coffee stain round the blender, a bender, a long tired night of sleeplessness
hopelessness and mildew, dripping inconsistently in a tight rat-a-tah-a-tah-a-tat
and the lost little boy, driving rage before him, consumes him, destroys
the wish that he could wake like his mother, wrapped up in ignorance and hope
a tricky slippery soap, the duck hanging limply from the independence and hate
the bruises, cut sharply, staggered down the face into the ball of incandescent sobbing
a whimpering, slobbering pity
a drunken old city
fresh from the raging rhythm of the night
a single bleak note shattering the still
"Fucking old cunt of a car."
Jimmy turned the key again, the rusted pipes bellowing a cancerous cough into the night. Starting this piece of shit junket was Dave's idea of a good time. Fucking Dave. It had been forty-five minutes since that fucker had slipped into the darkness to find help. The tiny gas station back down the road, with the flickering lightglobe, the retro blue-and-red and the fat man licking his lips and rubbing his nipples as Jimmy handed over his last twenty an hour ago.
Jimmy sighed, got out of the car, tossed the keys into the bushes then began to trudge back down the road.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Rock
Music
Sets you free
Not free like liberty
It's a metaphor
Music
Takes control
It grinds and it binds and it turns you loose like a wake up call
Music
Makes you love
The dip and the swoon
The dance round the room with the rock hard cock and you're trying too much
Like an animal bound by the rhythm, depraved and ashamed of the poison
Music
Makes you hurt
The bandage wrapped tight round the wound as the heartache consumes and the tears run like rain through the torrents of pain and the depths of despair
And the bitches that swagger and sway with the breeze as they sing of the pain of being themselves
Of millions of dollars and drunk happiness but the pain of being alone cuts
Deeper than dicks with the bitches and bling who wear bitches and bling as they gyrate the eight year old girl
With the hero-fixed-eyes, the sweet little tutu, ten inch whore heels and an inky black tramp
And the music
Oh the music
It shines as the beacon of hope for the masses
A grotesque molasses
A whoring of assholes bleached white like the burn from the just-keep-going prick
The holistic sick
The vomit that oozes, that stinks and corrodes
As the tarted up hussy thrusts forward and moans
Won't you love me be near me my music makes you happy
Buy my shit watch my shit eat my shit
For the thrill of consumption
A tired old gumption
Played out on the crowds
Watch me live watch me die
Cheer my songs cheer my life
Pull the trigger buy the photo
Music
Sets you free
It climbs and it soars
Through bitches and whores
And deft motherfuckers forgetting the cause
That the purpose was freedom
Music
Takes control
Bound up in contracts
Of required inspiration
Two albums a year
A forced machination
But the music
Oh the music
A sad
Little
Note
Sets you free
Not free like liberty
It's a metaphor
Music
Takes control
It grinds and it binds and it turns you loose like a wake up call
Music
Makes you love
The dip and the swoon
The dance round the room with the rock hard cock and you're trying too much
Like an animal bound by the rhythm, depraved and ashamed of the poison
Music
Makes you hurt
The bandage wrapped tight round the wound as the heartache consumes and the tears run like rain through the torrents of pain and the depths of despair
And the bitches that swagger and sway with the breeze as they sing of the pain of being themselves
Of millions of dollars and drunk happiness but the pain of being alone cuts
Deeper than dicks with the bitches and bling who wear bitches and bling as they gyrate the eight year old girl
With the hero-fixed-eyes, the sweet little tutu, ten inch whore heels and an inky black tramp
And the music
Oh the music
It shines as the beacon of hope for the masses
A grotesque molasses
A whoring of assholes bleached white like the burn from the just-keep-going prick
The holistic sick
The vomit that oozes, that stinks and corrodes
As the tarted up hussy thrusts forward and moans
Won't you love me be near me my music makes you happy
Buy my shit watch my shit eat my shit
For the thrill of consumption
A tired old gumption
Played out on the crowds
Watch me live watch me die
Cheer my songs cheer my life
Pull the trigger buy the photo
Music
Sets you free
It climbs and it soars
Through bitches and whores
And deft motherfuckers forgetting the cause
That the purpose was freedom
Music
Takes control
Bound up in contracts
Of required inspiration
Two albums a year
A forced machination
But the music
Oh the music
A sad
Little
Note
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Metal
I can only write while listening to Sigur Rós' ( ). This feels like a block.
Maybe my writing is firming up with misuse. Stories abuse me from within, then when I sit down to type them out they're caught like a plastic bag down a drain. If my head was a bath, brimming with good ideas and intentions, every time I sit down to write it feels like the bath turns to ice or evaporates or both at once.
Words are... a struggle. I've mentioned this to my students before. The way my head works feels like a poker machine, or a combination lock, wheels spinning to land on the right word, joined with the next right word. They laugh at the slight pause, the distant look, as the wheel clicks into place with a perfunctory ka-chunk. And then my hands, waving about in the air as if to gesticulate the denotation and connotation and wrap the metaphor into itself to create a meta.
I use tree. In describing a metaphor. Well, the extension of the description of metaphor. Saying one thing is another, giving the signifier precedence over the signified. The textual tree is a different tree for everyone, but it's the same tree. Through further description, you can hope to paint a better tree in the mind of the reader, but you can never succeed. 'Tree' is the metaphor for the idea of a physical object. I almost wrote 'living' but then I remembered Christmas trees.
I don't feel like I've taught since July last year. The proper, get enthusiastic, rant and rave and pace and argue and shutupshutupyouneedtolistenthisisimportant weaving a fabric of uncertainty and confusion until threads emerge that question the very nature of text, responding, hating, exploring. That idea that forms that screams that I am important and the things I say and the things I argue and the way things are done is important.
I've taught kids that are, and have been, encouraged to write beautifully not for the sake of writing beautifully but far more pure - to write beautifully for yourself. I've taught kids that only know writing as a mechanical task that requires a strict structure stamped on the page in bolded headlines that scream THIS IS THE ONLY PLACE WHERE YOU CAN WRITE HOW THIS EXAMPLE AFFECTS YOU.
I've read writing that has been elegantly wrought from the ethereal inspiration that shines brightly over some kids. I've read writing that functions like an assembly line robot constructing cars from overused cliches and hackneyed expression.
I want to walk kids through creating a book. I want to take all of Year 9 English for the entire year. The only task for the year is to write a story, print it and bind it. At the end of the year they either get a Satisfactory or a Not Yet Satisfactory. At the end of the year they will have a book that they created. At the end of the year they will have researched, drafted, edited, drafted, edited, researched, edited, experienced, completed, printed and bound words. Singular words, joined together to create clauses which turn into sentences which ramble into paragraphs which interlope to form chapters and novels and books.
At the end of the year, a Year 9 cohort of 150 will have created 150 new books for the universe to enjoy.
Maybe I'm just dreaming.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Confusion
She looked at me. There was something mildly annoying about that look. Something mildly annoying about her, really. But that look that she looked at me. That hint of desperation, of a sex half undone, of a pleading ignorance to the situation. Of clouds, swimming endlessly, aimlessly.
I didn't think I had what she wanted. Still don't, but something seemed to work. Enough to get her off my case for the next few hours.
That letter. The stain, almost strategic, fading and warping the signature. Truths bending, and I sit here grasping with one hand and getting drunk with the other. Drink helps. Brings me back to normal.
The ice clinks in an empty glass. Both right; both metaphorically right, but both incredibly wrong. Dangerous. Mustn't let her see my thoughts. Betrayal would only taste sweeter.
A tryst. As simple? Too simple. She wasn't the sort. She was languid, wretched. Body told more stories than this bloody letter. Scars on the hips, broken fingernails, left shoulder easily dislocated, mind displaced. Thinking one thing and doing another, then another, then another. Then a goddamn other. Always comes crying back to me.
I still don't think I have what she wants. An answer? Too easy. An answer is as simple as choosing. Or destroying the other. She'd do that if she thought it was an option. So it's not.
Another drink disappears and the fuzziness helps. Takes the edge off the rationality. Makes advice easy. If she's here for the right answer, any answer I give is the right one, right? Makes it easy.
"A bullet."
I didn't think I had what she wanted. Still don't, but something seemed to work. Enough to get her off my case for the next few hours.
That letter. The stain, almost strategic, fading and warping the signature. Truths bending, and I sit here grasping with one hand and getting drunk with the other. Drink helps. Brings me back to normal.
The ice clinks in an empty glass. Both right; both metaphorically right, but both incredibly wrong. Dangerous. Mustn't let her see my thoughts. Betrayal would only taste sweeter.
A tryst. As simple? Too simple. She wasn't the sort. She was languid, wretched. Body told more stories than this bloody letter. Scars on the hips, broken fingernails, left shoulder easily dislocated, mind displaced. Thinking one thing and doing another, then another, then another. Then a goddamn other. Always comes crying back to me.
I still don't think I have what she wants. An answer? Too easy. An answer is as simple as choosing. Or destroying the other. She'd do that if she thought it was an option. So it's not.
Another drink disappears and the fuzziness helps. Takes the edge off the rationality. Makes advice easy. If she's here for the right answer, any answer I give is the right one, right? Makes it easy.
"A bullet."
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Relapse
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by overconfidence and lofty ambitions, inflated to bursting by parents and teachers who constantly told them they could do it, they could achieve it, they could be whoever they wanted to be.
I saw potential flapping in the wind; a rudderless ship approaching a storm, uninformed sailors quaffing mothers' milk as the horizontal becomes vertical and all the king's horses and all the king's men join Humpty in dull, blue pieces of desperation and depression.
I saw learning and words turn into education and numbers, a drooling mass of nonsense formulated to appease the stupid, as if the biggest indicator of future success comes down to the point value ascribed to the correct recognition of an elative or, use of, comma.
I love learning, I hate schools.
I saw two overly sexualised young boys fight for their right to mate, passionately swinging at each other as dolled-up harpies watch suggestively, considering any win a win for their responsibility to carry the seeds of the drunken bag of billowing testosterone.
I saw potential flapping in the wind; a rudderless ship approaching a storm, uninformed sailors quaffing mothers' milk as the horizontal becomes vertical and all the king's horses and all the king's men join Humpty in dull, blue pieces of desperation and depression.
I saw learning and words turn into education and numbers, a drooling mass of nonsense formulated to appease the stupid, as if the biggest indicator of future success comes down to the point value ascribed to the correct recognition of an elative or, use of, comma.
I love learning, I hate schools.
I saw two overly sexualised young boys fight for their right to mate, passionately swinging at each other as dolled-up harpies watch suggestively, considering any win a win for their responsibility to carry the seeds of the drunken bag of billowing testosterone.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Fighting Back
She whirled on one foot and turned to stare at the diminutive monster at the front of the room.
"You! You stupid... you... arsehole! How dare-"
"Dare? This is... business. I do what I need to. Risk doesn't come into it, so I don't need to dare a thing."
One step forward.
"You knew all along?"
"Of course."
One step closer.
"You did nothing!"
"Oh, you misunderstand my... motives. I did everything..."
One step more.
"... I assumed that Jenny would tell. She needed to. It's a part of who she... is. She was always going to be the crux that just needed the right... leverage-"
"You killed her!"
"Not outright, no. This is business, and quite lucrative. I have... people... to handle matters like that. I asked them to take care of it..."
One step. The odour of rotten garlic.
"But why?"
"Jenny's death was necessary to push Carl... forward. He needed to achieve great... things. Of course, he had to do them very quickly. How was he to know he wouldn't be alive... long."
"Carl? Who... who is Carl?"
One foot paused in mid-air.
"Carl Hooper. Jenny's Carl-"
"Wait. When you say Jenny's Carl do you mean that Jenny is Carl? Or that Jenny owns Carl?"
"Possessive apostrophe-"
"But she died. How can she possess-"
"She did... possess, so-"
"Well, not technically. I think she'd disagree with the idea of posses-"
"Yes, yes, but past tense possessed means present tense possess-"
"Regardless of death?"
"Interesting... idea. So she used to be with-"
"Which we can argue is a form of-"
"Possession, yes. In that format, she'd be possessive... apostrophe Carl's, right?"
"Sound so far, yes."
"Imagining that they continued to be... together, we can argue that possession, and the possessive apostrophe, continues-"
"But not if she died..."
"... can we... assume... that we couldn't use ex- in this context?"
"Oooh. A bit harsh, perhaps? They didn't break-up. And they weren't married-"
"Which rules out widower..."
...
"Do you want a coffee while we work this out?"
"You! You stupid... you... arsehole! How dare-"
"Dare? This is... business. I do what I need to. Risk doesn't come into it, so I don't need to dare a thing."
One step forward.
"You knew all along?"
"Of course."
One step closer.
"You did nothing!"
"Oh, you misunderstand my... motives. I did everything..."
One step more.
"... I assumed that Jenny would tell. She needed to. It's a part of who she... is. She was always going to be the crux that just needed the right... leverage-"
"You killed her!"
"Not outright, no. This is business, and quite lucrative. I have... people... to handle matters like that. I asked them to take care of it..."
One step. The odour of rotten garlic.
"But why?"
"Jenny's death was necessary to push Carl... forward. He needed to achieve great... things. Of course, he had to do them very quickly. How was he to know he wouldn't be alive... long."
"Carl? Who... who is Carl?"
One foot paused in mid-air.
"Carl Hooper. Jenny's Carl-"
"Wait. When you say Jenny's Carl do you mean that Jenny is Carl? Or that Jenny owns Carl?"
"Possessive apostrophe-"
"But she died. How can she possess-"
"She did... possess, so-"
"Well, not technically. I think she'd disagree with the idea of posses-"
"Yes, yes, but past tense possessed means present tense possess-"
"Regardless of death?"
"Interesting... idea. So she used to be with-"
"Which we can argue is a form of-"
"Possession, yes. In that format, she'd be possessive... apostrophe Carl's, right?"
"Sound so far, yes."
"Imagining that they continued to be... together, we can argue that possession, and the possessive apostrophe, continues-"
"But not if she died..."
"... can we... assume... that we couldn't use ex- in this context?"
"Oooh. A bit harsh, perhaps? They didn't break-up. And they weren't married-"
"Which rules out widower..."
...
"Do you want a coffee while we work this out?"
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Green
The leaf drifted lower onto the peak of the cap, lazily reaching in the breeze, outstretched with potential, before a burst sent it shimmering over the edge of the chaotic, swirling chasm. It hung briefly in the updraft before flittering away and down into the broiling mists.
"I' not fallin' down thah! I ain' crossin' no bridge! You can' make me, I' not even goin' a go close to the edge, you can all jus' bugger off!"
Captain Hannes van der Klooster turned to look at the naysayer, a swaggeringly roguish young man with muscles bigger than coconuts.
"Jasper, you were the one that demanded we go look for the Zombie Gemerald - now you're the first to-"
"Nonono there wasn' goin-"
"Let me fini-"
"Noone said nothin' 'bout no cha'-"
"Just let me-"
"I ain' goin' near no-"
"IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP I'M THROWING YOU OVER!"
Jasper turned away from the group, sobbing into his hat.
"Right!"
Captain Hannes van der Klooster turned to Sam, eyes gleaming with a piercing, joyful anger.
"That's how you cover a topic without mentioning it!"
"I' not fallin' down thah! I ain' crossin' no bridge! You can' make me, I' not even goin' a go close to the edge, you can all jus' bugger off!"
Captain Hannes van der Klooster turned to look at the naysayer, a swaggeringly roguish young man with muscles bigger than coconuts.
"Jasper, you were the one that demanded we go look for the Zombie Gemerald - now you're the first to-"
"Nonono there wasn' goin-"
"Let me fini-"
"Noone said nothin' 'bout no cha'-"
"Just let me-"
"I ain' goin' near no-"
"IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP I'M THROWING YOU OVER!"
Jasper turned away from the group, sobbing into his hat.
"Right!"
Captain Hannes van der Klooster turned to Sam, eyes gleaming with a piercing, joyful anger.
"That's how you cover a topic without mentioning it!"
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Play
I wind up the little blue clockwork robot and place him precariously on the edge of the bookshelf just to watch him fall, arms flailing wildly, into the green pile of toy soldiers. Giggling, I set the green pyramid up again and repeat the suicide jump, and the resulting crash makes me laugh harder.
I find my little red and yellow ball, iridescently glowing in the afternoon sunlight that melts through my bedroom window, and hurl it at the pile of books on my desk. Ellis, Conrad and Williams go soaring through the air, ploughing through piles of paperwork. I think I see Orwell, a rogue missile, send my lamp flying. It smashes into the wall and tiny razors of glass spread themselves around my floor. I consider this a success.
My little green and red train engine, meticulously and painstakingly maintained, snaps in half with a joyful cracking sound. Shards of plastic dig into my hands.
I look at my huge tub of LEGO. Its indestructibility mocks me.
I pick up my little green teddy bear from his home on my pillow. Unflinchingly, I grab him in two hands and pull. His head detaches from his body, leaving woolen entrails across my bed. The head bounces off my window and knocks over the glass of water on my bedside drawers. The body ends up befriending my goldfish.
I sit, hungry and wet, on the rug in the middle of my room. My hands and legs bleed. I realise, as my belly growls at the smell of the missed dinner, what an idiot I've been.
I find my little red and yellow ball, iridescently glowing in the afternoon sunlight that melts through my bedroom window, and hurl it at the pile of books on my desk. Ellis, Conrad and Williams go soaring through the air, ploughing through piles of paperwork. I think I see Orwell, a rogue missile, send my lamp flying. It smashes into the wall and tiny razors of glass spread themselves around my floor. I consider this a success.
My little green and red train engine, meticulously and painstakingly maintained, snaps in half with a joyful cracking sound. Shards of plastic dig into my hands.
I look at my huge tub of LEGO. Its indestructibility mocks me.
I pick up my little green teddy bear from his home on my pillow. Unflinchingly, I grab him in two hands and pull. His head detaches from his body, leaving woolen entrails across my bed. The head bounces off my window and knocks over the glass of water on my bedside drawers. The body ends up befriending my goldfish.
I sit, hungry and wet, on the rug in the middle of my room. My hands and legs bleed. I realise, as my belly growls at the smell of the missed dinner, what an idiot I've been.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Wolf
The wolf at the door
watches me
eyes sun-bright and calm
telling a tale of loss
of people of civilisation of
all
that
dross
The wolf at the door
listens
to petty complaints
and dirty plans
of panic of fear of
misplaced
weekends
The wolf at the door
speaks slowly
patiently explains
and wonders
of saviours of hope of
a world ripped apart
The wolf at the door
my eloquent friend
twisting and striving
to show us the end
For all is not lost
with a friend like the wolf
He will gnaw on their bones
with a gnashing of teeth
the sinew the blood
the raw tender meat
the chomping and slurping
the getting his way
with a friend like the wolf
he will make them all pay
All the hunters and grandmas
all the spoiled young boys
the glistening fat
of their lives lived in joy
with a friend like the wolf
he will make them all pure
they will run for their lives
see how they run
The wolf at the door
The light of the sun
A faint ray of hope
Then what's done
is
done
watches me
eyes sun-bright and calm
telling a tale of loss
of people of civilisation of
all
that
dross
The wolf at the door
listens
to petty complaints
and dirty plans
of panic of fear of
misplaced
weekends
The wolf at the door
speaks slowly
patiently explains
and wonders
of saviours of hope of
a world ripped apart
The wolf at the door
my eloquent friend
twisting and striving
to show us the end
For all is not lost
with a friend like the wolf
He will gnaw on their bones
with a gnashing of teeth
the sinew the blood
the raw tender meat
the chomping and slurping
the getting his way
with a friend like the wolf
he will make them all pay
All the hunters and grandmas
all the spoiled young boys
the glistening fat
of their lives lived in joy
with a friend like the wolf
he will make them all pure
they will run for their lives
see how they run
The wolf at the door
The light of the sun
A faint ray of hope
Then what's done
is
done
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
A few hurriedly scrawled letters,
'You are not special'
successfully pinned my ambitions to an otherwise blank piece of thirded paper, my own personal butterfly collection stolen from the recesses of a stomach too pained to offer much defence. The envelope was unremarkable, save for an invitation to open for 'The one who thinks he's more than he is'.
'But I am, surely.'
And a detached voice that's always there, hiding in the bright corner of my head, watching my act with stilted bemusement, critically looks at me with my own voice and says:
- You've always thought it, but if you were would you be here? Isn't life supposed to come rescue you?
The last sentence washed with scorn, a hatred from my own clinical observer.
'Maybe...'
- Maybe nothing. Since you were young, you put in just enough effort to supplement your natural ability so that you ended up above-average. Then you stopped increasing the effort and now you're just average, wishing life was better, thinking that you're special, thinking that you're here for a reason, supposed to change the world, rescue the planet, play Jesus and save us all. But you're not. And you know it - it's why I'm here.
'Everything that's happened in my life has been for a purpo-'
- Bullshit. You're so pathetic, even in your manic state I'm here, watching and judging and realising what a complete cock you are. You think you're all that. There's no purpose to life. No purpose to your existence, except to struggle and suffer for some greater glory that will never come.
'But I've tried and it hasn't worked. I've tried so har-'
- No. All you've done is fail. You've failed over and over again and then, the worst of all, is that you failed to learn anything. You keep making the same mistakes, keep giving up when it gets hard and keep using the reasoning that 'This isn't where I'm supposed to be, surely'. You're constantly deluding yourself into thinking you're special.
'But what if I am?'
- But you're n-
'No, but what if I am? Isn't that an even scarier thought? That all the feelings I have about being special aren't a figment of mania but they're real? That I am supposed to change the world and have absolutely no idea where to start. We're not afraid of being wrong, we're afraid of being right.'
- You're just afraid of looking like a dick.
I picked up the letter, ripped out the words and stuck them into my wallet.
'And when I'm wrong, it's still going to be spectacular.'
'You are not special'
successfully pinned my ambitions to an otherwise blank piece of thirded paper, my own personal butterfly collection stolen from the recesses of a stomach too pained to offer much defence. The envelope was unremarkable, save for an invitation to open for 'The one who thinks he's more than he is'.
'But I am, surely.'
And a detached voice that's always there, hiding in the bright corner of my head, watching my act with stilted bemusement, critically looks at me with my own voice and says:
- You've always thought it, but if you were would you be here? Isn't life supposed to come rescue you?
The last sentence washed with scorn, a hatred from my own clinical observer.
'Maybe...'
- Maybe nothing. Since you were young, you put in just enough effort to supplement your natural ability so that you ended up above-average. Then you stopped increasing the effort and now you're just average, wishing life was better, thinking that you're special, thinking that you're here for a reason, supposed to change the world, rescue the planet, play Jesus and save us all. But you're not. And you know it - it's why I'm here.
'Everything that's happened in my life has been for a purpo-'
- Bullshit. You're so pathetic, even in your manic state I'm here, watching and judging and realising what a complete cock you are. You think you're all that. There's no purpose to life. No purpose to your existence, except to struggle and suffer for some greater glory that will never come.
'But I've tried and it hasn't worked. I've tried so har-'
- No. All you've done is fail. You've failed over and over again and then, the worst of all, is that you failed to learn anything. You keep making the same mistakes, keep giving up when it gets hard and keep using the reasoning that 'This isn't where I'm supposed to be, surely'. You're constantly deluding yourself into thinking you're special.
'But what if I am?'
- But you're n-
'No, but what if I am? Isn't that an even scarier thought? That all the feelings I have about being special aren't a figment of mania but they're real? That I am supposed to change the world and have absolutely no idea where to start. We're not afraid of being wrong, we're afraid of being right.'
- You're just afraid of looking like a dick.
I picked up the letter, ripped out the words and stuck them into my wallet.
'And when I'm wrong, it's still going to be spectacular.'
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Battery
Wind me up like a little blue tin robot.
I'm so tired lately. The days just slide by, traces of memorable moments fading fast as a new day repeats everything all over again. I wish I could see an end to the monotony of the current everyday life.
I love to write. I love literature and the way language twists and turns in the wind as new people come to explore it. I hate spelling mistakes and SMS shorthand but I love that it exists and that people bend the language to make it fit their medium. I love the way the words become more than just arranged letters and that each word takes on its own history and that words become taboo and the way words are reclaimed and reimagined. I love that we can stereotype people with simple classifications that do a disservice to the individual and deftly identify them. I love the way words feel in the mouth: plough is the most disgusting word in my vocabulary and the most sensuous. I love emphasising syllables and including forgotten letters.
I love playing with punctuation.
My worry is that my writing will stop being common. This feels absurd to write, as if the 'real writer' has to stand out in floury prose, in languid metaphor, 'like totally' simile and defunct abstract imagery. I would like to think that people still have imaginations with the capacity to thinkreate (thincreate?) the characters they see and be comfortable with it. I don't need mundane descriptions of the individual creases on a face unless each crease has a purpose - although, if every mundane crease has a place in the narrative I've probably stopped reading already.
The first pages of a book sell me the idea and I'm very quick to stop reading. This probably makes me a bad reader. I'm also likely to stop drinking bad milk very quickly. Does this make me a bad drinker?
I'm trying hard to not stop writing when it goes sour.
But lately I struggle, like a tiny little blue windup robot at the end of the day.
I've recently wondered how many years of struggling teachers go through before they give up and settle on a programme that won't work next year like it didn't work last year but it'll do, DAMNIT, so that I don't have to take my BLOODY work home with me so I can FINALLY SLEEP at night. I wonder if other jobs reach that tipping point.
I wonder if they'll let me back in if I promise not to become a revolutionary.
I'm so tired lately. The days just slide by, traces of memorable moments fading fast as a new day repeats everything all over again. I wish I could see an end to the monotony of the current everyday life.
I love to write. I love literature and the way language twists and turns in the wind as new people come to explore it. I hate spelling mistakes and SMS shorthand but I love that it exists and that people bend the language to make it fit their medium. I love the way the words become more than just arranged letters and that each word takes on its own history and that words become taboo and the way words are reclaimed and reimagined. I love that we can stereotype people with simple classifications that do a disservice to the individual and deftly identify them. I love the way words feel in the mouth: plough is the most disgusting word in my vocabulary and the most sensuous. I love emphasising syllables and including forgotten letters.
I love playing with punctuation.
My worry is that my writing will stop being common. This feels absurd to write, as if the 'real writer' has to stand out in floury prose, in languid metaphor, 'like totally' simile and defunct abstract imagery. I would like to think that people still have imaginations with the capacity to thinkreate (thincreate?) the characters they see and be comfortable with it. I don't need mundane descriptions of the individual creases on a face unless each crease has a purpose - although, if every mundane crease has a place in the narrative I've probably stopped reading already.
The first pages of a book sell me the idea and I'm very quick to stop reading. This probably makes me a bad reader. I'm also likely to stop drinking bad milk very quickly. Does this make me a bad drinker?
I'm trying hard to not stop writing when it goes sour.
But lately I struggle, like a tiny little blue windup robot at the end of the day.
I've recently wondered how many years of struggling teachers go through before they give up and settle on a programme that won't work next year like it didn't work last year but it'll do, DAMNIT, so that I don't have to take my BLOODY work home with me so I can FINALLY SLEEP at night. I wonder if other jobs reach that tipping point.
I wonder if they'll let me back in if I promise not to become a revolutionary.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Lemonade
I woke to the smell of freshly cut grass. The light trickled in through the window, slowly warming the attic where we'd spent the night. Cobwebs and dust motes scattered the air. It was beautiful. The attic steadily gained colour, gaining depth and life. Everything started to change, but nothing changes. The painting that had seemed so demonic last night was a clown. It could still fall either way. The cracked, wooden box of old, discarded, soft toys had a heavy blanket of dust that only reinforced how sad forgotten teddy bears are. I turn over to pull the thin, red blanket off yo-
I woke to the smell of freshly cut grass. It wasn't my grass. Slowly I opened my eyes. Everything was blue. I blinked staccato and slowly reds and greens bled in. I was lying on my back on hot asphalt. The palms of my hands and backs of my legs were starting to burn on the bla-
I woke to the smell of freshly cut grass. Jerking upright, I search for you. I call out your name. You don't answer. I call and call, louder, Louder, LOUDER. Sile-
I woke to the smell of freshly cut grass.
"Stop this," I say.
- Stop what
"I don't want to travel anymore," I reply.
- Everything changes nothing changes
"I don't understand."
- You will. Eventually
The fullstop unnerved me. It wasn't the implied threat of 'eventually'. It was the pause. It spoke of aeons waiti-
I woke to the smell of flowers.
"Take me back."
- Where to
"To the attic. I was happy in the attic."
- What is happy
"Being pleased with-"
- What is pleased
"Enjoying-"
- What is enjoying
"... having something to look forward to."
- I brought you some flowers
"You can't look forward to flowers."
- They are right in front of you
"No. No! Something to live for!"
- What is live
"Waking up in the morning and wanting to be with the same someone you woke up next to the day bef-
I woke to the smell of freshly cut gras55$$as5ss%&#^376h8q876d987^&*4fg%@#98-
- Subject#LM4 terminated. Proceed with neuron implantation into Subject#LM5
I woke to the smell of freshly cut grass. It wasn't my grass. Slowly I opened my eyes. Everything was blue. I blinked staccato and slowly reds and greens bled in. I was lying on my back on hot asphalt. The palms of my hands and backs of my legs were starting to burn on the bla-
I woke to the smell of freshly cut grass. Jerking upright, I search for you. I call out your name. You don't answer. I call and call, louder, Louder, LOUDER. Sile-
I woke to the smell of freshly cut grass.
"Stop this," I say.
- Stop what
"I don't want to travel anymore," I reply.
- Everything changes nothing changes
"I don't understand."
- You will. Eventually
The fullstop unnerved me. It wasn't the implied threat of 'eventually'. It was the pause. It spoke of aeons waiti-
I woke to the smell of flowers.
"Take me back."
- Where to
"To the attic. I was happy in the attic."
- What is happy
"Being pleased with-"
- What is pleased
"Enjoying-"
- What is enjoying
"... having something to look forward to."
- I brought you some flowers
"You can't look forward to flowers."
- They are right in front of you
"No. No! Something to live for!"
- What is live
"Waking up in the morning and wanting to be with the same someone you woke up next to the day bef-
I woke to the smell of freshly cut gras55$$as5ss%&#^376h8q876d987^&*4fg%@#98-
- Subject#LM4 terminated. Proceed with neuron implantation into Subject#LM5
Monday, March 23, 2009
Jupiter
"All I'm saying is that the idea isn't as preposterous as you may or may not think, regardless of whether or not you stop to think of the possibility or logicality of any of it."
"Is logicality even a word?"
"It's as much a word as logicalness, and I know which one sounds better coming off the tongue."
They stepped into the restaurant, its faded blue and green decor glowly effervescently in the red sunlight.
"But it feels like such a rort."
"So any time someone decides that a previously fictional idea, that seemed illogical at the time, was actually a smart investment move, it's a rort?"
"In this case, yes."
"... so robots are a rort?"
"If they came out and some marketing genius called them Karels, yes. Or Asimovs. Have your own personal Asimov to do all your cooking and cleaning and wa-"
"That doesn't make sense. We're not talking about branding, we're talking about turning once-fantasy ideas into reality, simply because they make sense to create."
"So extend this out logically: We elect the leader by seeing who can remove a sword from a stone, we-"
"Two chips, two waters. Number 12? Great, thanks."
"-see flying cars as a logistical solution-"
"What's wrong with flying cars?"
They sat down on the hand-stitched, slightly torn, red leather seats. They shimmered with glitter in the red sunlight.
"If we took every car parked on the LA freeway and threw them up in the air, all we'd have would be traffic jams in three dimensions. Teleportation is a more realitic solution, even with those initial tests."
"Well, all I know is that I'd rather sleep for a week than even think about zapping myself to some far off corner of the universe."
"Which is why this-"
She stretched her arms wide.
"-this, this whole thing is ridiculous. It's unneeded. We have a whole planet down there, but to save five minutes you can stop up here. Look at this place!"
"What?"
"It's a dump! Everything's broken or breaking. The food is terrible, the service is worse, the sunlight just NEVER stops. And why? Because some rich kid with a book decided that he needed to build a goddamned restaurant in space."
"You didn't complain about Austen World."
"Austen World was like stepping into a 19th Century period and finding bits still stuck to your shoes. Next Valentine's Day we're going to Bronte World LIKE I ASKED."
"Is logicality even a word?"
"It's as much a word as logicalness, and I know which one sounds better coming off the tongue."
They stepped into the restaurant, its faded blue and green decor glowly effervescently in the red sunlight.
"But it feels like such a rort."
"So any time someone decides that a previously fictional idea, that seemed illogical at the time, was actually a smart investment move, it's a rort?"
"In this case, yes."
"... so robots are a rort?"
"If they came out and some marketing genius called them Karels, yes. Or Asimovs. Have your own personal Asimov to do all your cooking and cleaning and wa-"
"That doesn't make sense. We're not talking about branding, we're talking about turning once-fantasy ideas into reality, simply because they make sense to create."
"So extend this out logically: We elect the leader by seeing who can remove a sword from a stone, we-"
"Two chips, two waters. Number 12? Great, thanks."
"-see flying cars as a logistical solution-"
"What's wrong with flying cars?"
They sat down on the hand-stitched, slightly torn, red leather seats. They shimmered with glitter in the red sunlight.
"If we took every car parked on the LA freeway and threw them up in the air, all we'd have would be traffic jams in three dimensions. Teleportation is a more realitic solution, even with those initial tests."
"Well, all I know is that I'd rather sleep for a week than even think about zapping myself to some far off corner of the universe."
"Which is why this-"
She stretched her arms wide.
"-this, this whole thing is ridiculous. It's unneeded. We have a whole planet down there, but to save five minutes you can stop up here. Look at this place!"
"What?"
"It's a dump! Everything's broken or breaking. The food is terrible, the service is worse, the sunlight just NEVER stops. And why? Because some rich kid with a book decided that he needed to build a goddamned restaurant in space."
"You didn't complain about Austen World."
"Austen World was like stepping into a 19th Century period and finding bits still stuck to your shoes. Next Valentine's Day we're going to Bronte World LIKE I ASKED."
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Seagulls
They come in at false dawn, fingers tracing furrows through the sand as they stumble towards their graves, prints oddly misstepped with a weighting to the left. Always to the left.
All at once they stop, turn to the calming sea and sigh,their memories of the. Delicately and, deliberately, they sit and wait.
The never-ending battle to keep the tides coming in
Walking seaweed monsters that hold the ocean back? Something to do with that. As in, wake in the morning and walk along the beach and there's seaweed everywhere and where did it come from? Some sort of nightly ritual they have to perform to stop the ocean from taking over with the only outcome being their death on the shore. Seagulls removing any evidence of their existence. Tinfoil hats.
Not enough to work with for a full story? Even a thirty minute one... More a background character for a full story.
They come in at false dawn, fingers tracing furrows through the sand, prints unevenly misstepped as they wearily drag themselves out of the calming sea.
All at once they stop and, turning toward the dark ocean, they sigh. Delicately, they sit, stretching out upon the cold sand. Muscles begin to loosen, thoughts of the battle fade, the sky darkens as twilight approaches and the hearkening of angels sweeps in over the shore.
The angels feast on their rotting carcasses as the last salty remnants of their nightly struggle washes out to sea.
All at once they stop, turn to the calming sea and sigh,
Not enough to work with for a full story? Even a thirty minute one... More a background character for a full story.
They come in at false dawn, fingers tracing furrows through the sand, prints unevenly misstepped as they wearily drag themselves out of the calming sea.
All at once they stop and, turning toward the dark ocean, they sigh. Delicately, they sit, stretching out upon the cold sand. Muscles begin to loosen, thoughts of the battle fade, the sky darkens as twilight approaches and the hearkening of angels sweeps in over the shore.
The angels feast on their rotting carcasses as the last salty remnants of their nightly struggle washes out to sea.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Strangest Thing
I'm your typical hypocrite.
So I'm off to school tomorrow to begin again a new year where I hate myself for the path that necessity has paved for me. I had planned to write more in the holidays about 'Why I'm Not Teaching' and then, here I am. Never got the urge or will to sit down for a few hours and type things up.
I've been wishing that something would happen so that I wouldn't have to go; so that I had a reasonable excuse that other teachers would understand. But once you're in the system, you start to lose any sense that there's anything wrong with any of it. Yes, kids seem to be a little bit more 'out-of-control' than a few years back, but that's just kids, right? Yes, they seem to be getting a little bit 'dumber', but surely that's the fault of the primary school teachers, right? If everyone did the jobs they're supposed to be doing then we wouldn't have this mess, right? Right?
But I'm finding that there seems to be diametrically opposed ideas when it comes to teaching: either you want to and so you put up with the shit until you get into a rhythm or you just don't teach. So it's either I teach or I don't and I have to make a choice but what if I want the middle-ground?
I've been trying to get a job doing some sort of youth work. I really do like young people and I want to help them achieve their best and that sounds preposterous but it's there.
I hate that I've been thinking about the best way to control my new classes.
So I'm off to school tomorrow to begin again a new year where I hate myself for the path that necessity has paved for me. I had planned to write more in the holidays about 'Why I'm Not Teaching' and then, here I am. Never got the urge or will to sit down for a few hours and type things up.
I've been wishing that something would happen so that I wouldn't have to go; so that I had a reasonable excuse that other teachers would understand. But once you're in the system, you start to lose any sense that there's anything wrong with any of it. Yes, kids seem to be a little bit more 'out-of-control' than a few years back, but that's just kids, right? Yes, they seem to be getting a little bit 'dumber', but surely that's the fault of the primary school teachers, right? If everyone did the jobs they're supposed to be doing then we wouldn't have this mess, right? Right?
But I'm finding that there seems to be diametrically opposed ideas when it comes to teaching: either you want to and so you put up with the shit until you get into a rhythm or you just don't teach. So it's either I teach or I don't and I have to make a choice but what if I want the middle-ground?
I've been trying to get a job doing some sort of youth work. I really do like young people and I want to help them achieve their best and that sounds preposterous but it's there.
I hate that I've been thinking about the best way to control my new classes.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Earliest Memory
It involves a girl. And reeds. The sort that you run your hand down the head and all the little hairs came off in your hand and then you throw them to the sky, brown hair raining down.
Blue sky. Bright. Always shockingly bright. But sometimes dark rain clouds. Is this normal? Both at once?
Yes. Go on.
There's a fence running along the back of houses. It's a beach somewhere. South? Probably south. You can't see the beach but you can smell it. Are smells normal?
Yes. Please, go on.
Smells in memory? Memory always felt like a series of fading pictures.
Gardenias.
Oh? Gardenias?
Just that, for example, the smell of gardenias always brings me back to my grandmother's place. The backyard was full of them. An automatic sensory trigger that brings upon a memory relapse.
But there are so many beaches - why is the smell important here?
It places you at the beach. It's a location and temporal indicator. Without it, you could be anywhere. But the smell of the beach indicates a particular place and, with your records, gives us a more accurate timeframe to imprint.
So the smell isn't important?
Well, what sort of smell was it?
Hot. It was like vinegar and sunscreen and feeling the sand blowing, wearing away at your legs.
OK, good. Continue. Just try to get as much as possible.
There was a drain. The sort that runs past the back of all the houses and drains out at the sea. The one kids aren't supposed to play in because they drown.
About the girl...
Brown hair. It was in pigtails. She was popular in our class. I wasn't...
-
... She had green eyes. They were like tiny little marbles. She has braces and she looks into my eyes. And, for the first time, I really look at someone...
And then?
We hold hands, someone sees us and laughs and that's it. Nothing else. Is it enough?
For now. We've got Danielle giving a good parent picture and Sam's got first day of school. We might need you back in to do first kiss. Something to do with a record player might work well. Tanya's debriefing you today.
Blue sky. Bright. Always shockingly bright. But sometimes dark rain clouds. Is this normal? Both at once?
Yes. Go on.
There's a fence running along the back of houses. It's a beach somewhere. South? Probably south. You can't see the beach but you can smell it. Are smells normal?
Yes. Please, go on.
Smells in memory? Memory always felt like a series of fading pictures.
Gardenias.
Oh? Gardenias?
Just that, for example, the smell of gardenias always brings me back to my grandmother's place. The backyard was full of them. An automatic sensory trigger that brings upon a memory relapse.
But there are so many beaches - why is the smell important here?
It places you at the beach. It's a location and temporal indicator. Without it, you could be anywhere. But the smell of the beach indicates a particular place and, with your records, gives us a more accurate timeframe to imprint.
So the smell isn't important?
Well, what sort of smell was it?
Hot. It was like vinegar and sunscreen and feeling the sand blowing, wearing away at your legs.
OK, good. Continue. Just try to get as much as possible.
There was a drain. The sort that runs past the back of all the houses and drains out at the sea. The one kids aren't supposed to play in because they drown.
About the girl...
Brown hair. It was in pigtails. She was popular in our class. I wasn't...
-
... She had green eyes. They were like tiny little marbles. She has braces and she looks into my eyes. And, for the first time, I really look at someone...
And then?
We hold hands, someone sees us and laughs and that's it. Nothing else. Is it enough?
For now. We've got Danielle giving a good parent picture and Sam's got first day of school. We might need you back in to do first kiss. Something to do with a record player might work well. Tanya's debriefing you today.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Moving
We're told to write what we know, as if that's the most 'true' form of writing. As if our experiences, our lives, our actions, words, thoughts; - our 'self' can manifest itself as something more than adequate.
It's a load of shit. It's the reason why kids have no imagination these days. You tell someone they're the centre of their own universe and suddenly they don't have to worry about pirates and adventures and creating stories, telling stories, writing, reading, reading, Reading, READING. (writing)
"Tell me about yourself."
- I'm late twenties, I feel much younger, I feel much older, I look younger, I've never been overseas, I like the comfortable, I stick with what I know but am blessed with an infinite capacity and hunger to know more, I eat, I sleep, in my spare moments I save the world or at least pretend to, I wonder about invasions, I've almost finished Day of the Triffids and once again I find the book only starts to affect me when they're getting rescued, I like education but hate schools, I like young people but hate students, I want to write a book called 'Why I'm Not Teaching' because it's impossible to fight this system from within, I'm more and more scared of Kevin Rudd as time goes on, I'm late twenties and I like icecream with Milo and Lego (separate items - consider truncating or turning into flowchart or Powerpoint Presentation).
The second we write what we know we make ourselves vulnerable and, fuck, people might think of us differently. So we write a comfortable, sanitised version of ourselves, hiding all ourfucked up thoughts, hiding our swear words. Live a little.
It's a load of shit. It's the reason why kids have no imagination these days. You tell someone they're the centre of their own universe and suddenly they don't have to worry about pirates and adventures and creating stories, telling stories, writing, reading, reading, Reading, READING. (writing)
"Tell me about yourself."
- I'm late twenties, I feel much younger, I feel much older, I look younger, I've never been overseas, I like the comfortable, I stick with what I know but am blessed with an infinite capacity and hunger to know more, I eat, I sleep, in my spare moments I save the world or at least pretend to, I wonder about invasions, I've almost finished Day of the Triffids and once again I find the book only starts to affect me when they're getting rescued, I like education but hate schools, I like young people but hate students, I want to write a book called 'Why I'm Not Teaching' because it's impossible to fight this system from within, I'm more and more scared of Kevin Rudd as time goes on, I'm late twenties and I like icecream with Milo and Lego (separate items - consider truncating or turning into flowchart or Powerpoint Presentation).
The second we write what we know we make ourselves vulnerable and, fuck, people might think of us differently. So we write a comfortable, sanitised version of ourselves, hiding all our
Friday, December 12, 2008
Post
The more I do this, the more I want to do this, the more I question why it is that I don't. Jac asked me last night what the problem was. Why wasn't I writing? Was there something wrong?
Here is my day when I get a day of casual teaching:
1) Wake at, or as close as possible to, 6am.
I slip out of bed - the mattress is on the floor because the bed broke months ago and we can't afford to get a new one and our floors are polished wood and every day I nearly fall over - and stumble to the kettle for my first of far too many coffees. Usually I then go to the computer to check random news websites to check to see if anything major has been destroyed and I missed it - the 9/11 coverage was incredible and I don't want to miss another one. The kettle pops and I go make myself some brown in the mug I used the night before.
2) Get a call from someone asking if I want to work today.
If I'm lucky I don't get a call until about 7am because that usually means I'm at a local school. Of course I say yes. We can't afford a bed. One morning I got a call at 8am to get to Druitt by 8.40am - even if I was completely ready to go it would've taken me at least an hour and a half to get there. Had to say no and don't regret it.
3) Begins the anguish.
If I'm incredibly lucky I get a call a few days before. However all this does is begin the anguish sooner. Anguish because I constantly turn the thought over in my head that this is a shit profession, that you'd have to be mad to do it, that I'm no good at it anyway, that I've got by so far on luck, that I'm so good at lying to myself that I can convince others who seem to offer me these ludicrous positions that I'm far too immature and irresponsible for.
At the start of 2008 I had a position lined up at a semi-rural school halfway between larger towns (but still within the Sydney Basin). I lasted two weeks, spending four days at the school. Granted, it was teaching Geography and History to little shits who couldn't give a shit even more than I couldn't give a shit about the subjects. I mentally broke down on the way to work one day and had to spend 10 minutes crying on the side of the road because I just didn't want to do it.
Term 2 2008 saw me get a temporary position of at least a term teaching English at one of the better schools in South West Sydney. Six weeks.
End of Term 3 I was offered the first two weeks at a different SWS school teaching IA. I said no and got a retail job.
4) Have breakfast, get ready and go to school.
No more coffee for me if I'm going to school. Last thing I want is the caffeine going through mid-lesson. Clothes are casual-relaxed. Private school teachers wear ties and suits every day. Not sure if it's worth it.
5) This is a whole different post - and one that would take far more than 35 minutes.
Suffice to say that for every good class you'll have two shit ones. Classes that require you to stop being the person you want to be and start being a fucking hard-arse ogre that won't take shit from any little blighter and if I have to spend forty minutes shouting at you then FUCK YOU I WILL. It's so draining. An excellent day is easily and swiftly ruined by the last period of the day.
6) I come home.
Exhausted. Every casual day is exhausting. I no longer come home and crash for three hours on the lounge. Now I just sit in my chair, staring at the computer screen, wondering what the fuck I'm going to do with my life.
Wondering if any job will satisfy me.
Knowing that I have to get one to support my small family.
But hating every option.
Here is my day when I get a day of casual teaching:
1) Wake at, or as close as possible to, 6am.
I slip out of bed - the mattress is on the floor because the bed broke months ago and we can't afford to get a new one and our floors are polished wood and every day I nearly fall over - and stumble to the kettle for my first of far too many coffees. Usually I then go to the computer to check random news websites to check to see if anything major has been destroyed and I missed it - the 9/11 coverage was incredible and I don't want to miss another one. The kettle pops and I go make myself some brown in the mug I used the night before.
2) Get a call from someone asking if I want to work today.
If I'm lucky I don't get a call until about 7am because that usually means I'm at a local school. Of course I say yes. We can't afford a bed. One morning I got a call at 8am to get to Druitt by 8.40am - even if I was completely ready to go it would've taken me at least an hour and a half to get there. Had to say no and don't regret it.
3) Begins the anguish.
If I'm incredibly lucky I get a call a few days before. However all this does is begin the anguish sooner. Anguish because I constantly turn the thought over in my head that this is a shit profession, that you'd have to be mad to do it, that I'm no good at it anyway, that I've got by so far on luck, that I'm so good at lying to myself that I can convince others who seem to offer me these ludicrous positions that I'm far too immature and irresponsible for.
At the start of 2008 I had a position lined up at a semi-rural school halfway between larger towns (but still within the Sydney Basin). I lasted two weeks, spending four days at the school. Granted, it was teaching Geography and History to little shits who couldn't give a shit even more than I couldn't give a shit about the subjects. I mentally broke down on the way to work one day and had to spend 10 minutes crying on the side of the road because I just didn't want to do it.
Term 2 2008 saw me get a temporary position of at least a term teaching English at one of the better schools in South West Sydney. Six weeks.
End of Term 3 I was offered the first two weeks at a different SWS school teaching IA. I said no and got a retail job.
4) Have breakfast, get ready and go to school.
No more coffee for me if I'm going to school. Last thing I want is the caffeine going through mid-lesson. Clothes are casual-relaxed. Private school teachers wear ties and suits every day. Not sure if it's worth it.
5) This is a whole different post - and one that would take far more than 35 minutes.
Suffice to say that for every good class you'll have two shit ones. Classes that require you to stop being the person you want to be and start being a fucking hard-arse ogre that won't take shit from any little blighter and if I have to spend forty minutes shouting at you then FUCK YOU I WILL. It's so draining. An excellent day is easily and swiftly ruined by the last period of the day.
6) I come home.
Exhausted. Every casual day is exhausting. I no longer come home and crash for three hours on the lounge. Now I just sit in my chair, staring at the computer screen, wondering what the fuck I'm going to do with my life.
Wondering if any job will satisfy me.
Knowing that I have to get one to support my small family.
But hating every option.
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