Her bare legs were propped up on the dash, our windows open, our hair becoming dishevelled, but we didn't care. Both my hands were on the wheel, slow and steady, the open road, the tar softening under the sun. Was it midday, one or two? It didn't matter. "I love this song," she smiled, her right arm reaching over to turn up the volume. I smiled too. We were different people. We were people who took road trips and put our legs on the dash and didn't worry that we hadn't applied sunscreen. People who said they loved songs, people who were alive.
This isn't a warning. I am not foreshadowing a dark path here. Our car did not slide right off the melting tar road, swerve too quickly, wrap around a tree, there was no one else out there. Our ending was not tragic, unforeseen, cut short, stolen from us. Like the slicks on the road that appear in the distance as you come over a hill, we were not real, never real, never existed for more than a moment. A moment when the music was playing loud and we thought we might start again, really needed, to just, start again.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Friday, December 3, 2010
Still So Young But Somehow So Much Older
When I was young my father left often, another capital I'd never heard of, another base dark and dingy, another Sunday afternoon spent watching him pack. He didn't mind that I watched, didn't get annoyed, say I was in the way, he was always nice then, and I guess it's because he was leaving.
He'd get these big bags of food and other useful things like soap and insect spray. Ration packs is what he called them. I used to sit on the worn carpet, legs crossed, my eyes scanning the pile, seeing what I could claim for myself. I don't remember how old I was when he first started, but he began to give me his chocolate rations. Small blocks for my still small hands. Wrapped in white plastic, 'milk chocolate' spelled out in black letters, my hands pressing the block, trying to find the indents. "Don't you get hungry Dad?" I used to ask, looking at the contents of his ration pack. "Nah darl," he would say, "I'm used to it by now," he'd smile.
My father sent me letters when he went away, and I'm not sure, but I think I sent him letters back. He told me once that he found them, I said we were driving to the place I was born, me, mum and my older brother, but we got a flat tire and it never snowed. December 1995, that's what he said. His letters were different. He talked about the boredom and the loneliness, how they had to sleep in a shroud of nets cause the mozzies were real bad over there, said he missed us, that he would be home soon.
He was usually gone for weeks at a time, sometimes months but he always left me his chocolate rations and he always brought home cheap cigarettes for my mother. I don't know what my brother got, he wanted a new pair of Reeboks, but I don't think they had those where my father was. 'Duty free', the cigarettes were, I never knew what that meant, but I knew it must have been something good because my mother always asked for it.
My mother must have been lonely all those weeks and months, but my father always came back home. I don't know if I was ever afraid, that one day he might stop coming back, that one day there would be no more chocolate, no more cigarettes, no more Dad. But I got used to him leaving, I knew my mother hated it, but she'd get used to it too, and in the end, she had to.
He'd get these big bags of food and other useful things like soap and insect spray. Ration packs is what he called them. I used to sit on the worn carpet, legs crossed, my eyes scanning the pile, seeing what I could claim for myself. I don't remember how old I was when he first started, but he began to give me his chocolate rations. Small blocks for my still small hands. Wrapped in white plastic, 'milk chocolate' spelled out in black letters, my hands pressing the block, trying to find the indents. "Don't you get hungry Dad?" I used to ask, looking at the contents of his ration pack. "Nah darl," he would say, "I'm used to it by now," he'd smile.
My father sent me letters when he went away, and I'm not sure, but I think I sent him letters back. He told me once that he found them, I said we were driving to the place I was born, me, mum and my older brother, but we got a flat tire and it never snowed. December 1995, that's what he said. His letters were different. He talked about the boredom and the loneliness, how they had to sleep in a shroud of nets cause the mozzies were real bad over there, said he missed us, that he would be home soon.
He was usually gone for weeks at a time, sometimes months but he always left me his chocolate rations and he always brought home cheap cigarettes for my mother. I don't know what my brother got, he wanted a new pair of Reeboks, but I don't think they had those where my father was. 'Duty free', the cigarettes were, I never knew what that meant, but I knew it must have been something good because my mother always asked for it.
My mother must have been lonely all those weeks and months, but my father always came back home. I don't know if I was ever afraid, that one day he might stop coming back, that one day there would be no more chocolate, no more cigarettes, no more Dad. But I got used to him leaving, I knew my mother hated it, but she'd get used to it too, and in the end, she had to.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Between The Houses And The Stop Signs
I came across this when randomly browsing my documents, I made it in 2008 I can't believe it was just over two years ago. I was so idealistic back then, but it's nice to look back on anyway, thought I would put it here to remind myself that I haven't always been angry, I did have hope at some point in my life.
An artwork I made for a Tafe exhibition, below the pictures is the text written on the work.
An artwork I made for a Tafe exhibition, below the pictures is the text written on the work.
Between the Houses and the Stop Signs
When I paint, I am alone, I am free. Free from what lies outside my doorstep. Stuck in a world where only I exist I make the rules. Life is how I planned it, life is not real anymore. Reaching for things becomes easier; being anonymous with a dream becomes important. It's about the way I hold the dream, how tightly I cling to it, if I cling to it at all. Or do I let it sail away into the breeze, free to find its way back to me when I’m ready for it.
The people have no face but they know who I am, they know what I want and they show me how to get it. They hide with me when it's dark; they become part of my shadow. They are the parts of me I choose to ignore when I am not here. They are the inner voices too afraid to speak up around the others. They feel insignificant in the real world, they feel little. In this world they are bigger than they could ever dream of, big enough to cast shadows onto the land, big enough to chase big things and catch them. When I am here I hold them tightly, they need love, they need someone to tell them that what they are thinking is important. They are here to show me what I don't want to see, what I can't see.
In every moment I spend in this world the light bulb shines brightly, the clouds throw down ropes instructing me to climb up them and the people hold out elongated arms and welcome you into a reality that is far more real than anything I’d find outside of my room. The shadows here aren't cold and burgeoning, they walk with me, they don't loom like a heavy weight over my head, they hold me up so I can see properly, carefully guiding me through the darkness so I don't stumble.
When I stop painting I am awakened to a world where I have restricted what I want, where I have disregarded something more and settled with what it's going to be. I watch the dream float away from my grasp as I accept that it will never be mine to hold, to live. When I close my eyes I see the Dream Chasers, they smile and wave, waiting for me to join them on their quest. The sky blue walls are littered with dream clouds waiting for my realisation that has yet to come.
The text seems poorly written now, and a bit lame, but the idea was there and it's a nice reminder of who I used to be.
The people have no face but they know who I am, they know what I want and they show me how to get it. They hide with me when it's dark; they become part of my shadow. They are the parts of me I choose to ignore when I am not here. They are the inner voices too afraid to speak up around the others. They feel insignificant in the real world, they feel little. In this world they are bigger than they could ever dream of, big enough to cast shadows onto the land, big enough to chase big things and catch them. When I am here I hold them tightly, they need love, they need someone to tell them that what they are thinking is important. They are here to show me what I don't want to see, what I can't see.
In every moment I spend in this world the light bulb shines brightly, the clouds throw down ropes instructing me to climb up them and the people hold out elongated arms and welcome you into a reality that is far more real than anything I’d find outside of my room. The shadows here aren't cold and burgeoning, they walk with me, they don't loom like a heavy weight over my head, they hold me up so I can see properly, carefully guiding me through the darkness so I don't stumble.
When I stop painting I am awakened to a world where I have restricted what I want, where I have disregarded something more and settled with what it's going to be. I watch the dream float away from my grasp as I accept that it will never be mine to hold, to live. When I close my eyes I see the Dream Chasers, they smile and wave, waiting for me to join them on their quest. The sky blue walls are littered with dream clouds waiting for my realisation that has yet to come.
The text seems poorly written now, and a bit lame, but the idea was there and it's a nice reminder of who I used to be.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
I Need For You To Come And Go Without The Truth Falling Out
I don't really have anything to say, except that I miss you and time has made me forget what that used to mean. But that's a good thing right? I don't want to let myself fall back into it again, so I should stop it here, at these words that could mean anything to anyone, even you. Do they still? I don't know.
Monday, August 30, 2010
As The Days Go By
It seemed to me that my father had softened over the years, or perhaps it was just that I never knew him very well. But I did know that when he used to hit my mother he was not soft. His anger has dissolved now and I wonder if that will happen to me too, but I don't think I want to wait that long.
Now he is a two time divorcee with four boys and one girl; me, living in a complex of units in a town so small and far that I've forgotten the name. My father lines up at Crackerjack Chicken and Big Dad's pies for his meals and the thought makes me sad. If he were closer I'd invite him over, remind him what real food tasted like. He could only ever cook grilled cheese sandwiches, but they were the best, that I remember.
I don't know much about his life, only that it is small, and the same things must happen to him a lot, I get scared sometimes, that maybe that will be me in twenty years. Lining up at Crackerjack Chicken behind the young sheila who lived next door, two wives I'd had, five children I'd called my own. But I could never marry, or have children, so I know atleast, our lives will not be exactly the same in twenty years time.
I wish I were still young enough to ask my father silly questions, like what it was like being in the army, and what did he imagine his future to be like? Not like this I am sure. He has his kids atleast, but we don't talk much, him and I, what would we talk about? I think now, my father is beginning to look at me and realise what he has missed out on, he says he should visit more, slack he is, I'm too nice to pull him up on it, but it was true. I guess he decided that I was someone he wanted to know, and that scares me a little. What if I'm not who he thought I was? Or what if I turn out to be someone he doesn't like? Will he leave again, but not looking back this time?
I've never really been angry with my father, mostly I feel sorry for him. I think he has always loved my mother, but she has not always loved him, worst mistake of her life he was, that probably meant me too. But I am glad, that she did not love him back anymore, because for certain if she did, I would not be here now. I don't know where I would be, I don't know if I would be at all. All I know is that she was in trouble and she had to get out. I just hope that I am never in so much trouble that I have to get out.
I am not like mother nor father, but like someone who has grown up by themselves, and I look at them and remind myself that they are human, and we make mistakes more often than we get it right, and I just have to keep remembering that.
But I do hope my father finds someone who will look after him, so he can stop lining up at Crackerjack Chicken behind the young sheila who lives next door, because she's no good for him and neither is the food. My father is an honest man, he may not be the most exciting man in the world, but he is funny and honest and I'm proud of him for that. And maybe I am like him somehow too, funny and honest, atleast, I am trying really hard to be and that's something isn't it.
Now he is a two time divorcee with four boys and one girl; me, living in a complex of units in a town so small and far that I've forgotten the name. My father lines up at Crackerjack Chicken and Big Dad's pies for his meals and the thought makes me sad. If he were closer I'd invite him over, remind him what real food tasted like. He could only ever cook grilled cheese sandwiches, but they were the best, that I remember.
I don't know much about his life, only that it is small, and the same things must happen to him a lot, I get scared sometimes, that maybe that will be me in twenty years. Lining up at Crackerjack Chicken behind the young sheila who lived next door, two wives I'd had, five children I'd called my own. But I could never marry, or have children, so I know atleast, our lives will not be exactly the same in twenty years time.
I wish I were still young enough to ask my father silly questions, like what it was like being in the army, and what did he imagine his future to be like? Not like this I am sure. He has his kids atleast, but we don't talk much, him and I, what would we talk about? I think now, my father is beginning to look at me and realise what he has missed out on, he says he should visit more, slack he is, I'm too nice to pull him up on it, but it was true. I guess he decided that I was someone he wanted to know, and that scares me a little. What if I'm not who he thought I was? Or what if I turn out to be someone he doesn't like? Will he leave again, but not looking back this time?
I've never really been angry with my father, mostly I feel sorry for him. I think he has always loved my mother, but she has not always loved him, worst mistake of her life he was, that probably meant me too. But I am glad, that she did not love him back anymore, because for certain if she did, I would not be here now. I don't know where I would be, I don't know if I would be at all. All I know is that she was in trouble and she had to get out. I just hope that I am never in so much trouble that I have to get out.
I am not like mother nor father, but like someone who has grown up by themselves, and I look at them and remind myself that they are human, and we make mistakes more often than we get it right, and I just have to keep remembering that.
But I do hope my father finds someone who will look after him, so he can stop lining up at Crackerjack Chicken behind the young sheila who lives next door, because she's no good for him and neither is the food. My father is an honest man, he may not be the most exciting man in the world, but he is funny and honest and I'm proud of him for that. And maybe I am like him somehow too, funny and honest, atleast, I am trying really hard to be and that's something isn't it.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Storms
You told me to come here, to the edge of the world, and I never really figured out why. I came here to the edge of the world where the sky and the ocean blurred, one began but the other never ended, and I asked the questions burning on my mind.
I stand here knowing that no one who has come before me has ever questioned, they had always just accepted. I'm ready to find out if I'll fall or fly, you've taken me this far, and now it is time for me to let go, for you to let go, and let me find my fate.
I like to believe we end where we begin, and I began in the air, or was it the water? So here I am, facing my ending with so many questions, with so many footsteps towards the sun, cut through the air and above the water. My questions, my truths, on top of these cliffs, looking into the calm sea that people believe is me, but I feel the subtle wind shift through my hair and I know that is really me. The silent storm raging through a darkened sky, the one that no one ever saw coming.
So I try to say
Goodbye my friend
I'd like to leave you with something warm
But never have I been a blue calm sea
I have always been a storm.
I stand here knowing that no one who has come before me has ever questioned, they had always just accepted. I'm ready to find out if I'll fall or fly, you've taken me this far, and now it is time for me to let go, for you to let go, and let me find my fate.
I like to believe we end where we begin, and I began in the air, or was it the water? So here I am, facing my ending with so many questions, with so many footsteps towards the sun, cut through the air and above the water. My questions, my truths, on top of these cliffs, looking into the calm sea that people believe is me, but I feel the subtle wind shift through my hair and I know that is really me. The silent storm raging through a darkened sky, the one that no one ever saw coming.
So I try to say
Goodbye my friend
I'd like to leave you with something warm
But never have I been a blue calm sea
I have always been a storm.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Lovers And Friends
She was very presumptuous and I didn't really agree with that, but we were best friends, or more, so I forgave her. She said that I only saw things in black and white, but she only ever saw grey, and grey was the colour of my infidelity. Because grey was an unremarkable colour, was it even a colour at all? And by my grey infidelity I mean something that never happened.
There were nights with her that felt like highschool sleepovers. We'd stay up late talking, giggling, using a deck of cards to tell our fortune. Is Bec in love with x? Has Bec ever been in love with x? The cards never lied and those nights we laid our past and our future out in front of us and put a belief in it that was unwavering.
But she was more than my best friend, she was someone who knew me. Someone who would pull me up on my shortcomings, of which there were many. And she knew me in sensual ways that I can't really talk about here. She asked why I never wrote, why it was always about some other girl, and not her, and I guess I thought I didn't need to write about her, because she knew, she knew me. And maybe that's the thing, she stopped knowing me when I stopped letting her, and we became best friends that were strangers, strangers that shared the same bed, but strangers that had stopped sharing the same thoughts.
So I'm giving you back my thoughts because they've been gone for too long, and you might think that we are only best friends, but if you know me, and if you know my thoughts, then you will know the way I think about you, and it's not something I could ever say here.
There were nights with her that felt like highschool sleepovers. We'd stay up late talking, giggling, using a deck of cards to tell our fortune. Is Bec in love with x? Has Bec ever been in love with x? The cards never lied and those nights we laid our past and our future out in front of us and put a belief in it that was unwavering.
But she was more than my best friend, she was someone who knew me. Someone who would pull me up on my shortcomings, of which there were many. And she knew me in sensual ways that I can't really talk about here. She asked why I never wrote, why it was always about some other girl, and not her, and I guess I thought I didn't need to write about her, because she knew, she knew me. And maybe that's the thing, she stopped knowing me when I stopped letting her, and we became best friends that were strangers, strangers that shared the same bed, but strangers that had stopped sharing the same thoughts.
So I'm giving you back my thoughts because they've been gone for too long, and you might think that we are only best friends, but if you know me, and if you know my thoughts, then you will know the way I think about you, and it's not something I could ever say here.
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