The sun flickered in,
pinked up my room as if
the world outside
was on fire.
Though the world
was burning,
I did not move.
I lay,
still as a stone,
staring at my toes
which had been
pedicured
just that morning.
I felt my eyes glaze,
as they rolled in my skull,
and my lips lay limp
against my teeth.
I think my mind was empty,
just cobwebs,
maybe dust, swirling instead.
There were books on the shelf
whose titles I could not read,
and photos of strangers
hung up on my wall.
One of them was crooked,
looked like it might fall,
but it didn’t bother me
at all.
There was no reflection in the mirror
(though it might have been the angle)
and I don’t remember blinking.
If I breathed I made no sound.
I can’t be sure but
all the pink I saw was
from the same
sunset,
even though it is Spring now
And I pedicured my toes in Autumn.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
.Apple-kiwi-tinis and Other Stories.
Last night we went to what could be deemed as our local. Designed to resemble a house, we stalked past the living room, the library, the gamesroom and the kitchen and headed straight for the garden. The 'garden' happens to be half a hundred pairs of deckchairs on the beach, each couple illumiated by a single gargantuan candle.
I've developed the habit of asking bartenders to surprise me with cocktails (Rules: Strong, No Gin, No Orange, No Soda) and was delighted with an apple-kiwi-tini with a strawberry on the side. Half-way through, I looked up and saw the moon, crescent-shaped and ocre-hued and I realised how lucky we are. Beach, moon, cocktails... this is our local. It was magnificent. Life is so damn cool.
Oh and I'm aching all over and I can't decide whether it's because I danced my booty off, walked in painfully high heels or because I actually tried pilates the other day.
I've developed the habit of asking bartenders to surprise me with cocktails (Rules: Strong, No Gin, No Orange, No Soda) and was delighted with an apple-kiwi-tini with a strawberry on the side. Half-way through, I looked up and saw the moon, crescent-shaped and ocre-hued and I realised how lucky we are. Beach, moon, cocktails... this is our local. It was magnificent. Life is so damn cool.
Oh and I'm aching all over and I can't decide whether it's because I danced my booty off, walked in painfully high heels or because I actually tried pilates the other day.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Am I supposed to write in here daily?
Two days since my London-Paris-London trip and already the memories are all but lingering on the edge of today and the dawn of a Greek summer.
I've had one song on loop in my mind all day: 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot'. More than once I've wondered, whose shot? but then I forget again and continue my indoor singing which consists of the five words in the title... I don't know the rest of the lyrics.
Alas, it is one of those sad times when I am crushless. Mega-alas, this is not unusual. I'm as pretty/ nice/ smart/ fucked up as the next person so most people are surprised to hear that I am chronically single. The simple truth is that I don't often meet guys with whom I click. Or girls for that matter. Oh well.
I took a picture of myself with a polaroid camera and wished I had a friend to mess about with. That reminded me of my unemployedom and now I'm feeling all incompetent and stuff. I shouldn't. I mean, I have been writing a book and all that jazz. Somehow, things only seem to matter when somebody else gives you credit. Gods of the agents, make them publish my book.
On the plus side I saw a psychic the other day and she said lots of good little things about me. She told me some things I already knew, like how I have so many angels protecting me that I glow (I bet I just lost one for feeling smug). My Mommy has said that to me a couple of times. I don't believe in God but I'm spiritual fo' shiz.
Paris is a dirty city full of skanks. I loved it. Not for those reasons. Pixie and I made it into Our Paris, complete with cheese, baguettes, four-poster beds, designer dresses, cocktails and espressos. For the city of love... well let's just say that there aren't a lot of good-looking genes in Paris. I had two encounters with men. One brushed up against my derriere three times, accidentally I'm sure, and the other was a green-eyed god who was attending a funeral at the time.
No wonder my mother despairs of me.
I was away for a week. In Brick Lane on Friday I wore 5 layers (a corset, a t-shirt, a vest, a cardigan and a jacket) and froze my toes off on every cigarette break. On Saturday, dirty, hungover and broke, I flew home. As soon as I landed in Athens I shed my clothes like petals. I got rid of my duvet. I flipped my winter wardrobe into a suitcase and flung out my summer one. Oh summer, how I have missed you! I can already smell the salt, the sweat... you can smell the heat in Greece. You can feel heat, not as a temperature, but as a something tangible, hot hands suffocating you, paralysing you.
Pixie and I are in talks to go study French in Paris at the end of the year. Bring it on, I say. Then I'll be off to Australia for a few months. I'll see my friend who just got knocked up, save some cash and then meet Pixie again, only in South America this time. I'm positive that we won't be able to resist New York on the way back. Ah New York... one say we shall meet and it shall be sweet.
Huh and I thought the poet in me was dormant.
Two days since my London-Paris-London trip and already the memories are all but lingering on the edge of today and the dawn of a Greek summer.
I've had one song on loop in my mind all day: 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot'. More than once I've wondered, whose shot? but then I forget again and continue my indoor singing which consists of the five words in the title... I don't know the rest of the lyrics.
Alas, it is one of those sad times when I am crushless. Mega-alas, this is not unusual. I'm as pretty/ nice/ smart/ fucked up as the next person so most people are surprised to hear that I am chronically single. The simple truth is that I don't often meet guys with whom I click. Or girls for that matter. Oh well.
I took a picture of myself with a polaroid camera and wished I had a friend to mess about with. That reminded me of my unemployedom and now I'm feeling all incompetent and stuff. I shouldn't. I mean, I have been writing a book and all that jazz. Somehow, things only seem to matter when somebody else gives you credit. Gods of the agents, make them publish my book.
On the plus side I saw a psychic the other day and she said lots of good little things about me. She told me some things I already knew, like how I have so many angels protecting me that I glow (I bet I just lost one for feeling smug). My Mommy has said that to me a couple of times. I don't believe in God but I'm spiritual fo' shiz.
Paris is a dirty city full of skanks. I loved it. Not for those reasons. Pixie and I made it into Our Paris, complete with cheese, baguettes, four-poster beds, designer dresses, cocktails and espressos. For the city of love... well let's just say that there aren't a lot of good-looking genes in Paris. I had two encounters with men. One brushed up against my derriere three times, accidentally I'm sure, and the other was a green-eyed god who was attending a funeral at the time.
No wonder my mother despairs of me.
I was away for a week. In Brick Lane on Friday I wore 5 layers (a corset, a t-shirt, a vest, a cardigan and a jacket) and froze my toes off on every cigarette break. On Saturday, dirty, hungover and broke, I flew home. As soon as I landed in Athens I shed my clothes like petals. I got rid of my duvet. I flipped my winter wardrobe into a suitcase and flung out my summer one. Oh summer, how I have missed you! I can already smell the salt, the sweat... you can smell the heat in Greece. You can feel heat, not as a temperature, but as a something tangible, hot hands suffocating you, paralysing you.
Pixie and I are in talks to go study French in Paris at the end of the year. Bring it on, I say. Then I'll be off to Australia for a few months. I'll see my friend who just got knocked up, save some cash and then meet Pixie again, only in South America this time. I'm positive that we won't be able to resist New York on the way back. Ah New York... one say we shall meet and it shall be sweet.
Huh and I thought the poet in me was dormant.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
.Little Girl Tears.
For the second time these days I feel an overwhelming sadness brimming inside. The first time was on Saturday, at five o'clock in the morning, after I twisted with the best of them at a local club. The gang, all of them strangers bar one who was my pseudo brother, was sitting in a creperie eating delights smothered in chocolate and hazelnuts, coconut and strawberries.
'Would you like some?' they asked. I shook my head from side to side and smiled.
'Are you sure?'
'Oh yes,' I said, but the truth is that I wanted some very much.
For the countless time in my life, I digress.
Suddenly, the male to my right, the boring male who hit on me earlier on, much to my chagrin, said something along the lines of being tired of listening to the Jews go on about the Holocaust.
Self-righteous by nature and with enough whiskey in me to argue with this stranger in this well-lit cafe, my eyes widened and I said, 'Excuuuse me?'
'They don't let us forget it,' he said. The table agreed.
'They shouldn't!' I said. 'Millions of people died!'
'Lots of other countries have suffered the same fate,' they argued. 'Maybe worse.'
'They should not be forgotten either. Germany has been politically correct for sixty years,' I said. 'The Americans have destroyed three different countries in half that time. Maybe if Vietnam or Kuwait made a big fuss, Iraq wouldn't be happening right now.'
'Ah,' they said. 'You have a point.'
It went on like this for a while and then I fell silent, feeling the issue of intolerance weigh heavily on my shoulders. It sounds silly but I was suddenly overwhelmed by people's inability to get along. Don't hate anyone for their skin colour or religion or sexuality. It's so damn simple!
In the car my friend said, 'You made some good points in there.'
I replied flatly, 'It's just common sense.'
The second sadness will sound utterly ridiculous.
Realising that my copy (1950's editon) has been missing for some years now, I did some quick research to see how easy it will be to find again. (Not that it matters, I want my copy, nothing will replace that.) I came across some information about the rights being sold for a movie. To a company called Chick Flicks.
Readers, I cried.
Having had a few minutes to compose myself, I think I have pinpointed the reasons for my tears. Recently, I was watching some dumb film with Sarah Michelle Gellar. Suddenly, it seemed familiar. It was in fact one of my favourite books: The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing, only it wasn't called that anymore and they took out all the quirky, dark parts to make it into some stupid romcom. The very next day I find out that Gellar will be playing in the film version of another favourite book of mine- Veronika Decides to Die. Sarah Michelle as Veronika. Have you heard of anything so absurd?
I think I cried because they're butchering these beautiful little books, rendering them into the film equivalent of the colour beige to appeal to the masses.
Damnit, I was having a grand day up until now. I washed my hair and sang along with Elvis Costello and Neneh Cherry and Fatboy Slim. I was really loving life today. And so I shall continue! After all, I am going for cocktails tonight...
'Would you like some?' they asked. I shook my head from side to side and smiled.
'Are you sure?'
'Oh yes,' I said, but the truth is that I wanted some very much.
For the countless time in my life, I digress.
Suddenly, the male to my right, the boring male who hit on me earlier on, much to my chagrin, said something along the lines of being tired of listening to the Jews go on about the Holocaust.
Self-righteous by nature and with enough whiskey in me to argue with this stranger in this well-lit cafe, my eyes widened and I said, 'Excuuuse me?'
'They don't let us forget it,' he said. The table agreed.
'They shouldn't!' I said. 'Millions of people died!'
'Lots of other countries have suffered the same fate,' they argued. 'Maybe worse.'
'They should not be forgotten either. Germany has been politically correct for sixty years,' I said. 'The Americans have destroyed three different countries in half that time. Maybe if Vietnam or Kuwait made a big fuss, Iraq wouldn't be happening right now.'
'Ah,' they said. 'You have a point.'
It went on like this for a while and then I fell silent, feeling the issue of intolerance weigh heavily on my shoulders. It sounds silly but I was suddenly overwhelmed by people's inability to get along. Don't hate anyone for their skin colour or religion or sexuality. It's so damn simple!
In the car my friend said, 'You made some good points in there.'
I replied flatly, 'It's just common sense.'
The second sadness will sound utterly ridiculous.
Realising that my copy (1950's editon) has been missing for some years now, I did some quick research to see how easy it will be to find again. (Not that it matters, I want my copy, nothing will replace that.) I came across some information about the rights being sold for a movie. To a company called Chick Flicks.
Readers, I cried.
Having had a few minutes to compose myself, I think I have pinpointed the reasons for my tears. Recently, I was watching some dumb film with Sarah Michelle Gellar. Suddenly, it seemed familiar. It was in fact one of my favourite books: The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing, only it wasn't called that anymore and they took out all the quirky, dark parts to make it into some stupid romcom. The very next day I find out that Gellar will be playing in the film version of another favourite book of mine- Veronika Decides to Die. Sarah Michelle as Veronika. Have you heard of anything so absurd?
I think I cried because they're butchering these beautiful little books, rendering them into the film equivalent of the colour beige to appeal to the masses.
Damnit, I was having a grand day up until now. I washed my hair and sang along with Elvis Costello and Neneh Cherry and Fatboy Slim. I was really loving life today. And so I shall continue! After all, I am going for cocktails tonight...
.A Digress Can't Change Her Stripes.
Last week I went to a new place with my ex. I fell in love with one and smoothed things over with the other. Before I went I thought, What the hell was I thinking inviting the ex to go on holiday with me? I knew that this trip would either become a gargantuan mistake or it would untie the knots in our relationship. I am lucky. It was the latter.
Our common ground was Brussels. I spent my first few hours in this city feeling small and lost. I was supposed to go see my friend but he ended up having to go to Austria for a last-minute business trip (hence the clever invitation to the ex). Eventually I found my way to his flat (thanks for the lack of directions, asshole) where I plunged the key into the door, only to discover it wouldn't budge. After jiggling it around, somewhat manically, I burst, unashamedly, into tears, right in the middle of that quaint, Belgian street. As soon as I called my mother, the door flung open; her magic can cross countries.
Upstairs, I found a pile of dirty dishes, a single, unclean towel and a mug masquerading as an ashtray. Yes, I wept again.
Despite the distressing beginning to my trip, Brussels swept me away. It has a peculiar charm, a run-down delicacy, a gritty quaintness about it. It is, without a doubt, the most polite city I've evern been to. People in the street stop to offer you their assisstance! Yet, I would not walk around by myself at night.
My favourite place was Les Marolles. The Jeu de Balle market is utterly divine! A whole world of junk and antiques- the most spectacular little finds! I bought a handmade, beaded 1930's purse, a tiny, embroisered portable ashtray and a tin with a rusty phoenix on the lid that was absolutely filled with buttons! We met a furniture maker called Stephan who divorced his Texan wife because she was crazy, who had gone from owning multiple houses to being homeless and back again, who paid for our coffee without telling us! When all the sellers had packed up and left, we wandered through the cobble stoned square and looked for neglected treasures. I found dozens of black and white photographs scattered all around like monochrome confetti! I'm going to make a collage... a collage of the histories of strangers.
Oh and I went to a Bob Dylan concert. He was so disappointing. I was told he would be but I think I hoped he wouldn't anyway.
Human tend to be sheep in disguise. Few people are Babes in this world. Trying doesn't mean we're not sheep. So here's my Happy List:
1. The first gust of warm air every spring.
2. Sundaes.
3. Bed-time. Especially if there's a hot water bottle involved. Oh or a lover!
4. Drivers letting me cross the street when there are no traffic lights involved.
5. Reunions with old friends.
6. The number thirty-three.
7. Cocktails.
8. When my cat sleep on my stomach. (OK, this happened only once but it made me really happy.)
9. Drunken 'no, I love YOU more' conversations.
10. Writing.
Greece refuses to warm up this year. I can't believe it's May and I'm still sleeping with my duvet. In Australia we call a duvet a 'doona'- isn't that so cute? I also love 'lollies' instead of 'candy'. Aw, I should relight my Aussie vocabulary.
Actually, maybe it's time I stick to a single vocabulary... and a single accent. I say pants and trousers. I say pant and underwear. I say cab and taxi. When I talk to my family or people in Australia (note, no necessarily Australians), I'm Aussie. In Britain, I speak English with an Aussie/ American twang. With everyone else I'm super American... and I've never even been there! I have a feeling I'll end up with an American accent...
I digress.
Our common ground was Brussels. I spent my first few hours in this city feeling small and lost. I was supposed to go see my friend but he ended up having to go to Austria for a last-minute business trip (hence the clever invitation to the ex). Eventually I found my way to his flat (thanks for the lack of directions, asshole) where I plunged the key into the door, only to discover it wouldn't budge. After jiggling it around, somewhat manically, I burst, unashamedly, into tears, right in the middle of that quaint, Belgian street. As soon as I called my mother, the door flung open; her magic can cross countries.
Upstairs, I found a pile of dirty dishes, a single, unclean towel and a mug masquerading as an ashtray. Yes, I wept again.
Despite the distressing beginning to my trip, Brussels swept me away. It has a peculiar charm, a run-down delicacy, a gritty quaintness about it. It is, without a doubt, the most polite city I've evern been to. People in the street stop to offer you their assisstance! Yet, I would not walk around by myself at night.
My favourite place was Les Marolles. The Jeu de Balle market is utterly divine! A whole world of junk and antiques- the most spectacular little finds! I bought a handmade, beaded 1930's purse, a tiny, embroisered portable ashtray and a tin with a rusty phoenix on the lid that was absolutely filled with buttons! We met a furniture maker called Stephan who divorced his Texan wife because she was crazy, who had gone from owning multiple houses to being homeless and back again, who paid for our coffee without telling us! When all the sellers had packed up and left, we wandered through the cobble stoned square and looked for neglected treasures. I found dozens of black and white photographs scattered all around like monochrome confetti! I'm going to make a collage... a collage of the histories of strangers.
Oh and I went to a Bob Dylan concert. He was so disappointing. I was told he would be but I think I hoped he wouldn't anyway.
Human tend to be sheep in disguise. Few people are Babes in this world. Trying doesn't mean we're not sheep. So here's my Happy List:
1. The first gust of warm air every spring.
2. Sundaes.
3. Bed-time. Especially if there's a hot water bottle involved. Oh or a lover!
4. Drivers letting me cross the street when there are no traffic lights involved.
5. Reunions with old friends.
6. The number thirty-three.
7. Cocktails.
8. When my cat sleep on my stomach. (OK, this happened only once but it made me really happy.)
9. Drunken 'no, I love YOU more' conversations.
10. Writing.
Greece refuses to warm up this year. I can't believe it's May and I'm still sleeping with my duvet. In Australia we call a duvet a 'doona'- isn't that so cute? I also love 'lollies' instead of 'candy'. Aw, I should relight my Aussie vocabulary.
Actually, maybe it's time I stick to a single vocabulary... and a single accent. I say pants and trousers. I say pant and underwear. I say cab and taxi. When I talk to my family or people in Australia (note, no necessarily Australians), I'm Aussie. In Britain, I speak English with an Aussie/ American twang. With everyone else I'm super American... and I've never even been there! I have a feeling I'll end up with an American accent...
I digress.
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