Cigarettes

I was sprawled in a lazy way on the couch. The music was loud, her favourite band. She was leaning against the sliding door having a cigarette. She only smoked sometimes. I never smoked. I'd never felt the urge. But I was feeling the urge now. She pointed it towards me. "Try it," she pleaded. If this were a movie she'd be the evil temptress I liked to keep on the side. But it wasn't and so I declined.

I know I shouldn't say this, but the way she was smoking that cigarette was so damn sexy. Her pouty lips, pursed into a kiss. Her eyes lowered in a sleazy gaze. She was tempting. Half of me wanted to take a puff, just to impress her. She thought I was so straight and narrow, and what proof did I have otherwise? But I didn't. Partly because I thought I may get addicted to the smoke. And partly because I thought she may get addicted to me.

She liked them tough, mysterious. And here I was smiling in a goofy way, losing all my cred, if I ever had any. She thought I was cute, at the very least. But I was no enigma. Love had taught me to wear my heart on my sleeve and I wished it hadn't. I couldn't help but look. She was so curvy, and god her smell. If anything could ever intoxicate me, it would be that.

It was like the time she offered me a beer. And I told her I didn't really like beer, but I'd never really tried it. Her arm was outstretched and our eyes met. There was that sleazy gaze again. This time I gave in. I took a swig from her bottle. Partly because I thought this might be the only time our lips ever met. "Not bad," I replied. "You are free to have one," she offered. "No I better not." "Okay, stick to your water then," she was cheeky. I came back a few minutes later. Maybe I will have one after all. I took a few sips then left it overnight, I'd tip it in the sink in the morning.

Coffee

She's drinking coffee. It's her first time. She was so excited she dropped the chocolate shaker in it. The coffee is all over the floor now. The woman reading a book by the window is distracted by this. The slow insidious rythm that it drips.

She pulls a face. She doesn't quite like the taste, but it's her first time and she feels like an adult now.

None of them do anything about the dripping coffee. It's like it doesn't exist. Only I and the woman reading notice it. Together we share this moment. She doesn't know I'm sharing it with her though. She's teasing her fingers through her hair.

She's getting sugar now. Packets of it. I look at her with distaste. She feels so old, so wise. I guess her mother never told her about the kind of people who drink coffee.

The woman reading looks wistfully out the window. The ring on her finger tells me she is feeling trapped. She's not thinking about her husband now. She's thinking of a woman. A woman like me.

Change clatters on the floor and we both look up. Our eyes meet for the first time. She looks away is if it were a mistake. I see her looking at the spil again. The kids are gone now. it's just us, but she doesn't know it. She's moving to the spill. I stare on curiously. She glances at me, and then with one cautious movement she drops the book. Page down onto the spill. She walks over to my table and sits beside me.

"That was a horrible book," she says.

"I know," I reply. But I don't.

Remember When I Said I Was Watching You

I meant it..

So I've been wanting to people watch forever now. And what better place to do it than on a train! I'll post a series of little tid bits about people I don't know..just because I can and they might be fun.

He thought she was a real classy chick, that is, until he knocked her up, then he didn't want nothing to do with her. What with those deep set icy blue eyes and that furrowed brow. They could practically be related. He was the kinda guy who'd beat his kids. Just cause he could. Cause he was bigger than them. He was sick. The way he looked at that little boy. He rolled a smoke while thinking about shooting up. He was addicted to the stuff, but tobacco was cheaper. It wasn't his fault. The kids had done it to him. The kids and that classy fucking lady. He bet they weren't even his kids. They had sucked the life out of him. He probably had a stash hidden in his bumbag, but you'd never know. Not unless you were a cop and game enough to get beaten. You looked at the family and felt real bad. For the kids mainly. He'd shoot through soon enough, with his stash, leave them behind. He looked like a vampire. Not a pretty one either. The classy lady would be left to deal with his mess. Maybe they were better off. But not with her. She was just like him. Only, she'd never touch the kids, cause she used to be touched, and it fucked her up real bad.

There will be many more to come!

The Art Of Syllogistic Reasoning

Syllogisms are fun
This is a syllogism
Therefore, this is fun!

If I've learnt anything fun at uni it has to be the art of syllogistic reasoning.

All dogs have four legs
Cicero is a dog
Therefore, Cicero has four legs!

All chickens are cute
Ell is a chicken
Therefore, Ell is cute!

All dogs have four legs
The table has four legs
Therefore, the table is a dog

Monsters scream
Karen O screams
Therefore, Karen O is a monster

Crazy people write blogs
I write blogs
Therefore, I am crazy

Here's Looking At You

To the tall, dark-haired woman on our bus this morning, if you may ever cross paths with my blog may you read this and know I am talking about you. We've never seen you before, and sadly we may never see you again but you definitely made an impact. On first glance I mistook you for a nasty suit who would order school children from their seat and push past us as we stood on the rocky bus. However you proved me wrong. You stood close, your body half turned towards us, it's as if you were listening to us talking. In fact I believe you were. If only I'd realised then. I'd have said how good you look. How those tight pants flatter you in many many ways. But this would have been creepy, and I'm one for taking the slightly less but not so much creepy option..and blogging about you 12 hours later. What can we say, you captured our hearts on that simple bus trip that we take every thursday. Perhaps you'll do it again next? Maybe this could be a regular thing. We've been known to get the wrong idea, as girls do...but we believe our case is strong. For it was your curious turn of the head every few minutes that gave you away. As I held her hand I felt slightly nervous, because I knew you were looking at us. And not in the usual way we get looked at when we hold hands, but in a curious I want some of that too way. Do you really want some of this? Because we are yours for the taking. It was no accident that you happened to graze against me as you moved to find a seat. Nor was it a coincidence that your gaze shifted away immediately as ours met yours. I know what you are thinking. You'll never see us again. This simple bus trip every thursday could be our only hope. So do catch it, because these two girls in checkered shirts are looking at you. You were obviously much older than us, give or take 20 years, but age is no factor. Your dark dykey hair was quite the delight, as were your black frames, not to mention the cute expression. You know where to find us mystery woman. x

The Last Goodbye

She seemed to have a better grip on reality than he did. He smiled nonchalantly and pushed away my guilty embrace. "I'll miss you buddy." He didn't know it at the time, but that would be our last embrace for two months. He'd go home and find the walls stripped bare, any semblance of who I used to be, packed up and taped away. Those familiar objects he associated with my presence would be gone. On a truck in the middle of nowhere with no destination. But at that moment, standing at those gates, he had no idea. This was our last goodbye and he had chosen not to say it.

I had always thought of him as the emotional one, but it was us three girls at that time who could all but hold back the tears. I watched him walk away, so unknowingly, and it killed me. This was just another day at school for him. This wasn't the last goodbye at all. I wanted him to know. I wanted him to hug me tighter than usual, I wanted to be the hero dying in his story. But I wasn't. He had no idea I wasn't returning. He didn't know how to say goodbye, and maybe that was for the best. He had never wanted to say it before and it wasn't fair to make him do it now. So I said goodbye for him, for me.

The three of us walked solemnly to our next destination. One more goodbye to tick off my list. This whole situation was reversed. She was meant to be the strong one. The one who smiled and waved back at me. And he was meant to be the one in tears, clutching my wrist, sobbing "Please don't go." But he wasn't, and she wasn't. It broke my heart. If I'd ever broken a heart in my lifetime, it had to be hers right then. I had no idea she held me so high. I guess I just had no idea. I was leaving them after all. Even though I knew they didn't have anyone else. Her little face, once so bratty and kid-like, now so mature and experienced. She had said a thousand goodbyes, but none like this.

We hadn't expected it, us three. This was meant to be easy. See you in a few months, no big deal, I'd be back. Only, in her mind, I wouldn't be. And I knew this. I knew that those tiny hands gripping me so tight, those unsure eyes overflowing with emotion, I knew that they were saying goodbye. Our last goodbye. She made it so hard, saying goodbye. Though it was the leaving part that hurt the most. I couldn't bare to look back at her, so small, so vulnerable, her tears so justified, yet her situation so unfair. I was leaving her. I was the hero in her story and I had died. She knew when she got home that I'd be gone. That I wouldn't be back. And it killed me. I half-wished she'd be as unknowing as him. That she too would entertain the thought of me always being around. But she knew better than that and I cursed her for growing up so quickly. I didn't want to give her another reason to feel so old, so hard done by. I wanted her to be a child, to run under sprinklers and never fear getting caught. But life had caught her already, and just as it caught her it left me to slip away out of sight. I never thought it would be this hard, not like this.

Their lives were so different that day, and they had no idea they were returning home to the same reality. His day would be no less mundane than the others, packed with the same home-made lunch as it always was. But hers was different. Her day would seem foreign and surreal. Her lunch would be exotic and inedible. Her mind, her heart, so full of questions she was too young to ask. Why are you leaving us. That's the only one that ever stuck in my mind. I don't know how I could allow myself to feel so guilty, so responsible, but I did.

Sometimes they must think I try too hard. To be their guardian, their best friend, their mentor. When really, I was just their sister. And although this was what life had taught me to be, I knew in my heart that to these kids, I needed to be, I wanted to be, I was, so much more.

Maybe I had held myself too high in their eyes. Maybe I wasn't their hero at all, but I so desperately wanted to be. I wanted to be the hero I never had as a child. I wanted them to look up to me, to know I'd always be there. But I wasn't, and I was never going to be, The fullness of this responsibility I placed upon myself still plagues me daily. Maybe I'm the only one awake at night. Thinking of our last goodbye. Thinking about the last embrace and the last tear in our eye.

Procrastination

There are various reasons I haven't posted a blog in nearly a month. No well there's only one. It's called university. This monster takes over your life and makes sure you have no time to do anything but uni work!! No that's not true, I have enough time I just choose to spend it procrastinating rather than doing work on assignments. And as a direct result of procrastinating about writing I have done the very thing I was procrastinating about..written! Just some random stuff because people obviously miss my presence on this blog and I thought I'd treat you all to a few of my thoughts.


The Last Meal

The taste is decidedly familiar, but the feeling is final. “No more of this for a month” she says. It’s hard to live without it. She is sitting next to me while I eat my last meal. She always sits next to me when we eat.

I close my eyes and pick up the small square, making sure to caress its rounded edges. This dish does not require knives or forks, or even a plate, just hungry hands. It is often smooth in texture, though today it is not. I feel a warm sensation against my skin and see that it has begun to melt in my hand. I’ve thought about this too long. Though it is my last meal. I slip it into my mouth, deciding to enjoy the whole thing, rather than slowly devouring it. Partly because I know it frustrates you.

Immediately the roof of my mouth tingles with familiarity, I’ve eaten this before. I clamp down my teeth and a minty river begins to flow through my mouth. It is gooier than usual, but I don’t mind. I just want to enjoy this; my last meal. My lips purse together like a fish as I suck out all the flavour, leaving only a brown salivated shell. This dark cave once housed a burst of exciting flavour. Now the minty river is flowing down my throat, warming against my insides. And the cave is slowly dissolving into my hungry, desperate mouth. Because, it’s my last meal.

This will be my last piece of chocolate for a month. Not because I’m on a diet, just because, she said so. And she always sits next to me when I eat.


Dear Father

I’m sick of the roar of that beast next door. You say they should be banned. I half-heartedly agree. Only, I know my father who I have yet to meet, would not be proud of this. But who is he to say what I agree with. I’ve never even met him. Only, I have. I met him a few times. It’s just, I forget. It’s not that I have an absent mind, just a father. He wouldn’t blame me. For forgetting that is. Because he forgets too. He doesn’t even know my name. After all these years of forgetting me, I thought he’d know who I was. If I were forgettable then first he must remember. He must remember who I am. And in order to remember, he must know my name. But he doesn’t. He forgot that. Just like he forgot me, I’ll forget him too. Though, I really can’t, only sometimes. I forget, because he has forgotten. And I’m too tired to remember. So I say yes to your proposal. Ban those roaring beasts next door. I’m sorry father, but I’ve forgotten. Just like you.


Always

You always find new ways to make me cry.
I thrust my body under the cold shower. The water pounded like bricks against my pale white skin. I had to be punished. I was spending three weeks of the coldest month in a notoriously cold city. I’d asked you to come with me. Only I hadn’t really, you offered but then withdrew. But it seemed somehow, that our love had promised me this much.

You always find new ways to make me cry.
I had never been fond of showers in Brisbane. The hot water seared my skin, turning it an embarrassed shade of pink. I’m not one for guilt, or spite. But I wanted to remind you. Tell you of all the hours I spent each week, devoted to your passion. Wasn’t it only fair? Surely these hours would add up to weeks. Weeks you could spend with me.

You always find new ways to make me cry.
I step out of the shower, neither hot nor cold. The fluctuating water temperature had calmed me. You weren’t coming with me and I wasn’t going to ask again. But I’ll remember this little thing you wouldn’t do for me. I’ll remember it when I’m sitting on a hard bench for three hours in the ten degree night.


Frivolous Fridays

Our lovers’ hideaway is bathed in the glorious afternoon light. I always did love Fridays. You are there, I am here. I’ve sentenced you to work, with the promise of future rewards. I know this will grab you. My feet dangle off the edge of the bed, and I wonder if you are watching them. They flail violently, up, then down. To the sound of your sometimes favourite band.

My head is moving too. But you can’t see that. You are on the other side. Behind the wall. But I picture you; you always look cute on Fridays. My pen begins to tap. I wonder if you hear it. I know you do, because I know you are listening. I wonder if I told you I was listening to your sometimes favourite band, would you be proud. I want to ask, but I don’t. You are working this time.

My shoulders start to swing. I know you can’t see this. But you feel it in yourself. Because we are connected. I can’t hear you tapping at the keyboard but I feel you are. The tapping of my pen reminds you of this.

My whole body begins to move. This is your music; it’s your music in our time.

I’d always loved Fridays. This was the day you taught me to be free. I don’t feel bad on Fridays. A day off means a day spent studying. But not Fridays. Because these are our days. Fridays are the days we say ‘I love you’, the day we have no doubts, no guilt, just frivolous pleasure. I shall call them Frivolous Fridays. I’ll mark this on my calendar. Make a life of it. On Frivolous Fridays we shall celebrate a love deserving of its own day. And we’ll make a life of it.


That's all folks.

And She Said "I Don't Get Modern Art"

I don't get modern art either, take my hair for example, it's a piece of modern art and I just don't get it. There's actually not much to get anymore. You know if I wanted to look like a 9 year old boy I'd have gone to a barber, at least then I'd look cute.

My hairdresser quipped that phrase to me "I 'don't get modern art". To be accurate she's not really my hairdresser nor will she ever be again. For you see, I once had hair and it was not until it was under the chopping block that I realised just how much I liked it. What I did not like was the chatty hairdresser, sure she was nice but she seemed to forget that she was cutting my hair. Rather she began to lop it off in chunks while spitting out pleasantries. In hindsight I'd have asked her to keep her pleasantries and give me back my hair. It's too late now though. It always is.

I'd liken the hairdresser situation to an outburst of fire in the Sims. You sit there saying OMG OMG OMG STOP IT!!!! But you don't actually do anything until it's too late, and then the grim reaper comes along...or even worse the judgment of others!

Maybe I am being a bit brash though. It doesn't look THAT bad, I just had a rough childhood, I'm not well equipped to deal with change. I can't deal with normal situations in a calm normal manner. I'm just having a very bad case of post haircut stress. This stress causes all sorts of traumatic thoughts. Thoughts ranging from 'great now I need a hat to cover my awful haircut' to much more sinister thoughts... Ones that see me jealously eyeing off every person in sight. Eyeing off their hair to be more precise. 'Oh look at that 90 year old man, look at all the hair on his head!' Or 'hey look at that newborn baby, wow I guess it started growing hair in the womb.'

As if these thoughts aren't bad enough I begin to find myself in direct competition with these people. People with more hair than me, people who should have no hair! As I was crossing the road to get home I spotted an elderly man crossing on the other side. At the sight of the green light I dashed across the road, wind in my scalp, passing the old man by a mile. I felt liberated. 'Ha I beat you old man!' I silently said in my head. Looking back that may have been a little harsh.

Now I know people say oh it's okay it's only hair after all it will grow back. These people do not understand. It's more than hair to me, it's my livelihood. If you take away my hair then what do I have left, nothing! Without hair I'm just like the rest of them, boring and uncool. But a good full head of hair can do wonders for the heart and soul. Until my hair grows back however, I find myself in a sad, desperately fragile state. One wrong move and I could shatter at any given moment. You'll find me sitting in the corner clutching at the loose strands of the hair I used to have. Now I truly understand the saying 'hair today gone tomorrow' or was that here...

Cleaning Out My Closet

As they say, one man's trash is another man's treasure. This is particularly the case with my younger brother and sister. I don't know if they just desire every item I own because I own it or because they really want it, but they make packing up old junk so easy. Oh look a bunch of coloured paper i don't want, my sister gladly takes it out of my hands. She's less picky than my brother at least. He's smart, he doesn't hoard junk, just valuable items like toy planes and lego. And now that I think about it i know where they get their sweet but annoying habit from. The pair are constantly passing off random toys and drawings to me, and it's very sweet but I don't have room for this stuff. So I usually keep it on my desk for a few weeks then quietly dispose of it. It's not that I don't appreciate the thought or effort I simply just don't have room for a mountain of pre school drawings. My sister however surely does. She takes everything I give her. She takes all my paintings that I severely dislike, that kid could set up a very profitable market stall I say.

While this is all well and good for me I'm sure my mum doesn't really appreciate my kind hearted-ness just as much as the kids do. You see, she is the master of the house, the one that cleans their rooms, the one that organises the junk into neat little piles. And boy do these kids have enough junk of their own already! Added with mine their rooms have become junk yards. Sure my brother is neat but my sisters room is like a trash hoarders dream. From old sandwiches to naked dolls she's got it all in there. It's quite disgusting and I often wonder how I could be related to such an outlandishly messy human being.

And then I cast my gaze to the mirror and stare back at myself and realise, I started this all.