You're Handsome. I'm Clever. We Could Be Happy Together. (Just don't speak)

A Limerick 

Dear Fellow, you tall handsome man, hasn’t anyone told you not to stand with your hand,

Stuck in your pocket holding your keys, ready to go with the easiest ease.

Well fellow, take note this is good for you, I’ve had a thought, I think I’ll come too.

We’ll jump in your car, or some other folk’s, and drive to a lake and... hmm folks.

Anyway you... you tall handsome man gripping your beer with your free hand,

Thankful for you, it’s a clear night. We’ll see some stars when we go for a drive.

We say we’ll see stars, and I may very well, what you’ll be looking at any could tell.

You see the thing about me, is obvious to see. I’d see it more, but that’s vanity.

I’ve flaming red hair, depending on the day, mind, at the end of six weeks it does start to fade.

I’ve got milk white skin, fresh and clean, depending on whether I’ve kept up my skincare routine.

I have startling blue eyes, with a bit of grey, depending on the weather and my mood on the day.

I have adorable freckles, which are kind of fun, problem is there’s enough to blot out the sun.

I’ve a shy, cheeky smile which I admit is a lie. I’m not that cheeky, and I’m certainly not shy.

I have a sultry laugh, like movie stars of old, although, generally only when I also have a cold.

I can run a mile and I like to swim, as long as by 'mile' you mean ‘ten metres’ and it’s a hot tub I’m in.

The truth is, fellow, I’m pretty ... plain, and the best bit about me (admittedly) is my brain.

I Don't Gamble. But I'd Bet on You.

Every time I look at you I am waging a war in my head. I gamble viciously with my own life. I toss loaded dice and a young, vaguely attractive fellow in a red vest and black pants spins the wheel.  I don’t know if I’m losing though. Because every time the wheel slows I cover my face with my hands and hold my breath and when I take my hands away you’re looking directly at me as though you’re asking me a question.

So I answer “Yes.”

You smile and bump my shoulder with yours like we have just shared a joke, so I laugh, because I know that you make me laugh. You gesture to one direction and turn to walk that way. And I follow you. By the time I remember the dice it’s already too late, when I look back the vested fellow has handed them on.

We step out into the night air and I shiver. I’m not cold; I just appreciate the freshness that night air inherently holds. We walk a little way and sit down next to each other and the conversation begins. What we did this week; who annoyed us most; why I have a scar; why you have a bruise; what I cooked; what you fell over; how tired we both are. At some point I split in two.

One of me is watching us and one of me is talking to you.

The me that is watching us starts singing songs, she’s making jokes at my expense.  The me that is talking to you ignores the other, she’s looking at your eyes and trying to mine them for meaning. The singing me doesn't need meaning… I just need purpose, a goal, and sufficient oxygen and time to achieve it. So I sing at us, wondering if the me that is looking at you will ever stop gripping my hands together so tightly in my lap.  The me that is staring at you is making up speeches in my head. So in my head I’m telling you the truth and I’m making up a truth for you as well; every alternate one makes me want to cry.

Both parts of me push against the other when I’m with you. It gets confusing in this head. I get scared and sometimes I get over-confident and sometimes I’m making exit strategies. It’s silly but the reason I don’t know if I am losing is because, every time the wheel slows, every time I open my eyes and every time you turn to go, I follow.

So when we sit down

                                  both parts of me are there.

The Men in White

They look small from up here on the third floor. I cheer the little men in white from behind these panes of glass. There are lots of them, walking about the green circle, some aimlessly and others with undeniable purpose. One of the little men strides up beyond the pale strip of green, he takes the red dot and inspects it thoroughly. He pulls his shirt to make a polishing cloth and irreverently stains it red in his attempt to perfect the shine. He palms the dot into his left hand and starts jogging toward the pale strip.

 Soon the man with the dot is running at top speed, and when he reaches the pale strip he flings the dot down. It bounces and flies menacingly at another man in white standing at the other end. But, the other man is ready, he’s come armed with a plank of wood that he is clearly prepared to use. The other man quickly shuffles his feet, he leans back slightly and hoists the plank. He swings and wallops the red dot toward the edge of the big green circle toward his left side. The previously aimless wanderers on that side of the circle leap into action. One of them winds himself sprinting after the dot, he dives and slides and finally grasps it. 

The diving man flings it to another fellow who had apparently followed the sprint; he’d slowed to a stop in anticipation of the pass. This fellow then pulls back his arm and throws the dot furiously toward yet another man in white. This one is standing behind the place where the man with the plank had hit the dot from initially. He looks like a warrior because he is wearing armour. He catches the dot and slams it into a neatly appointed pile of sticks. The sticks toppled. Lots of men in white throw their arms up and turn to yell at a man wearing (somewhat conspicuously) black trousers. The man in the black trousers shakes his head. All the white men turn back to their preferred pursuits and begin again. 

A Sandwich

She didn't go down to the riverbank the next evening. She made herself wait, she was anxious to see you, but scared as well. Sunday morning she went about her business as usual, subtly watching the clock, waiting. At fifteen minutes past noon she pulled on her yellow jumper and walked to the river. She saw you sitting on the bench facing the river. So she quietly approached.

She sat down next to you and you looked at her and you smiled. Then you handed her a sandwich. She took it and smiled back. You let your hand drop onto the bench between you with your palm facing up.

She placed her hand over yours and you grasped it.

You both ate your sandwiches one-handed.

A Note

It was evening when you came to the bench by the river. You saw the rock sitting on the note on the spot where you normally sit, so you sat on the other end of the bench. You picked up the rock and saw that the note was addressed to you, so you opened it.

Sometimes I think it’s enough for me to know that you are alive and on the planet at the same time I am. Sometimes I’m just glad to know that you look at the same moon that I do at night. But mostly I’d like you to take my hand and hold it for a while.

And you knew exactly what she meant. You put the rock in your pocket and closed your fist around her note and then you breathed deeply. 

A Rock

She is shy
But she is optimistic
While she waits
She sings you songs
She is quiet
But she isn't missing
If you wait
She'll be along


She stopped at the river bank where you sit some times, and you weren't there. So she took out a piece of paper and her emergency pencil and jotted down a note for you. She folded it up and wrote your name on the front. She wandered around for a second, then she bent down to pick up a rock. She placed the note on the bench where you sit and put the rock on top of it, to make sure it wouldn't blow away. As she walked away she silently prayed that it wouldn't rain.

A Waiting Love

How Deeply You Hope

She writes love letters to you in her sleep. She picks out songs to tell you how she cares, but she doesn't send them to you (yet). She gently tells you that she believes in you. She prays the prayers that keep you safe. She reminds Heaven when your head is heavy, and she volunteers her shoulder to hold it up. Hers is a waiting love, and she'll wait for you.

You've been walking alone for a while now. Your heart is almost healed and your hand doesn't shake when it reaches toward the mirror. You don’t feel the tug of the scars so much; they've stretched into normality. Now when you sit on the river bank, you imagine it would be nice to have someone there, a hand to hold.

But you don’t know she’s waiting for you, and she doesn't know you’re ready yet. So close your eyes and say the prayer. Hope desperately and wish her into your arms. Take an extra sandwich next time you go down to the river, she’ll be there soon. I know this because I see how deeply you hope.

The Enchanted Goat's Leg

The Enchanted Goat’s Leg

I was walking through a stretch of bush land today and I saw a goat’s leg in my peripheral vision. I saw the hoof first; it was cloven (as they usually are) and it was bent at the knee joint and brown. I turned to examine the leg but, as I focused my vision squarely on it, the leg transformed into a branch. It was a very ordinary branch, although it bore a striking resemblance to a goat’s leg. The end nearest me was split, as if it were imitating a cloven hoof, and it was bent right at the place where, if it had been a goat’s leg, a knee would have existed.

Briefly, I considered that this leg could have, in fact, always been a branch, this thought I dismissed. It quickly became clear to me that at the place the branch occupied a goat must have buried itself in the ground in order to hide from me; he supposing I were a foe coming to capture him, which a foe would most assuredly do precisely because he (the goat) is plainly enchanted… or perhaps enchanter. I say plainly because it is clear to me that when the clever goat realised he didn’t have time enough to hide himself completely underground he enchanted his own leg (for it was the only part yet exposed) to look like a branch in order to trick his supposed pursuer.

Obviously, I considered grasping the branch in order to shake it and bring the goat out of his hiding. However, while I would have dearly liked to meet the clever goat (and I am sure you will agree with me, he must be very clever indeed!), a second thought on the matter belayed any consideration for shaking the poor creature out of his ingenious disguise, for fear I would frighten the life out of him! I comfort myself thinking it is quite enough to delight in my knowledge of him, and knowing the sweet mystery of falling for such a delicious trick… if only for a moment.

This is what I suspect the enchanted goat looks like obviously

 it is difficult to estimate given I only saw his

leg and only in my peripheral vision.

The Jigsaw

The Jigsaw

Break me open

Make me red

See the unguent oozing from my wounds

Reading pasts, futures

See my human-ness in the red on your hands

Come on dear

Find courage

Smash my bones, throw me down by the sea

Where we played in youth

Half of me will go back to it, liquid. Flowing free

Brace your hands

Seize me tightly

When you are ready breathe deep, seething

Then pull me apart

Piece by piece, tearing each part of me away

Pack me up

Keep each piece

Place the bits of me in a suitcase

Take me with you

Drive for an hour, we’ll go to the countryside

Lay me out

Red and broken

Start with my hands, put me back together

End with my heart

I’m a funny jigsaw but, we can make me

Better

A Million Things

A million things you and I could do between now and Christmas

We could go on a picnic, but instead of just choosing a place and going there we would pack our picnic and jump on our bikes and ride until we see a spot we like. It could be by a lake, or under a tree, or a place equally as lovely but only half as loved… like those gardens in the middle of round-a-bouts, though I don’t know if it's legal to picnic there, we could try it anyway.

We could sit on the beach at night and tell each other stories. I’d tell you stories about land-walking sharks, because that’s one of the things that has been in my head forever. I used to dream about them, but I can’t remember if I thought they were scary or not.

We could make experimental frozen desserts with yoghurt. It’s almost summer time so we could get loads strawberries… which we’d eat before we could make anything with them, and we’d probably smoosh them up and throw them at each other too.

We could plant herbs. We’d line them up and give them names like Barry the basil plant, and Coralin coriander, and Terence thyme and Geoffrey the rosemary plant. We’d paint little prayers on their terracotta pots to help them grow.

We could find a good lawn and lay down on it at night. We would give names to all the stars we could see. It would take all night, but that’s alright, we’re night time people anyway

We could experiment with making our own pear cider… because we can’t afford as much Rekorderlig as we’d like to drink on the coming lazy day summer afternoons.

We could buy kazoos and go busking. You would play and I would sing. Chances are we wouldn’t make a dollar between us, but that’s not really the point, is it?

We could go op-shopping and buy outfits like Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson and sit in cafés drinking coffee and talking about solving crimes and catching that dastardly Moriarty!

We could learn how to do felting and we could make felt hats and then we could make felt flowers to pin onto them.

We could create an epic scavenger hunt for all of our friends to do, and at the end we’d have a big tea party at my house in the middle of the night… it could be Alice in Wonderland themed.

We could dress up for Halloween, even though we’re not in America, and we’re not American. I just like dressing up, and I know you do too.

We could learn how to cook Moroccan food, or French food… or Sri Lankan food. Then we could eat it all.

We could make Christmas cakes for all our friends. Or we could make them just for us, and make cards for all our friends.

We could do a million things and I won’t mind what they are, as long as we’re doing them together.

Awkward

Awkward

When I was fourteen I asked a boy out… sort of.

We were on this school camp sort of thing, he wasn’t from my school, he wasn’t even from my city, but that sort of thing really doesn’t mean anything to a teenager’s mind. He was nice, a nice boy, nothing too extraordinary, just nice. So, after days of my friends egging me on and hyping me up about it (because when you’re a teenager, it’s more about who your friends think you should like and what you should do about it than your own opinion) I asked him out. I don’t really remember what I said, I do remember feeling like my cheeks were going to spontaneously combust though. He turned me down. Again, I don’t remember the words, but I remember having a very sick feeling develop in my belly. I know he was polite about it, as I said he was a nice boy, but at fourteen it doesn’t matter how nicely it’s said a ‘no’ is still a no.That was a decade ago. I don’t think I’ve asked anyone out since then, although I can’t be sure.

I never really expected to have to speak to him again, in fact I remember thinking when I was fourteen that I really really didn't ever want to see him again. But I did, a decade is a long time... here's what happened:

As is often true in the case of awkward re-acquaintance, the run-in occurred in a moment completely devoid of dignity on my part: I was crawling out of a cardboard box… it wasn’t graceful. I stood, again with incredibly little grace, and immediately took on the pretence that the fellow speaking with my friend ahead of me was a total stranger. Before long the geographical location of the conversation was such that he was standing next to me, and we were occupying a conversational vacuum. It was awkward and the pretence was getting me nowhere. So I made a choice, I turned toward him and decided that I was an adult, as was he, and we would act as such. Besides, social nicety dictates that awkward horrible teenage moments shared a decade past are not to be brought up in conversation, right?

The conversation: 

Me: So you’re Mr X (not his real name) right?
Him: Yep, and you’re Laen right?
Me: Yeah, yep that’s me.
My Friend: How do you guys know each other?
Him: From back in the day when we were at school we met at this camp thing...
Me: Yeah, so I tend to block those days out a little (sarcastically joking a little bit… maybe).
Him: Oh right.

My friend decided that this conversation was a two person job and returned to the comparable paradise of not-completely-awkward conversation to her left.

As you may well know, there is a practice, which I am quite certain is consistent through all human cultures: that is that when you meet someone, having not seen them in years and years, and the last time you saw them was an awkward horrible teenage moment, your brain takes up the business of chanting something along the lines of ‘Oh God please don’t let him say it, Dear Lord please don’t let him say it.’ while your mouth attempts the necessary small talk appropriate to the ten year interlude. That is precisely what my brain was doing up until…

Him: So, I wanted to apologise for what I said back then.

I snorted my exclamation (and disbelief) at the realisation that he may have been reading my mind and had decided to torture me!

What I would have liked to have said: Oh hey, no big. Ten years and all that…

What I actually said (when I eventually regained my powers of speech): Nnngh, sorry what… um, don’t even… I mean, uh… what, why would you … uh. (Throat clearing) Ahem, so yeah that really… why would you say that?

Him: Well you said you block memories out, and I thought it may have been because I hurt your feelings.

At this point my inner African American woman said this in my head:

 “Say what? Honey, as iiiif you be as important as aaaaaall that, you aint no thing! Like you would be worth my blocking out memories for! Ah shush your mouth you aint so important as you be thinking you is!”

What I actually said was : Yeah, so I think we could just forget about the whole thing

We returned to awkward small talk and after a polite and socially appropriate interval he made his excuses and left. I sat down, pulled out my mobile phone and stared at it dumbly and the tiny bit of me that holds the tattered pieces of my fourteen your old self’s esteem squeezed tightly around it while I contemplated going home to unearth the emergency bottle of red in my closet…

Tiny Stories

A Broken Bauble

Jassina sat there looking miserable, which was good, I wanted her to feel miserable because anyone who breaks another person’s glass bauble should feel miserable! It was the nicest thing I’d ever seen and it was mine and now it’s shards. Worst. Best friend ever. My Nonna gave it to me for my birthday last year, I told her a liked the ones she had on her Christmas tree and when I asked her why we didn’t have pretty glass baubles hanging up all the time she told me she didn’t know… but maybe we should. Mum told me afterward that Nonna gave me a Christmas decoration for my birthday because she had dementors… but I told mum they weren’t real, and anyway they don’t usually bother muggles. I thought it was the best present I got, probably the best present I ever got. Now I know it was. Nonna died a little while after that. Mum kept telling me that she’s in Heaven, so I guess that’s not so bad.

Jassina left after she broke my bauble, I was really angry at her and I told her I hated her. She said she’d give me her blue glass fish from when she was on holidays in Queensland, but I told her I didn’t want it and she had to go, so she did. I feel bad about telling her I hate her, I don’t think I do really. After she left mum asked me why Jassina left so quickly, I said I don’t know, she said that Jassina was crying, I said “she shouldn’t be; she hasn’t got a right to.” I closed my door on my mum. I don’t usually do that but I thought she’d understand, because I know I looked really upset.

I tip-toed over to my bed because there was still glass on the floor, I hopped up on my bed and leaned over to pick up the biggest piece of glass I could see. It had a purple and gold swirl on it. I missed Nonna right then, and I hoped there weren't any dementors in Heaven, I'm pretty sure there wouldn't be though. I bet there are glass baubles that are hung up all around the place and they never take them down or pack them away, at least I hope so, she’d really like that.

The Nod: Plaid is King

The Nod: Plaid is King

So the first shock of a new university environment has worn off. I’ve made the requisite friends necessary for midnight study companionship and after class beer drinking, I’ve discovered exactly where and when it is best to study according to my preferred level of comfort/concentration, I’ve also found the best labs to find free computers in the afternoon when the conventional spaces are all full. It’s nice, I feel like I conquered the castle and now I’m living cushy all up in it (see what I did there, busting out my hood slang?). But…

Okay there’s one thing I haven’t conquered, the thing I am not a part of, and the desperate socialite that hides underneath the enormous rock of sarcasm that acts as my brain, really wants in. I’ll often be walking around campus, looking as at home there as I could without actually moving in, and I feel good about it. I see scared freshers running around looking as wide eyed as bad anime, while I know I look suave. But every now and then I’ll see an exchange, something that happens in societies where paths cross and mutual respect is a thing, and at tertiary education institutions it is a massive thing. 

The nod. 

The ‘hey, I acknowledge your presence because I respect you’ nod. This new campus is huge, thousands and thousands of students are here, running around the place doing their thing all day every day. I didn’t think the nod would exist here, but it does, and I want in!

The first time I noticed it was the third day of semester, a Wednesday afternoon around four. I remember because I was walking to my first historiography class. I was passing the hulk of a library that dominates the central domain of the campus and I noticed the girl walking a step or so ahead of me. I liked her outfit, plaid jacket pumpkin skinny jeans and scuffed leather ankle boots, bang on trend. Then I glanced up and saw a second girl walking toward the girl in front of me give girl number 1 the nod.

It was brief, barely an ‘I know you and you saw me so I have to acknowledge you.’ nod. But it was a nod none the less. I looked at girl 2 a bit longer as she passed, to see if I could discover a possible source of motivation for such a scant action, but I could discover none and girl 1 climbed the stairs to the library as I continued to ALR:10.

I know that this exchange wouldn’t stay with most people, but social interaction is important, and knowing how and why it happens in a new place is just about the most important thing to learn upon arrival, so I was giving it plenty of time worth of mulling over. I started absent-mindedly writing notes for my historiography class, trying not to remark out loud that my new professor could probably have applied for the role of Professor Trelawney in the Harry Potter movies and felt very confident of getting the part… and then it happened. The moment of same-ness, the common element, the silent accord that had passed between the girls by the library. The reason for the nod. Plaid. 

Girl number 2 had been wearing a plaid shirt under a black demi-vest over mustard jeans with oxfords. I can’t believe I missed it! But now I have my in… I have to find some plaid to wear.

Absent Friends and Brilliant Memories

Counting Moments of Awesome

Today, as I was swinging on the chandelier I was thinking God, please don’t let this break… and also let me be this wild when I have a real job. I was pretty glad it didn’t break because it looked super expensive. I think it was the second funnest part of my day; the funnest part was when you arrived, and all the minutes we were together. The best thing about opening the door and seeing you is knowing that the best hug of my day is about to happen. Yours is the best hug because you squeeze like you mean it, and hugging someone who means it is the best feeling in the world.

The third best part of my day was hunting for the possum in the roof, I wasn’t in the roof, but the possum was. I took the broom and went about tapping the ceiling with it. I don’t know how to get rid of the possum, I don’t want to kill it, if it was a rat I’d kill it, but possums are better than rats. I kind of feel like they have a right to roofs, no one else is using them anyway, but he (or she) has been keeping me awake. That’s how I know it’s a possum, it is only busy at night.

The fourth best part of my day was learning how to knit a purl stitch, it’s important to know these things, just in case all of the sewing machines in the world stop working all at once and fall apart. This way I’ll know how to make my own clothes… I might have to learn how to spin wool.

The fifth best part was right after dinner, I sat cross-legged on the lawn and stared up at the stars and I felt like you would be doing the same thing, except on your lawn. My cousin came and sat next to me and she held my hand and asked me if I remembered playing Marco Polo in the swimming pool when we were kids. I did. She squeezed my hand and laughed, then she said “Man, how long ago was that?” I said it was over ten years she said “Far out, how’d we grow up so fast?” I said “I’m not quite done with that yet.” We both laughed. Twenty is weird.

The sixth best part of my day was when I climbed into bed, and as I waited for my body to warm the sheets my phone flashed blue and buzzed on my bedside table. It was a message from you ‘I had fun today, I’m glad you’re back.’ I wrote back ‘Me too.” And I went to sleep.

Creative Pieces: The Soldier's Wife

The Soldier’s Wife

If I wrote you one story, I’d have to write you a thousand. I’d write you a story in the Winter time, when it is windy and raining and cold outside. You would be sitting by the fire in that enormous armchair with a coffee mug in one hand and a book on your lap, your other hand would be resting in my hair because I would be sitting on a cushion at your feet, learning to crochet and daydreaming about flames dancing romantically.

I’d write you a story in the Spring, when the sky is blue and rambunctious white clouds chase each other across the sky. We’d be sitting on a picnic blanket making tiny houses out of carrot sticks and telling each other tales about the tiny people that lived inside them. I’d tell you that Miss Snow-pea was in love with Mister Celery-Stick, but her father didn’t approve. And you’d tell me that Mister Celery-Stick would ask her to marry him anyway because he couldn’t bear to live without her, and he would build her the biggest carrot house in town where they could raise their kids. And then you would eat Mister Celery-Stick in one munch, I’d have to eat Miss Snow-pea too, because she’d never cope without her love.

I’d write you a story in the Summer time, when the sky is totally clear and the weather is scorching. You’d be packing the esky and your surfboard into the van and yelling out questions like “Have you packed the sunscreen?” and “Have you seen my green boardies?” I’d tell you yes and they’re in the bag with the towels. And then I’d come out carrying my sun lounger which you’d take from me and fling in the back before you would swing me up into your arms and say “You know, I think this Summer is going to be the best ever.” And you’d kiss me like we wouldn't get another.

I’d write you a story in Autumn, when the mornings are colder, but the nights are balmy and the leaves clog up the gutters. You’d be packing your clothes into your big khaki green canvas bag while I leaned against the door watching you. Your hair would be shorter than it was in the Summer, and your eyes wouldn’t be smiling so much. I’d walk up behind you and put my arms around your waist, and you’d say “It’s only six months; I’ll be home before you know it.” And I’d believe you, mostly. You’d turn around in my arms and I’d close my eyes and you’d kiss me because you wouldn’t be able to for a long time after that.

I’d write you a story in safe places and strong houses. I’d write you a story in my arms. I’d write you a story in sunshine and clear skies. I’d write you a story with family and friends. I’d write you a story about walking down an aisle. I’d write you a story about waves and beaches. I’d write you a story about holding my hand, and I’ll write you a thousand stories until you’re home again.

You're Braver than you believe: An object lesson on the pitfalls of incorrect referencing.

This evening as I was busy not thinking about as much as I could, that is to say I was avoiding thing as best as I could manage it, though I fail in this enterprise daily with considerable consistency, a quote came into my head. Now I imagine this happens often and to many people, but one would assume the context would precede the quote in many circumstances, in my case this wasn’t so. 

I’d finished watching a very bad episode of an even worse television show, this I do from time to time to assist in the prevention of taxing thought. Anyway I was enjoying those moments immediately after the end of this episode wherein the mind doesn’t need to process anything, and a quote came to my mind. I mulled it over a bit and then I thought “I want to send this quote to someone else, nicely written out on some pretty card in a nice envelope with the least cheesy postage stamp I can find.” Once that thought was completed another one immediately followed with the appropriate suggestion of who to send this lovely card to… my lovely mum of course.

So my next step was to google the quote to be sure I had it correct. This led to a general search which was very useful, the quote was there, and the author was included, however, the source was not. Immediately my much-academically-exploited brain began to question the validity of a quote lacking the adequate reference material. That led to the tracking down of the source, which wasn’t what I had hope, and then a further search to ascertain with absolute certainty that my new information was correct. It was. I was disheartened.

The quote that had arrived in my head is a well-loved Winnie-the-Pooh quote and although it is a masterful collection of words, it was not actually written by A. A. Milne. It was written by a Disney studio writer. The point of this is that in these matters I am a purist, mostly because my mum is a purist, and now I wonder why. I haven’t got an answer, I write about it because I wonder how many genius things I will reject because I am, essentially, a bit of a snob when it comes to literature. Then I remember someone wrote Fifty Shades of Grey and I subsequently remind myself that at some point someone’s really got to draw the line!

“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.” - Christopher Robin to Winnie-the-Pooh  (Disney)

All of this having been said, some of the best pieces of dialogue ever written were created by Disney writers, and I quote pop-culture like only someone who is too young to have watched any of the Star Treks in their original era could.

And I hope I never read Fifty Shades of Grey. 

Because I'm a snob like that.

But not snobby enough to not adore this.

I am not a Hipster!

Hipster: though this one seems to be rocking hipster/redneck chic.

I would like to say I’m not a hipster. I find hipsters just as annoying as everyone else, in fact I thought hipsters were annoying before you even knew what a hipster was!

I’d like to say I’m not a hipster and for that to be the truth. I don’t really know if it is though. I don’t want to be a hipster because my dad is a rock musician; because I like actual rock music, despite my fascination with Belle & Sebastian; because I think prescription looking glasses should be worn solely by people with eye problems; because I think the term ‘vegan-leather’ is utter bulls**t; because I like Rockwiz; and because I really freak out at being type caste (note: the play on cast/caste is intentional).

But here is the thing, I like old looking bikes; so I have an old style bike that is perfectly back with quirky saddlebags that are way to new to belong to a hipster. I also ride my bike to op-shops to buy old clothes; most of the clothes I buy from op-shops are designer labelled or cute sundresses. The things I buy at op-shops that aren’t designer labelled or sundress-like are over-sized knitted jumpers and eighties trousers. I like the brat pack, but I didn’t like the prom dress from Pretty in Pink. I like felt hats. I own a jumper that I expressly can’t wear with loafers without socks because guys wearing Buddy Holly glasses, cardigans and too skinny, too short, acid-washed and pre-ripped jeans start hitting on me.

I am mostly certain that I’m not a hipster. But. I took a facebook quiz a few weeks ago, probably the first one I’ve done since first year uni, and it said I was a hipster. I have had nightmares. I walk the streets in fear of a trilby accidently falling from a hipster window and landing on my head while I’m wearing an oversized cardigan. I met with a friend last week wearing one of my favourite overly large cardigans, not with boat shoes or vintage looking boots… I wore it with very modern German (not even remotely hipster-looking) knee high boots, yet one of the first things I said to my darling friend was “I’m not a hipster, I just like oversized jumpers!” She laughed at me.

I’m not a hipster.

I just like oversized cardigans.

And vintage-look boots, that I try to avoid wearing with oversized cardigans.

I liked Mumford and Sons before you even heard of them.

Freezing Fingers and Absent Stories: Making sense of June

A  boat shed on the Swan River, Perth

The dust has settled and the debris of June cleared away. The false feeling of new beginnings and former fears have been tucked away into the dark corners of my mind as I pull my sluggish brain out and shake off the cobwebs and accumulated nonsense thoughts, preparing for the clockwork to begin again.

I had intended to present for you a month long short story via this blog of mine; I was to write an additional piece for this phantom short story each day culminating in a finished work at the end of June. That didn’t happen, instead my June month was the first month of this year in which I haven’t added new work to the blog. By way of explanation I’ll say my June imploded. My beloved mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Whenever I have told people this I immediately follow it with supporting statements such as “But it’s okay, they found it early and treatment options are good and it isn’t aggressive” along with various other comforting facts about why my mum isn’t going to die and please stop looking at me with that look of pathetic sympathy. That conversation, on my part, is performed to inform and comfort. Mum and I spend most of the time, we find ourselves telling people about the cancer, comforting others; it is tiring and boring! When we discuss it together we, more often than not, subject the entire scenario to inglorious boob-related humour. We face it down with practicality and humour, we have to because my mum has breast cancer which also means that one day I might have it too and neither of us are about to let it take our joy.

I’ve also had to move from Small Town South Coast to Perth (Medium-sized City West Coast), so between the packing, cleaning, moving, unpacking and cleaning I found that I just didn’t want to make time to write. Now I am in the city, I’ve been here for a couple of weeks and for the first time in months I’m not tired. I live with my Nan in the house that has been most consistently part of my life since my birth; my family nucleus has moved many times, but Nan and Grandad’s house has always been the same. I live in the room that I’ve stayed in on just about every Perth trip in my life, which is upward of four weeks out of each year, so it doesn’t feel strange or new, it just is. That is why the feeling of ‘new beginnings’ is false; there are new experiences to be had and new friendships to be made, but I don’t like the term ‘new beginnings’. I do like new adventures though. Former fears, on the other hand, are the things that I’ve conquered long ago that creep up in the slow anxiety of leaving the comfort of a long-held home. I think if you look at those sorts of fears directly under the light of the sun they disappear like mist figures.

The upshot of a writing-free month is the forlornness of my brain along with a jerky unease in my imagination; too many unwritten stories are jostling for face time with my frontal lobe. It is time to take to the tumbling bunch of them with a sharp edged quill, or in my case a pen and notebook and my trusty laptop.

It’s cold in this middle-city. And while city residents accuse Small Town of being freezing, I’ve never been so afraid of losing my fingers to frost bite as I am on these snow-blue mornings!

The History of the Jam Doughnut, the Jam & Cream Doughnut, and the Jam & Cream & Custard Doughnut

I love the idea that at some point in history some guy was eating a doughnut and thought ‘I could make this better’. I can just imagine that he would have turned to his friend and said “You know what we should do, we should make a doughnut the size of a smallish bread roll!” at which point his friend would have said “Yeah, and we should punch a hole in the top and fill it with jam!” At this point, I’m sure each of the friends would have stopped to consider the deliciousness of this idea for a moment before one of them would have said “Yep, you’re right. But I think it would be even better if we covered the whole thing in sugar as well.” To which the other would have agreed.

Now I’m sure they would have taken to the kitchen to create this sensational new treat, which made them both very successful in the baking business. But later on another couple of friends would have been sitting about, eating jam doughnuts when one of them said to the other “You know what would make this better, it could be the shape of a long roll so its bigger.” To which the other friend would have replied “Yeah definitely, but we could cut it part way through length-wise instead of putting a hole in the top and put the jam in that way, so there’s more jam.” At which point the two friends would have paused a moment to consider the brilliance of this potential dessert until one of them would have said “Yeah, but we should also put sweetened cream in it, and it would basically be perfect.” At which point they would have taken to their kitchen to create this sensational sweet.

Some time later, I imagine, another duo of friends would be found leisurely consuming their cream jam doughnuts when one friend said to the other “You know what would make this even better, we could add custard in between the jam and the cream” To which the other friend would have replied “Yep, definitely, I have a feeling I’m going to die of heart failure anyway.”

And that is how we ended up with possibly the most lethal sweet treat in the world… possibly.

Night Owls and Nocturnal Humans

The hot bitter liquid slides down my throat, bitter and perfect. Coffee, reawakening my body as it moves. I can feel the sluggish red blood in my veins waking, the caffeine is setting it alight, jump starting it with a new form of lightening, pushing it through narrow channels, slow flowing life. Mornings have never been my living hours, I have more memories greeting them from the other side of dawn, I am a nighttime person, always have been. Even as a child I knew night better than morning. My father is a rock musician and as a child I would lay awake waiting for the noise of his car arriving home. I had a unique paranoia; I couldn’t sleep until I knew where all of my family were; safely at home, sleeping soundly, then rest for me.

My teenage years brought a new companion for insomnia: books. It was the same for my mother and my brothers. I shared a bedroom with one or both of my brothers for most of my childhood, so the practice of keeping torches under the pillow to be pulled out for under the doona, illicit nighttime reading was a silently acknowledged practice for all of us. Crawling into bed, Mum and Dad would come and tuck us in, say our prayers, off with the lights and goodnight. Then the doors would close and the torches would come out, doonas pulled up over heads and the nighttime adventures commenced. Mornings meant the arrival of our parents whipping doonas off sleeping children to coax us out. They could hardly blame us; it’s the price you pay for encouraging your kids to read.

My nighttime literary adventures morphed into various typical teenage pursuits, and eventually I began working in hospitality. Restaurant and bar work agreed with me in more ways than one. I was raised to appreciate food, and later I was taught to appreciate good wine and beer… thanks to my exceptional mother. Later, in my overseas life, my work in hospitality became my social network. My time working in bars in the U.K. led to the formation of my overseas family. I spent Christmas with my colleagues and bar mates, playing Trivial Pursuit through the night drinking Amaretto, fondest memories were often found in the grey lit hours. It wasn’t unusual for a group of us to finish work at three or four a.m. and then take to our social lives through the early morning hours. I knew London better in the pre-dawn hours than any other.

Upon my homecoming, my nighttime hours were spent in solitude until I began my university degree. Now my nighttime hours are my working hours, my closest friends at university are the people who can’t work in the hubbub of the daytime oriented students. This old building at night contains a special form of solace. Every now and then people will ask me if it’s creepy in this old fortress in the deep hours of the night; to me it isn’t. Convicts built this building; its history is as deep as that of any of Australia’s oldest buildings. Some people say ghosts roam about here, but I’ve never met one. It happens that some of my closest friendships were forged here in the middle hours and none of them were with ghosts.

 This place has been my home for three years; there’s nothing in this building that I could be afraid of, but then few people take so much note of the reality of a building as they do of the spooky stories of sensationalist ghost enthusiasts. While I have nothing against a good scary story, I don’t need people assuming I spend my nights surrounded by the dissatisfied dead.

I’ll be leaving this cranky-old-man building soon. No more sitting on the step outside reviving myself with hot coffee, no more late night pool tournaments and no more greeting the cleaner as she arrives at six-thirty in the morning. I’m afraid I will be finding a new nighttime abode, and I am concerned that it won’t be nearly as friendly as this one. But for now I will sit on the step and light my veins with caffeine. Soon enough the night will arrive and my blood will be suitably charged to move my brain again.