tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3994027683573438222024-03-06T04:52:15.722+00:00Kind KindWords written on a mouldy paper bag
left to rot in the brambles,
or huddled like cold children
around a dying candle.
Words of hope
and of bleak optimism.
Words written for the
Kind Generation,
who help old people
with their shopping bags,
and know that strength
comes not from stern rigidity,
but from smiling softly
in the face of fear
and saying to the world:
"For goodness sake
be Kind".W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-88162827328797725902008-11-26T08:15:00.001+00:002008-11-26T08:17:29.127+00:00The Girl in the Automatic Clown Jacket<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkjoWH2_eqM8AuBjITKFyBIbOMpJgFtkdPa54qzebfzchAZfjHigT5FvNa5JMv0EZoURX1YnucdRKE5GO8mk9nj8hDgkMZgANZLw6WeTr5mohth8KeSwE38m5nWGmRZ4olKr1x56-0ik/s1600-h/06qkdQpD_400x300.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikkjoWH2_eqM8AuBjITKFyBIbOMpJgFtkdPa54qzebfzchAZfjHigT5FvNa5JMv0EZoURX1YnucdRKE5GO8mk9nj8hDgkMZgANZLw6WeTr5mohth8KeSwE38m5nWGmRZ4olKr1x56-0ik/s400/06qkdQpD_400x300.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272877400336302306" /></a><br /> The giant baby wears a necklace and has freckles. <br /> His temples are large and milky-white, <br /> Like satellite dishes in the moonlight. <br /> Tether the softest goat on the outskirts at noontime,<br /> Don’t look back,<br /> Even when you hear the crackling of limbs,<br /> First in the tree line and then<br /> In that well tended clearing <br /> Where the stakes have been driven into the ground. <br /><br /> Don’t turn around when you hear <br /> The sound of untrained masticating.<br /> It’s ok for the giant baby to smack his lips.<br /> <br /> Bring forth the dancing girls and virgins!<br /> Make sure that they are all pretending to be happy.<br /> The giant baby must not be displeased.<br /> Make sure that their sad eyes shine in the moonlight,<br /> And the bells on their pretty ankles jingle,<br /> So that they may be located and retrieved <br /> By men with pitchforks,<br /> Whose faces shine in the firelight,<br /> When they run away, into the forest.<br /> <br /> There isn’t a single person in the village who is not terrified of the giant baby!<br />He must not be displeased,<br />Or he will crawl to the village gates<br />And reach into houses <br />Through front doors and windows.<br />The baby is masticating!<br />Hush!<br />Elasticating!<br />Stretching the bounds <br />Of reality to nearly snapping point.<br />It’s rude to stare.<br />Don’t ever point.<br /> <br />Anoint the baby with a blessed urn.<br />Fill the pig swill troughs with<br />Mother’s milk and step back!<br />There will be slurping noises!<br />Who will rub his back to make the burping noises?<br />One hundred buffalo,<br />Each eighty centimeters tall,<br />Ready on plastic hoofs,<br />With bated buffalo breath <br />In time for nap time.<br />This is not the time to tie the virgins to the stakes.<br />Who employed that wretched hunchback?<br />This is not the middle ages.<br />This is nap time.<br /><br />You will not roll over and <br />Crush the giant baby while you snooze.<br />This baby will knock the wind out of you.<br />He will smash your chimney pots.<br />Good luck settling in this village.<br />People will think you are crazy,<br />Moving here with your seven busty teenage daughters.<br />They will smile in your face <br />But behind your back they will talk <br />About the well tended tethering patch<br />And snicker.<br /><br />Baby don’t like it when mum and dad argue.<br />He will squeeze you <br />Until your hair follicles produce much thicker locks.<br />Use one hundred ewes to fashion socks!<br />Patch many mohair sweaters to make a baby grow.<br />When this baby grows up you better build another village,<br />Much further away.<br />Submit the planning applications today <br />And await approval in the form of <br />Stamps. <br />I heard there’s another valley over that way,<br />They had a giant otter there but he moved away.<br />Something about a giant beaver dam bust-up.<br /><br />The giant baby will not be televised!<br />The giant baby will not be throw away,<br />Or fobbed off with no bath water.<br />You, the idiot with the teenage daughters,<br />Don’t move here.<br />It is not a very good idea.<br /><br />Hush! Shuddup! <br />Nap time is over. <br />It’s time for bath time<br />And then the rolling in the patch of clover<br />Which acts as a towel:<br />Super absorbency.<br /><br />For the rest of the story wait and see,<br />It hasn’t happened yet,<br />Please replace the hand set and back away.<br />Keep your elbows tucked in and your wits about you. <br />When you are far enough away you may run.<br />I permit you.<br />If you are dumb enough to return one day<br />You may see the smoking stumps of wood<br />Rising form the packed mud streets.<br /><br />Go in peace.<br />The giant baby must not be underestimated.<br />Go in peace.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-37744944364131027982008-11-16T05:00:00.008+00:002008-11-16T05:43:58.374+00:00Nothing Happened<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-8cvP86g-Q1lAdSrGMetEvDAx41uETmIVe6bZbhuMgqjlndeI1y7dpCp-x3ZQb4WHm8Gqv0dgvzPIFQAiuIG7wiBXvDE4urJiq1k4svhme4BgNapP1zeygqHBcyh1m0ZB7a_8HKa318/s1600-h/IMGP1762.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-8cvP86g-Q1lAdSrGMetEvDAx41uETmIVe6bZbhuMgqjlndeI1y7dpCp-x3ZQb4WHm8Gqv0dgvzPIFQAiuIG7wiBXvDE4urJiq1k4svhme4BgNapP1zeygqHBcyh1m0ZB7a_8HKa318/s400/IMGP1762.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269116516108199442" /></a><br /><br /> This is me: I work really hard, the rest of the time I sleep. Sometimes I play poker or spend time with Meg. Mostly I work.<br /> Physically I’m bigger than I ever have been, stronger, fitter, faster, browner. I don’t smoke cigarettes any more. Sometimes I run, purely because walking takes so long. Running doesn’t hurt my lungs any more.<br /> Usually I work in confined, uncomfortable places, small bathrooms and attics. I wear shorts, boots, earmuffs and a respirator, nothing else. I sweat litres. I am covered with dust. My hair stands on end and my hands bleed.<br /> I work with an aggressive intensity, and when I stop I pant like a running dog. I like my work. I like big power tools and the constant cycles of chaos and order, chaos and order, but the fact that I’m low on society’s pecking order gets to me, it pisses me off and I’m more intense and aggressive because of it.<br /> After I get home and shower I usually soften up. I snuggle with my Mrs. We drink tea and I tell her about my day, the little defeats and victories, and she tells me about hers. She’s studying to become a lawyer. That makes me feel better about my low social standing. I feel noble because I’m paying for our present while she works for our future. Just being with her makes me feel less dirty.<br /> I feel like I’m changing. <br /> I’ve stopped masturbating and my hair is longer than it has been in years.<br /> I’ve been overwhelmingly sad lately. <br /> I don’t feel sorry for myself. <br /> I don’t feel damaged or hurt or angry, <br /> Just overwhelmingly sad. <br /> Meg was worried, but with surprising clarity I explained what I was feeling: “It feels like I’m releasing stuff,” I explained, “like I’m defrosting”.<br /> She didn’t really understand. I didn’t really understand. Sometimes you just have to ride these things out and see where they take you.<br /> I feel better now. I don’t want to cry any more. I still feel different though.<br /> I want to be a writer, I always have. Sometimes I think I have to be a writer, I have no choice. I get so highly strung when I don’t write. It’s almost as if I punish myself for not creating, examining, analyzing, regurgitating. I’ve always been the same. <br /> Maybe I don’t want to be writer at all, maybe I have psychological issues; a built-in overbearing stage mom desperate to live vicariously through the rest of me. <br /> I started a blog so that other people could read what I write. I don’t think I was being egotistical. I wanted to help the world. I wanted people to feel less lonely and alienated. Now my blog haunts me. It’s just another thing for my internal pushy parent to hassle me about. If I don’t write the blog I become almost unbearable.<br /> A couple of weeks ago I emailed a few magazine editors, detailing my literary achievements and prowess, asking for work. I heard nothing back. I suppose my approach was laughably unprofessional. I know about plugging away doggedly. I know about the time and energy it takes to move even the shortest distance along this road, but I cringe when I think about my innocence. <br /> I’d like to be a foreign correspondent. I’ve got it all worked out: I’ll bring an emotional clarity and honesty to disaster reportage, without being hysterical or biased. I’m strong enough to deal with war, I’ve always known that about myself.<br /> Sometimes I cringe while I write. Imagine: the boy who always wanted to go to war. Maybe I spend so much time facing fear and pushing myself forward because I’m actually a coward. Maybe that’s the only reason anyone does anything.<br /> I’m getting better at playing poker. I usually make the final table now. Not quite good enough to win money, but close. When my luck changes and the bad beats stop maybe I’ll start turning a profit. At least I have fun, at least I have a hobby.<br /> I don’t think I’m depressed. I don’t think I’m even unhappy. I have a good job and a fantastic woman, I write well and one day I might make a career out of it. My main problem is that I don’t like society much. I don’t like our culture. I think we’re greedy and selfish, willfully ignorant and short sighted. We stole this country from the Black Fellas. Stole it! <br /> Now it’s ours.<br /> There’s something wrong with us, we’re sick. We need to take the blindfolds from our eyes. It hurts to do it because we’ve really made a mess of things, but it feels so good to tell yourself the truth. It feels so good to see clearly, even if what you see is all crooked and tainted. There is beauty everywhere, and sadness and pain and birth and death. That’s what’s good about the world: it’s real. When it hurts the pain is real; physical and immediate, when you love or feel joy it’s the same; tangible and inescapable. <br /> We spend too much time wanting, missing what we don’t have, cluttering reality with more and more stuff. We shop because we’re lonely. We frantically consume to make ourselves feel like we belong to something. We worship celebrities because maybe, just maybe some of their magic dust will rub off on us by association. THERE IS NO MAGIC DUST!<br /><br />…<br /><br /> I sit, I write, I complain. Sometimes I make tea, walk barefoot to the bathroom or visit Meg in the kitchen. Sometimes I watch the clouds move above the palms outside my window. I know I’m writing clichés. I know a thousand people have already said what I just said. I don’t care. It’s just the way I feel. One day I’ll live in the country and grow children and vegetables. Then I’ll be further away from the idiocy of white men and maybe it won’t hurt me so much, but for now I’m young and fit, honest and strong, and I can practice what I preach because I’m loved and I can cry like a man. I don’t need much else.<br /> I hope one day to make a difference. I don’t think I’m being naïve.<br /> I try very hard to keep my eyes open, to see the woods<span style="font-style:italic;"> and</span> the trees. I hope I’m not being naïve.<br /> I’ll probably cringe when I read through what I’ve written, but that’s ok, because I’m allowed to be a little naïve.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-1509041366246454842008-11-01T03:28:00.008+00:002008-11-01T04:45:17.347+00:00Worthlessness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9to3czAbr328ZYZspSxDdvQmq8bnYuPBuwEc4G8UgK5NvlKigz9swPsd_HpNRowyZS6n3zE5BcmQJQC6j-5vWX0bQLJgZ11Y4KMP7pqlzojIPLb7Ge9OSJkeAHeT9l-2r9mbdH4bpDw/s1600-h/Sbizhub08051410360_0005.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9to3czAbr328ZYZspSxDdvQmq8bnYuPBuwEc4G8UgK5NvlKigz9swPsd_HpNRowyZS6n3zE5BcmQJQC6j-5vWX0bQLJgZ11Y4KMP7pqlzojIPLb7Ge9OSJkeAHeT9l-2r9mbdH4bpDw/s400/Sbizhub08051410360_0005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263532164046334898" /></a><br />So make for me a bed of fear,<br />That I may lie upon it,<br />And wring from troubled, restless sleep<br />Cold sweat and wicked dreams.<br /><br /> I often dream of bad fish, salmon covered in white fungus mites, oily rivers, sluggish black water, hag fish, snake fish, wispy eels. I dream of hurting bad people, of gouging eyes and stabbing, and when I wake up bathed in sweat, the dreams themselves vanish, leaving only a ring of scum where the dark water once stood, which sometimes lingers for hours.<br /> This morning I tried to splash through the last of the dreams as they drained away, to reach happier ground before I started my day, but they found me some time after Meg left for school, and they were angry that I’d tried to give them the slip. <br /> I mooched and didn’t write, didn’t sort out my taxes and didn’t wash up. Then I didn’t catch a bus into the city and sat in traffic, watching a cab meter click slowly upwards while we didn’t go anywhere. <br /> By the time I reached the city I was hot and angry, stupid-looking, soft-looking, normal-looking; one of a thousand other goons all feeling the scratch of sweat and bus exhaust on our worthless necks: worthless lives made more worthless by the fact that we’re here, encased in this, this throbbing, angry, embarrassment of a metropolis, ‘marks of weakness, marks of woe’.<br /> I pick a tower block at random, push through the glass doors and ask a heavily-built Indian receptionist for directions. Then I walk down the street to another tower and repeat the process, then again, each time getting closer, each time hating more and more the pea gravel and egg plant reception areas, the shiny marbled man-made stone and dirty air-con vents, the humming termite mounds of dirt and waste and heat and the whole shitty show.<br /> Eventually my lift pings open on the 21st floor and a simpering desk-boy breaks off his smutty conversation long enough to point his cheap ballpoint at a door left ajar, emitting the familiar sounds of fashion in its larval stage: click, pop, whirr, chatter. <br /> I breeze on in and start my apologies. I am fifteen minutes late, the busses coming form the beach were all full, the traffic was terrible… At $500 an hour the least I could do is be on time. But they don’t care. I am ignored. I am shown to a chair and clipped, powdered and ruffled. My eyebrows are plucked, my ears are shaved, my bags are bronzed. It isn’t until I’m suited in pin stripes and gleaming like a basted roast that anyone takes any notice of me at all. Then I am shown another chair in the center of a ring of lights and busy little people, facing a floor to ceiling window overlooking a hundred other termite mounds. Outside the ring of lights and busy people is another ring of people who aren’t very busy at all. They lounge like sea lions and natter absentmindedly about expensive phones and coffee beans, fine wines and exclusive resorts. These are the bloated ones, the executives. <br /> In front of my chair is a desk, on it is a blank computer screen, a pad and pen and a phone. I am told what is expected of me, shown a drawing of a man doing what I’m expected to do. He’s sitting at a desk, looking important, talking to four other business types on a split computer screen. Once they’re sure I know what they want of me I’m ignored again, so I dutifully sit and read my book while busy little people busy themselves around me. They don’t speak to me, I don’t speak to them. I am a unit which hasn’t been activated yet. I am expected to remain dormant and passive until it’s my turn to shine.<br /> Outside I do my job very well, I am the very picture of passivity, but on the inside I am alert and watchful. I am listening with glee to the conversations of the executives, and I am very, very critical.<br /> “I left my Blackberry charger in the hotel.” One heavily groomed is man is bleating. <br /> “Oh what a coincidence,” an agent is crooning at an art director, “my parents own a vineyard on that road, they have that exact same coffee machine in their pool house.” <br /> I sit and listen, and although the book I’m reading is very good, I’m reading very little of it, so immersed am I in the worthless lives in the window and the worthless lives in the room. And then SHA-BLAM! It’s my turn and all eyes are on me. I know what I have to do, now is the time to do it. Someone darts out of the shadows and fixes the ripples in my suit. Someone else darts out and flicks my hair into a state of near perfection. The photographer’s assistant checks the lights, the photographer looks through the lens, tells me he’s ready and pops off a shot. There is silence as the image is squeezed onto the screen of a nearby Mac. Then the whole show pauses again for half an hour as lights are moved and things are pulled and tugged until SHA-ZAM! It’s my turn to make it happen and I turn on like a Christmas tree. My hair is touched, my bulges are debulged, the lights are checked, the stage is set and then… nothing happens for another half an hour. <br /> By now the execs aren’t fun to hate and the view from the window is soul destroying. I want to cross my legs but I’m scared of crumpling my suit. Thank god for Philip K. Dick, thank god for age and experience and 500 bucks an hour, only a third of which I’ll see after agent’s cuts and taxman cuts and all the other little cuts, a third which will be about a week’s wages on the building site. I look down at my hands, creamed and pampered though they are the calluses stick out a mile, my knuckles are fat and scarred. I smile down at them, they wink back at me, our little secret.<br /> And then, KA-POW! It’s me again and this time it’s for real. For half an hour I earn my money. I shine like I’m supposed to. I put on funny voices and the busy people laugh. I talk to imaginary business men and the execs think it’s priceless.<br /> “Buy, buy, buy, Kevin!” I yell at the blank screen on my desk, mimicking a handsome business man. “Buy caves, fucker, lots of caves. The worlds fucked and we’re moving back to the stone age.” <br /> “Charles!” I yell, “We’re doomed! Business is booming! Throw yourself out of the window!” <br /> They love it. I look great. So animated. Brilliant.<br /> “The ice caps are melting,” I point at the screen with my expensive pen and furrow my brow, oozing mean and moody sex appeal. “We’ve raped the planet and now we’re all going to hell!”<br /> My audience guffaws. It doesn’t matter what the model is saying, there’s no sound on a stills shoot, silly, just look how good looking he is! Look at the fire in his eyes! This will sell us a million units for sure. This is dynamite! <br /> When we break for coffee I slip out of my chair and my character and hide behind a rack of clothes, next to a distinctly normal-looking stylist. She looks me flatly in the eyes for a second before asking: “Are you the funny one?”<br /> I’m not sure what to say. I look back at her, looking for clues, but I can see none. <br /> “Not always.” I say, a little defensively. “Are you the dead-pan one?”<br /> “No.” She says. Suddenly she looks very tired.<br /> “Are you the tired one?” I ask her, warmth in my voice now.<br /> “Yes.” She nods, and her eyes smile at me. We sit in silence for a while then, enjoying our shared hiding place. Then it’s time for me to shine a little more. Sha-blam.<br /><br />…<br /><br /> I leave and shake a lot of hands, not ignored any more, and smile at the bus driver who smiles back. People where filing past her like sheep, acting as if she didn’t exist. She looks tired too. <br /> The bus is full and all the sheep look tired and angry. Outside I smile and keep a calm bearing. Inside I’m imagining what the world will be like when all the humans are gone. Peace, perfect peace.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-76525044366412449572008-10-21T09:01:00.002+01:002008-10-22T01:35:35.435+01:00The Fish Changes Everything<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dpi.qld.gov.au/images/Fisheries_RecreationalFishing/FishMeasuringBoard-lindr-500.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://www.dpi.qld.gov.au/images/Fisheries_RecreationalFishing/FishMeasuringBoard-lindr-500.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /> It’s summer now, it really is. The tourists have come, the sculpture show on the cliff path is on, the sea is warm, the sky is a pale blue and we all smell of sun screen and hot skin.<br /> In the morning I pack a bag and walk barefoot down the gulley steps to the beach. Day ten, no cigarettes. Meg and I got drunk last night, two chilled bottles of white and two glasses, wandering among the sculptures, playing art critics, giggling and staggering, critiquing rubbish bins and dog turds, me in straw hat and bare feet, Meg in ripped jeans and a skirt. Into the second bottle we were as much an attraction to the tourists and art lovers as the welded bits of scrap and Henry Moore rip-offs were, living the dream, brown and young and reckless, golden glow in love.<br /> We argued before I left the house this morning, maybe just so we could spend some time alone, maybe just so I could spend some time alone.<br /> I cross the road, hopping from one foot to the other on the hot tarmac, and walk quickly through the park to the beach. I find a spot without too many people and dig in. I saw a Japanese guy do it once: he dumped his bag, fell to his knees and quickly and efficiently dug a bum shaped hole, piling the sand to make a back rest. Then he laid his towel over hole and mound and sat down like a sandy armchair ninja. Ever since that day I have done the same. Now I distain those who lie flat, it’s just so one dimensional.<br /> Twenty minutes of sun is all I need, so after my swim I pack up, flatten my mound and wander over to the cliffs. The tide’s high and the big rock pool where dogs and kids swim and piss together has temporarily become part of the sea. I paddle, ankle deep around its edge, wincing as barnacles spike my heels. Then I see a fish, as long as my forearm, swimming lopsidedly in the deepest part of the pool. I wade in for a closer look. I don’t know what kind of fish it is, but it looks quite normal, compared to some of the weirdoes we get out here. I walk slowly towards it, until I’m nearly on top of it, then I reach down into the thigh-deep water and make a grab for it. It bolts away from me and tries to ride a small wave back out to sea. I leap after it like a bear leaping after a salmon and pounce! It slips away again, but again I pounce. This time I manage to get a finger in one of its gills and pull it flapping out of the pool. I wade back onto dry rock and examine my prize. It looks healthy and tasty enough, apart from two puncture marks on its back which are seeping blood. I stand looking at it. Has it been poisoned? Will I die if I eat it? Two young local blokes have walked up. They’re standing in the pool, looking at me, looking at the fish.<br /> “What you going to do with that?” One of them asks.<br /> “Eat it?” I answer. It’s quite normal to answer a question with a question here. <br /> “Good man”, the other bloke says.<br /> Now that I’ve got their approval I feel better. I show them the two seeping puncture marks. One of them pokes the fish. The fish wriggles. Neither of them says anything about deadly poisons. I nod decisively, thank the blokes and stalk off, holding my pray before me like a prize marrow. I’m not sure what to do with myself now though. My plan was to set up camp on my favourite cliff ledge and read some more. The fish changes everything. As I pass an older, blonde, crazy-looking surf bum, he accosts me loudly:<br /> “What you going to do with that?” <br /> “Eat it”, I tell him confidently.<br /> “Good”, he says. Maybe he’s a bit deaf. I’m about to move on when I have an idea.<br /> “What is it?” I ask him.<br /> “Taylor”, he says.<br /> “Good eating?” I ask.<br /> “Good enough. Bloody fish though. Have to bleed him first.”<br /> “Hmm”, I say, “got a knife?”<br /> “No”. <br /> I shrug and start to walk away again.<br /> “Wait!” He bellows after me.<br /> I walk back to him. He’s rummaging frantically in his bag. Triumphantly he produces a red plastic surfboard fin. “Use this”.<br /> His eyes widen as I take it from him. I lay my fish on the rock and examine the fin, find the sharpest edge and make a test cut in the air above the fish’s head. <br /> “Not that way!” He yells at me, “Underneath!”<br /> “You think so?” I ask meekly. I turn the fish over and do another little test cut in the air.<br /> “Not near me clothes!” The surf bum roars, sun-bleached eyes protruding.<br /> I turn my back on him and jam the fin into the fish’s throat. It thrashes and squirms, but I cut it good. Blood runs through my fingers. The surf bum is standing really close to me, breathing in my ear. As I sever the spine he whispers: “bloody good”. His voice is full of awe and admiration. We stand, very close together, watching the fish die. <br />“Now you’ve got to clean him!” He shouts. I jump at the inappropriate volume of his voice. He motions towards the sea and mouths the word: ‘go’.<br /> Still wincing I dutifully take fish and fin down to the sea to wash them off. The man watches me from his rock, his blonde hair buffeting and twitching in the wind. Other people watch me too, tourists, dog-walkers, the parents of toddlers. Proudly I clean my kill and my weapon, then I limp back across the barnacles to the surf bum. He starts to ask me how I caught it but then his phone rings. <br /> “Hello!” He screams. I stand for a minute, still holding my dripping fish, listening as he bellows into his phone. I’m not sure why I’m still here. Maybe I want to discuss my victory against the sea, my prowess with leap and blade. I start feeling a bit silly though, so I gather my possessions and walk off. He yells after me: “Bloody good one mate!”<br /> I wave without turning and hop from rock to rock back to the cliff path. On the path there are so many people gawking at sculptures I can hardly move. I hold my fish like a battering ram and charge through them to one of the plastic bag dispensers meant for picking up dog shit. I pull out four bags and wrap the fish. A Chinese couple stop and gawk at me, as if I too was art work. I smile at them. <br /> “Fish”, I explain, nodding encouragingly.<br /> “Yes. Fish”, they agree, smiling and nodding also.<br /> I spend the rest of the morning on my ledge above the bay, reading, puffing on a little pure one and watching the surf. Occasionally I lean over, open my bag and touch my fish, just to check that it’s still there. It is cold and firm, sometimes it twitches slightly or its muscles ripple; just a little life left in its nerves. <br /> At lunch time I take my fish home, steam some veggies, boil some rice, make friends with Meg and cook it, with an orange, ginger and coriander sauce. Then I wait a while, and when I’m convinced I haven’t been poisoned, I rub my belly and thank the universe I don’t always have to write about the darkness.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-78960229592983471042008-10-18T03:30:00.004+01:002008-10-18T04:14:42.128+01:00Fire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzf5rVFcJK9wRxF9M9Ij5fYheDEWN9UyUaqeM9g1vfmj7S9nYNUH2waKVlmdcJV2QZu_WBjL819NXk8fmMa1fel63SaqhA3SZRHY5jSuSG_0vVnmJ8p4cIypUiK0l2cdVC8uOyXVO8WA/s1600-h/IMG_0814.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzf5rVFcJK9wRxF9M9Ij5fYheDEWN9UyUaqeM9g1vfmj7S9nYNUH2waKVlmdcJV2QZu_WBjL819NXk8fmMa1fel63SaqhA3SZRHY5jSuSG_0vVnmJ8p4cIypUiK0l2cdVC8uOyXVO8WA/s400/IMG_0814.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258319601035267010" border="0" /></a><br />There was a fire in the abandoned building across the street last night. It was about 1 am but I was up anyway, working late. "Hey, there's a fire!" my housemate yelled. It was big, a real one, flames and all. As we ran out to our fire escape to watch, the first fire trucks were already arriving. They broke through the windows and brick on the ground floor with their pressurized hoses, and a big plane of orange flame rushed out.<br /><br />More and more trucks arrived, ten or more parked down the street and around the corner. The fire fighters seemed in competition to break shit down. Dozens of them swarmed the front, like a mob pillaging a store. They piled into the building and up the building and onto the roof and down into the building. They broke through the brick, sawed through the metal shutters, even broke into the building next door and then broke through the wall. They got up on ladders and shattered all the windows on the front of the building. They got up on the roof and broke through all of the skylights and trapdoors and vents.<br /><br />All the while great clouds of sooty smoke billowed out the gashes in the brick, an upside down goth crinoline. Through the thick gray veil, the orange of the fire and red of the sirens and yellow of the streetlights mixed took on an alien look, or an ancient look. Something out of movie anyway.<br /><br />The scene was dramatic and visceral. Stuff got damaged, a mark was made, it felt like something was happening. Our view was perfect.<br /><br />The next day the whole area smelled of smoke. "Did you see the fire last night?" I asked the morning guy at the cafe downstairs.<br /><br />"No," he said. He handed me my coffee.<br /><br />I felt like it should have been more important. But it wasn't. I took my coffee, mixed in plenty of half and half, and got back to work.katweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00329844604277089794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-80033359656002821242008-10-11T02:45:00.004+01:002008-10-11T03:49:20.983+01:00Spanish MossI should have been a pair of ragged claws<br />instead of this workhorse, workman, working stiff. <br />Working nights now, asleep through the day, waddling off to work when everyone else is waddling home, or drinking beer, when everyone else is asleep.<br /> My steel toe caps pad the floors of labyrinthine department stores, behind the scenes, back where no customer can see, under and above, creeping like a rat, with the rats. Hours of dust and guardless grinders, face powdered ghost-white, sitting on the midnight pavement, eating lunch from a greasy pot with Chinese painters squatting all around and Scottish carpenters discussing the price of Iron Bru. And me no longer smoking so, tense and intense, I keep my eyes flashing bloody murder in my goggles, my ears in muffs against the whine and mimi-mimi nonsense of the radio, my nose and mouth porotected, filtered, bearded in sweat. <br /> Cavelike and cavernous the building. 6th floor: Toys. Rows and rows of gender specific colour coordination, pink unicorns and pastel Barbies, grey, black, red warriors Action! Robot! Doom! Collision! Smash! <br /> I left dusty footprints on the 6th, and opened the secret door and scratched a teddy bear under his chin. 5th floor lingerie: I would have stopped to perv the models and scratch a couple of chins, but the cameras are everywhere. 3rd floor 4th floor building site. <br /> “Keep this door closed. The customers don’t need to see our mess!” <br /> The customers don’t need to see that behind the scenes glamour is shamefully held together with masking tape, and all along the walls and secret passageways there are mocking signs, partial paw prints in the mud, bones in paper bags, magpies crying: ‘The customer is always wrong! The customer must never see the mess they’re in, the dirt and rats and dusty working stiffs!’<br />…<br /> I have no time to write pretty things dressed in friendly structures. I’ve slept through most of my weekend, and have no stories to tell which can’t be compressed, flattened and discarded. Most of what I have can fit in two dimensions on a city wall, over a corporate sponsored piece of graffiti, McDonalds packets, cups and wrappers whirling in the wind: THE CUSTOMERS<span style="font-style:italic;"> DO</span> NEED TO SEE THIS MESS! IT IS <span style="font-style:italic;">OUR</span> MESS! IT IS <span style="font-style:italic;">THEIRS</span>!<br /> The beach on Saturdays and Sundays is enough to make me want to cry; McDonalds, KFC, Pizza Hut packaging sown roughly in the sand, bodies brought up by the tide, the water boiling red, immigrant wars, water shortages, uprisings, downturns, revolutions, starvation, corporate sponsored fucking graffiti, Nike shoes a meter high, ‘In Yo Hood’. The death of the planet, rib cages like bleached roots in the sand, flesh like Spanish moss: <br />The customers don’t need to see our mess.<br />…<br /> What words of hope and solace to finish this one off? <br /> None. Let it hang until it is limp, then gently let it fall, face first into a hole, and sleep.<br />…<br /> No. That’s not right:<br /> Be kind. Be gentle. <br /> Be fierce and tough and as angry as you like. <br /> Don’t take no shit, but give none either.<br /> And clean up after yourself<br /> In such a way that <br /> Others will see you and say:<br /> “Wow that person looks like they’ve got their shit together, <br /> Maybe I’d like to be like that some day.”<br /> Smile, enjoy life and keep your eyes open<br /> And don’t ignore the mess!W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-77274694177180683512008-10-01T07:50:00.002+01:002008-10-01T07:54:16.773+01:00But Always In The LightI’m working on a renovation up in Longueville, smashing up old floors and laying new ones. It’s hot, dusty and bright. Cockatoos and kookaburras screeching and cackling in the gum trees, spiders and lizards in the overgrown garden, these leafy suburbs are straight out of the Australian soap operas.<br /> It’s Friday, the boss and a couple of the other lads have gone up the coast for a long weekend, there are only three of us left on site. Me, Ashley, a half-Malay carpenter, and Digger, a dodgy hammer-hand with red hair and a tattoo of a fish hook on his right bicep.<br /> We’ve been working together for a couple of days now and our system runs like clockwork. I cut the boards with the drop saw and glue the joists, Digger lays the boards and calls out measurements to me, and Ashley works the secret nailer, a big air powered staple gun attached to a compressor. It’s hot, splintery work but we’re making it fun, laughing and telling stories. <br /> “-Finished school in tenth grade,” Digger tells us, lighting another Styverson, “Me teacher said to me: ‘Trouble is, mate, you never bloody turn up. Either you re-do the tenth grade or,’” He leans towards us, winking conspiratorially, “‘I could get you a job on the boats if you’re keen. Me cousin owns the biggest fishing company on the East Coast.’ That was on a Monday, by Friday I shipped out of Melbourne and never looked back.”<br /> I grin. Ashley rolls his eyes. He’s been telling stories like this all morning; how he catches goats with his bare hands and spears sharks in the nature reserve. We both like him well enough, but he’s one of those mildly dangerous characters you have to laugh at, if only to keep him at arm’s length.<br /> We break for lunch and sit on the section of floor we’ve just finished, chewing in silence, smoking or pulling splinters from our hands.<br /> “Let’s get this done and bugger off down the pub,” Ashley says.<br /> “Uh-huh,” Digger nods.<br /> “Good,” Says me.<br /> We finish our ciggies and get back into it, bust arse for another hour, then clean up, lock up and pile into Ashley’s battered Ute. <br /><br /> The William Wallace is an old, two-storey building on the corner of two narrow lanes with a wraparound terrace and an aging dog tied to a lamppost. It’s as dilapidated as the rest of the suburb, but homely too.<br /> People smile as we walk in. Ashley and Digger seem to know everyone. I buy the first round and drain a good quarter of my beer before walking over to where the others are sitting, the condensation-frosted glasses cold in my hands. I sit back and look around: pool table, open fire, dirty carpet, old men at the bar, a peeling mural on the wall depicting the pub almost as it is now, but with a leopard skin carpet and a tiger skin by the pool table.<br /> “When did they get rid of the leopard skin?” I ask.<br /> “-Never had one.” Ashley tells me.<br /> “It’s a tiger skin.” Digger says.<br /> I start to protest that the carpet is actually leopard skin but a group of Northern Irish guys join us and I shut my gob. They’ve been rendering on the Longueville house, five Irish guys: beer bellies, football shirts and the kind of eyes that smile because they know you but look granite at anyone else, big lads with heavy paws and even heavier pasts, brown and happy here. Their leader nods and winks at me and I grin, the others smile too. As soon as they’re settled Digger turns to one of them, a smaller, shyer man of about forty, with dark, curly hair.<br /> “Hey there John,” he says, then turns to me. “You know John don’t you, Wil?”<br /> I nod, keeping it cagey though, Digger’s up to something.<br /> “John’s what I call a Sex Liar. He told us about this Welsh girl he shagged- snorted coke off her tits and rooted her in the arse and stuff.”<br /> John grins sheepishly, the others go quiet and watch, smiling too. Digger goes on:<br /> “Well, it turns out she never bloody existed- Turns out it was just the same old tart he’s been rooting for years.”<br /> We laugh and John laughs too. <br /> “There’s nothing I hate more than a Sex Liar.”<br /> He’s enjoying himself now, there’s a nastiness coming into his eyes.<br /> “-Almost worse than a rapist. Imagine if that poor girl walked in here and we were all looking at her, thinking that he’d done all those things he said. It’d be almost like she’d been abused without having the fun actually being abuse.”<br /> Our laughter’s a bit halfhearted now, and John’s beginning to look uncomfortable. <br /> “That’ll do now.” The big Irish leader says, the twinkle still in his eyes.<br /> Ashley gets up to go to the bar and I walk outside for a ciggie. The pub’s fuller, mostly tradies now, all with that same smiling granite look. Even in my six feet of bone and muscle I feel a bit small, but I keep my eyes smiling and my shoulders back, any fear I have tucked well out of sight.<br /> I stand on the pavement next to the tethered dog and watch the landlady watering her flowers. Digger and a few of the Irish lads join me, a couple of Aussies I haven’t met yet. We’re introduced and we talk about work and the weather. Then Digger starts again, this time on me. His attitude is softer though, as if he hasn’t quite worked me out yet. <br /> “Imagine, Wil,” he says, “If you woke up in the middle of nowhere with a condom full of spunk hanging out of your arse. Would you tell anyone?”<br /> I smile at him and keep quiet, looking from one eye to the other. The others giggle. He shrugs and says: <br /> “You’re supposed to say ‘no’, then I say: ‘Do you want to come camping with me this weekend?’ or, if you say ‘yes’ I say: ‘I’m not taking you camping then.’”<br /> “Very good,” I say, laughing along with the others, feeling like I’ve passed my stupid test. <br /> We troop back inside after that and the beer flows steadily, the laughter grows in volume and Digger’s nastiness does likewise. Eventually, when someone turns up with a bag of coke and John the Irishman’s nearly crying, I swill the last of my beer, smile, nod to the men and leave.<br /> As soon as I’m back in the sunshine and out of sight of the pub I feel better. I love a few beers after work and I love the company of dodgy characters, but that kind of nastiness, that bullying banter makes my skin crawl. <br /> I ride the bus back to Town Hall, then catch a train to Bondi Junction, feeling tipsy and still a little dark inside. Meg calls when I’m still on the train.<br /> “Where are you?”<br /> The sound of her voice makes me feel even darker, almost as if I’d been cheating on her lightness, her clearness of spirit. I try to keep my tone upbeat:<br /> “Nearly in Bondage. Where’s you?”<br /> “I’m in Woolworth.”<br /> “Hang on five minutes. I’ll come and find you.”<br /> I hang up and crowd off the train with the rest of the rush hour traffic. I have to almost force myself not to barge through them all. I feel aggressive and disdainful of these sheep, these homogeneous clones. On the escalator I have a word with myself.<br /> ‘Be nice, Willy, don’t be a prick. Be kind and gentle.’<br /> I’m drunk though and I can feel the battle slipping out of control. <br /> In the massive, five storey mall I walk fast and swagger a little, in my steel toecaps and work clothes. Then I manage a full five minutes of upbeat, hyper chit-chat with Meg before the cracks start to show. <br /> We’re walking past the pet shop on the third floor, surrounded by shiny things and heavily made-up salespeople, tinny mall-music and nauseating perfume, and puppies in glass boxes in the window.<br /> “I can’t stand this fucking pet shop,” Meg says, frowning with righteous anger, “They leave them in there at night. I heard them crying once when they were closing the mall.”<br /> “They do it on purpose,” I say grimly, “So you feel sorry for them and get your wallet out.”<br /> “It makes me want to cry.” <br /> Instead of empathy, blackness comes out of my mouth:<br /> “You can’t let it upset you Meg. What about all the poor buggers who made all this worthless crap for us to spend our money on? What about the millions of dying kids and AIDS victims and war zones? If you start feeling sorry for one thing you have to feel sorry for everything. You might as well just shut up and consume like the rest of ‘em.”<br /> I bite my tongue and force the other 99 per cent of my rant back down, scowling at a dollybird in hot pants who tries to hand me a flyer. Then I catch Meg’s sad look and I sigh.<br /> “Sorry Meggie” I say, softening, “I don’t mean to be a nutter. These places…”<br /> She’s pissed off, angry at me for yelling. I shut my gob and follow dutifully, occupying myself with an imaginary assault rifle and a bag of dynamite, blowing up coffee shops and banks, picking off business men and senseless shoppers. I know I’m being a twat, but I can’t stop myself. The calm voice has been crowded out by advertising and special offers, only the militant remains. At least he has the good sense to keep quiet and push the trolley, instead of taking it all out on Meg. <br /> On the way to the bus stop I try another apology. This time Meg forgives me. Then, on the bus, I try to explain:<br /> “I just hate all this braindead consumption, these zombies shuffling from one array of worthless crap to the next. It’s all just so…”<br /> “Are you going to be like this all night?”<br /> That shuts me up. For the sake of both our sanities I go into sulk mode and press my face against the bus window. The calm voice is battling its way back in:<br /> ‘What the fuck are you doing, Wil? You know she hates that crap almost as much as we do. It’s not her fault. Stop being such a prick.’<br /> The bus stops and we get off. Meg ignores me. I hang back and let her stalk off. Then I call her phone and tell her I’ve got to get some Tally-Hos from the bottlo. On the way home I breathe and relax, and the darkness seeps away. <br /> Then we sit on our bedroom floor and argue for a minute.<br /> Then we cling to each other and cry.<br /> “It’s not your fault Meggie,” I tell her, “I’m just tired and nasty and full of stored-up work crap. I know you don’t need this shit from me, you work so bloody hard s well.”<br /> “Oh Willy,” She whispers and strokes my head. “It’s not your fault either. I know you’re a weirdo. That’s why I love you.”<br /> “I may be a weirdo,” I tell her, laughing now, “but when the shit hits the fan, this weirdo is going to take care of you no matter what.”<br /> “What if it never does?” She’s laughing now too.<br /> I think for a second.<br /> “Well I’ll just have to take care of you anyway.”W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-48054282611899035202008-09-22T09:12:00.006+01:002008-10-11T04:50:35.210+01:00Buffalo CartwrightI’m sitting by the back door, feet up on a pile of old surfboards and wetsuits, a dusty TV and a rocking horse with strangely realistic hair. 10:30 and it’s already a scorcher. All I want to do is put on my boardies, grab a towel and head off down to the beach. But first I have to write. First I have to collect all these barely connected thoughts and lump them into some kind of order, drag these warm buffalo carcasses into a clearing and somehow pile them into a neat pyramid, alone, by myself.<br /> Meg stands in the doorway with an armful of recycling, hair wet from the shower. I have to stand up and get out of the way while she squeezes past me. I roll my eyes and sigh, getting frustrated.<br /> “Sorry” she says. Immediately I feel guilty.<br /> “It’s ok. I just want to get this done.”<br /> I sit back down and read through what I’ve written.<br /> ‘There’s something there’, I think. ‘It’s a start at least.’<br /> I’ve started seven times already. There’s a pile of screwed-up paper under my chair. I know what I want to say, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes it’s much easier to write about nothing instead of sweating over these lumps of flesh, these big ideas.<br /> I want to write more about The Kindness; about the idea of promoting altruism, making it cool. I also want to talk about the idea of using the media as a tool for change, starting a web of propaganda to counteract the dumbed-down, ‘come and play, forget about the movement’ culture. I want to write loftily about our responsibility to future generations and the urgent need for change. But, to be honest, all I really want to do is go and play.<br /> Neighbours pass and say hello. A warm wind from the sea rustles in the banana trees. The dogs stand in the doorway, looking out at the sunlight.<br /> “Sit down or piss off.” I tell them. It’s not a command they understand entirely, but they get the message and slope off looking sorry for themselves.<br /> I groan, put down my pen and rub my eyes. Then I take my empty tea cup into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and wander into the living room where Meg’s writing an essay on human rights violations in Australia. I flop down next to her on the couch and rest my head near her feet. She reaches down and strokes my face. I groan again.<br /> “What’s wrong?” She asks.<br /> “Can’t write,” I say.<br /> “Yes you can.”<br /> “Not today. Not very well.”<br /> “Aw,” she says; a sympathetic, distracted sound. “Maybe you should write about something else.”<br /> “I am. I’m doing a short piece about not being able to do a short piece.”<br /> That catchy one-liner perks me up, this trip to the living room has turned into a brilliant material gathering mission. <br /> “It’s hot out there. Maybe you should go for a swim.”<br /> “I just want to get a handle on this first.” I say, biting her toe.<br /> “Maybe you should edit my essay instead.”<br /> I take that as my cue and wander back into the kitchen, make tea and sit down again. Then I roll myself a cigarette. <br /> ‘Think lofty,’ I tell myself, ‘think high-brow.’<br /> I light the cigarette. It jiggles in my mouth as I write. One of the dogs comes trotting up, wagging his tail.<br /> “I’ve had a really good idea,” he says. “Let’s go outside!”<br /> I ignore him. He sighs and trots back into the house, his claws clicking on the kitchen floor. <br /> ‘Maybe Meg will be more responsive.’ He thinks. Not bloody likely dog.<br /> The sun’s getting really fierce now. The buffalo are starting to smell. Maybe I should get some help. There might be a friendly farmer with a tractor about. Maybe he’ll help me pile these grand ideas together into a tasteful mound of flesh.<br /> I’m not even writing about nothing now. This is getting silly. Lofty, Wil, high-brow. <br /> My friend Kate said: “Why is it that only Gucci and Calvin Klein have sexy advertising? Why can’t libraries and good causes be sexed up?”<br /> “Why not indeed,” I said.<br /> My friend Kate said: “Let’s make the revolution sexy.”<br /> “Let’s,” I said.<br /> I love that idea: Let’s make the revolution sexy. Let’s make kindness sexy. Let’s save the world by making it cool to be a kind, switched-on, conscious, caring, sharing, happy member of society. There’s gold in that. Let’s share it with the right people and together we’ll rid the world of apathetic, dumbed-down, distracted thinking and…<br /> Another neighbour walks by. <br /> “Hot out there,” she says.<br /> “Bloody oath.” I say, engaging the natives in their own parlance. When she’s gone I put down my pen again and groan, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands. Look- I’ve moved another buffalo a full three feet into the clearing, but one of its horns is snagged in a root and I can’t seem to budge it. I stand up and wipe the sweat from my forehead. This isn’t working. I’ve been at it for an hour and I’ve achieved next to nothing. I sigh and sit down heavily on the beast’s rib cage. Through the trees I can see the water, dancing and glittering in the sunlight. It’s getting smelly around here. I could really use some help.<br /> I’m a man of perseverance. I fully believe that no task is too great, as long as you’re willing to work your arse off. But I’m not stupid either. I know when I’m beaten. Sometimes the best thing to do is to wait till the heat of the day cools a little, spend a couple of hours chilling and thinking, get some help and tackle the problem later when you’re fresh.<br /> Thus mollified, the gnawing hunger in my guts calms down a little. I strip off my sweaty t-shirt, peel off my blood-stained jeans, socks, pants, boots, and wander naked through the woods. Down by the water I stand, ankle deep, smiling as my toes sink into the mud. I give them a little wriggle, sigh contentedly. <br /> Then I take a deep breath and dive.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-5148362114440219132008-09-14T06:33:00.003+01:002008-09-14T12:53:11.435+01:00Erosion<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COffice%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="time"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:usefelayout/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:SimSun; panose-1:2 1 6 0 3 1 1 1 1 1; mso-font-alt:宋体; mso-font-charset:134; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 135135232 16 0 262145 0;} @font-face {font-family:"\@SimSun"; panose-1:2 1 6 0 3 1 1 1 1 1; mso-font-charset:134; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 135135232 16 0 262145 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:SimSun;} p.MsoFooter, li.MsoFooter, div.MsoFooter {margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; tab-stops:center 216.0pt right 432.0pt; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:SimSun;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span><st1:time hour="6" minute="00">6:00 am</st1:time>, Australian Eastern Time.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> In an instant I’m awake, no idea where I am, sitting bolt upright, eyes open. There’s someone sleeping next to me, long brown hair across the pillow, dim light filtered through the curtains. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“Who’s there?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>Somewhere inside me I’m aware of how childlike my voice sounds. The head stirs, turns towards me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“It’s me Willy.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>A slender arm reaches out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>Of course. Of course it’s you. Of course I’m here. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>I groan and fall back, rubbing my eyes. Then I turn and bury my head in warmth and soft skin.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“I didn’t know who you were…” I say to her left breast.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>She makes sympathetic, cooing noises, still mostly asleep. I lie there and close my eyes again, my breathing slows, my brain relaxes. Then it begins a slow inventory, catching up with itself: flights, customs, airports, sunlight, heat, Meg in arrivals, Meg in the car… Then the whole hallucinated day plays out: wandering around, confused and sleep deprived, forcing myself to stay awake, to stay lucid, until Australian bedtime. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>I’d slept a little on the couch when Meg went out for groceries. Then we lay together and watched TV. When Meg got up to shower I’d talked to Mum, then watched Leo’s short film about climate change. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>Until now I’d watched impassively the slideshow of memories, enjoying Meg’s sleeping body next to me, her smell, her slow breathing, but now a darkness seeps in, a slow, engulfing panic. That ten minute movie, its volume too low, pixilated slightly on full screen, plays again inside my skull. The calm, softly spoken warning, the image of Earth perched on the hill, the little people marching towards the power station… </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>My brain is swamped. I lie cocooned in love and clean sheets, rigid with fear, my breath fast and shallow, shuddering as every new though hits me: We’re running out of time. I’m not doing enough. No one understands how close we are to the edge and <i style="">I’m not doing enough! </i>I understand what’s happening but all I do is write stupid stories. I should be doing more. I should be blowing up power stations, picking off the CEOs of multinationals. I shouldn’t be here, warm and loved. I should be holed up in a shed somewhere, making pipe bombs, wearing black clothes. The end is coming and all I do is laugh and play and fly in planes and…</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>“What’s the matter Willy?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>I’m so tense I can’t even answer. I shudder, fight for breath. She pushes herself away from me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“What’s wrong?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And I collapse: knees drawn up in foetal position, sucking air in quick gasps, not exhaling,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And then I start to sob.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“What’s wrong?” She sounds alarmed now, frightened. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“I…”, I still can’t even speak.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“I just can’t… I just… can’t.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“Shhh”. She says, good woman, drapes herself over me, holds my head and rocks. “Shhh now”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>After a while I cry properly, and that feels good.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And then I draw away slightly, just enough to breathe,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And lie there,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And tell her what went wrong.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>I tell her how scared I am, how useless and impotent I feel, how the whole Earth’s going to hell in a shitstorm and no one understands. All my words are over-dramatic, my tone is bleak and black.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“It’s useless”, I conclude, “there’s nothing we can do.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“Oh Willy,” she says, “you’re jet lagged. You know there’s always hope, you’re always saying that. Even if we do all die and kill as much as we can, it’ll all re-evolve”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“Rats and flies and cockroaches”, I mumble, “I love this green planet. I want it”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>Again I hear myself, how child-like I sound.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“I’m not doing enough.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“Maybe not,” she says, “but you will. Right now you talk about it, and you write about it. You tell people. You’re a good man and people listen to you. You throw stones and ripples spread out. You know they do.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“But it’s still not enough.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“So do more. Talk more, write more.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“I should be getting involved. I should be <i style="">acting</i>.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“So act. Get involved. But don’t get stuck in frustration, and don’t be scared. I know you’re not really scared, anyway. I know it’s just jet-lag. You’re calm and strong. You’re not a bad person. You’re not lazy either. You’re doing what you can and you <i style="">will</i> do more.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And softly she strokes my head, and the fear dies away. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>I know what I have to do, and she’s right, it doesn’t really scare me. There <i style="">is</i> hope. Re-evolution isn’t a real consolation, it’s just a back-stop, something to keep the panic at bay. Deep down I know that a change is happening: all the people aren’t all asleep any more. They’re waking up, lots of them, and in the dreamy morning light they’re sitting bolt upright in their beds, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and asking, in mumbled, childlike voices:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“Who else is here?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And then they’ll rise like I did,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And cast a little stone,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And the ripples will reach others,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And together we’ll throw bigger stones</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>Until the ripples become waves</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And the waves will peak and roar</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And smash upon the granite cliffs</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>And loosen bigger stones…</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><a href="http://wakeupfreakout.org/film/tipping.html">
<br /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://wakeupfreakout.org/film/tipping.html">www.wakeupfreakout.org/film/tipping.html</a>
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<br /><o:p></o:p></p> W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-8631965196746708942008-09-06T22:03:00.003+01:002008-09-06T22:10:47.413+01:00Road Trip<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkDiMMCcbatjxGVEQodPvEjp7n5OLiQ3eRSYigOZVti5OQ3vglqpcdpKwXPn8i1xElBBcViw_0NVw514U8dFHgrLw7IrsGXoHt6SK7M-OSYu96PHk_YCOciBfkv1-f-hJCJ84OhxfciE/s1600-h/IMG_0617.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkDiMMCcbatjxGVEQodPvEjp7n5OLiQ3eRSYigOZVti5OQ3vglqpcdpKwXPn8i1xElBBcViw_0NVw514U8dFHgrLw7IrsGXoHt6SK7M-OSYu96PHk_YCOciBfkv1-f-hJCJ84OhxfciE/s320/IMG_0617.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243018653896615042" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The waitress plops a crafted wooden object down on our table. "I'm expecting a phone call," she says. "Will you watch it for me?" She smiles and reveals a set of seriously rotted bottom teeth.<br /><br />The thing she has put down consists of a couple of pieces of wood glued together - a half-round piece about 10 inches long, with two thin rounds glued at either end. Handwritten in marker on it are the words, "Hillbilly cell phone. Instructions: go to the top of the hill and holler. If nobody answers, holler again."<br /><br />She is waiting to see our reaction. Nicola and I laugh at her joke, but I feel slightly uncomfortable. We are having breakfast in a Waffle House, somewhere off the highway in Arkansas. The yellow sign advertising the Waffle House from the highway turned out to be about as big as the actual restaurant. Any lack of auspiciousness of the venue, however, was made up for by the lovely smiles and warm greetings from all the waitresses as we walked in. They are all wearing t-shirts that proudly announce "Arkansas".<br /><br />Is it just my insecurity, my self-consciousness of having more means and opportunity, that makes me imagine an edge in her voice, a challenge in her joke, "Go ahead, laugh at us hillbillies, you city slicker." I try extra hard to be friendly and appreciative to the Waffle House staff.<br /><br />"Where are you kids from?" she asks, as she deposits our plates of eggs.<br /><br />"New York," Nicola says. With a hint of apology?<br /><br />As we leave Waffle House, one of the other waitresses opens the door for me. "So you're from New York?" she says. "That's nice." She has none of the edge of the other waitress. She is looking at me with admiration and perhaps a little wistfulness.<br /><br />"It's ok," I say. "It very big, hectic. None of this nice nature you have down here," and I think what am I doing? "Its good, though," I add. "Lots of energy, lots going on."<br /><br />"Expensive up there, huh? What do you do for a living?"<br /><br />"I'm a graphic designer," I say.<br /><br />"Oh, there's money in that," she says instantly as if that explains everything.<br /><br />I am perplexed, never having thought of graphic design as something with money in it. "Not so much," I say. "I mean... I guess enough to get by." We smile at each other awkwardly.<br /><br />"Thanks so much for breakfast," I say.<br /><br />"Ok, have a good drive," she says.<br /><br />I drive away from Waffle House contemplating the possibility of not being able to drive away from Waffle House - the invisible barriers of money and class that keep us so well in our place in the world.katweetiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00329844604277089794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-26399532147091678112008-09-03T23:22:00.003+01:002008-09-03T23:24:44.136+01:00And Of These Islands I Am MadeI gather driftwood, dry tinder from the thicker bushes in the ruined garden, gorse from an overhanging cliff, and quickly light a fire. The children stand around and gripe, or ask dumb questions whose answers seem obvious. Some help me gather wood.<br />We are all damp, wet feet like colourless prunes in our boots, waterproofs heavy and pungent, wood smoke and sweat. I find an old oak fencepost and wedge it against a rock by the fire, hang a ten pint half full of water from it. Then I wander out.<br />“Where are you going?” One of them asks, head tilted backwards so that he can see me out of his hood.<br />“I’ll be back in a minute” I say, resting my hand on his head for a second. He doesn’t react. There is a tiredness in everything we do. Five days ago these kids were soft and mollycoddled, now they communicate like cowboys: grunt, shrug, squint, or better still- not at all.<br />Down onto the soft sand I walk,<br />and glance behind me only once,<br />and see with grim satisfaction<br />that our fire’s smoke is quickly mixed<br />with the island’s mist<br />and hangs<br />and disappears.<br /><br />I turn left and head anti-clockwise, keeping close to the rocks and overhanging bushes, soon I’m out of sight. ‘Better to move unseen until the tide turns’, I think, ‘until we’re cut off and safe.’<br />‘Safe from what? Am I so caught up in the game of trespassing and hiding that I actually believe it? Has it become true because they believe it so completely? It was certainly true last night and this morning, in the woods behind the dunes, where the farmer came patrolling with his shotgun. But it’s safe here, and I’m alone now. What does it matter if I’m seen?’<br />‘Perhaps I misinform myself, because this is my training too, my test. Hippy bootcamp. All the elements of army basic training minus the guns…’<br />I shrug and wander on.<br />‘Stop thinking now. Just enjoy the peace and space’.<br />I find a little cave beneath a clump of ivy, beside a rock pool, and dig a small hole in the muddy sand with my hands. Then I pull off layers of warm, wet clothes and squat over it, watching sand pipers and curlews on the far shore, a heron frozen on one leg, foot curled yellow and dripping, reflected in the water.<br />When I’m done I wash in the rock pool and refill the hole, drop a rock over the disturbed sand, brush my footprints away. Still in character, still hiding. Then I sit on a rock nearby and roll a small joint, take off my shoes before I light it, hold it in my lips as I tie the laces together, hang them around my neck, roll up waterproof trousers, soggy jeans. Then I light the joint and walk out onto the sand again.<br />The air is grey and moist, the sand ticks softly, bubbles, little streams fall from the rocks and roots of the island, seabirds call, a crab, a Twix wrapper, a smooth, black piece of wood, the pop of a seed as it burns, the slow calmness as the weed hits my mind.<br />Half way around the island, where the estuary cuts a deep channel, I climb back onto the rocks and sit a while . A mullet rises, then another. Bait fish flash in the brown water. In the distance the tide is creeping up the mud flats. My stomach grumbles, the ten pint must be boiling by now.<br />The mullet dart away as I stand and a blackbird cackles in the trees behind me. I walk with my arms outstretched, bare feet, wet rock, my boots bumping against my chest.<br />I round the last corner and see our footprints stretching across to the mainland, the mess where the kids played stuck in the mud, and follow them along the shore towards the ruined cottage. As I approach their voices rise up through the still air. I groan a little inside, these opportunities to be alone are few and far between, but I’m happy too, and as I turn inland and follow the weed-choked path up to the fire I see them caught in a ring of orange firelight, dirty, happy faces piling pasta onto their plates.<br />And suddenly I love them, or at least what they’re becoming. We use nature to strip them down, tiredness and exaggerated danger to open them up, and simple things- fire, food, songs, stories, a dry bed- to make them happy.<br />And in that way we show them that life is not a complex thing, it is survival, simple. It is getting the hard work done so you can play. It is going gently into the night without fear and,<br />rising in the morning light,<br />it is running over the soft sand<br />before the tide turns<br />and swallows us up again,<br />footprints,<br />fire and all.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-53454092774045803482008-09-03T23:22:00.001+01:002008-09-03T23:22:52.601+01:00Night Train (K. Howe)It is late.<br /><br />After dinner I bid farewell to my friend Molly and head toward the subway. Down Sixth Avenue to Spring Street, to the C stop. I dislike the C train. It comes infrequently and at this hour I could be waiting for it a good long while.<br /><br />As I approach the station however, I hear a rumble underground. It seems to be coming from the right direction, and changing in pitch and rhythm, slowing - not an express train that would pass through the station. This could be my C. I start running, thinking, I'll never make it, shit shit shit, I'll be waiting there forever if I don't make that train.<br /><br />Flap-flap-flap-flap! my flip flops slap the steps as I scramble down the stairs. I can see the open doors as I approach the gates, and think, "ok, goodbye, not gonna make this one."<br /><br />Miraculously however, the doors linger open. As I scramble through my purse for my ticket, I hear, "Do you have it?" I look up, relieved to find the conductor's window right opposite me. He is looking at me, waiting for me, as paw through the contents of my bag. Where the is my ticket? It is always in a certain pocket, and it is not there. "Do you have it?" he says, encouragingly. Where the fuck is my ticket?? credit cards, business cards, keys, CVS drugstore card. Gum wrappers, lint, lipsticks, post-it notes with a long to-do list. The clean stainless bars stand between me and the open doors of the subway train, not more that six feet away. Still frantically pawing through, I look up at him and him and shake my head.<br /><br />"Stand clear of the closing doors," he says through his mic to everybody on the train. "Do you have it?" he says through the window to me.<br /><br />Where the fuck is my goddamn metro card??? Time feels stuck in an impossible way. The doors of a New York Subway train gape open, ghostly light and air-conditioning rolling out, tired people with blank expressions inside. For an unexplained frozen moment, the forward motion of the universe seems to have gotten caught, and everything just hangs like that. The doors don't close and my metro card is nowhere to be found. It feels like an obscene amount of time.<br /><br />"I'm sorry I can't find it," I say to him, looking up and shaking my head. "Ok," he says. I continue to look, more systematic now, through all the pockets, leafing through notebooks and cards.<br /><br />The train should have gone, by now, the doors have chimed and closed. But I hear again, "Do you have it?" - one last time he asks. I shake my head sadly, he shakes his head resigned, and out of my peripheral vision I see the train start to pull away.<br /><br />In my purse, I finally see the magnetic strip of my metro card. In the wrong pocket. I snatch it out and hold it up. "I found it!" I yell. The train is pulling out slowly, and the conductor is still not more than 15 feet from me. He shakes his head. "Its too late," he says.<br /><br />As I the clear the gates the last of the train pulls out of the station, leaving it empty and echoing. It will be a while before another one comes. I feel like that is the kindest thing anybody has ever done for me.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-41912565364094176522008-09-03T23:19:00.000+01:002008-09-03T23:22:01.865+01:00Over It/I'm Over It Again (K. Howe)I just stole a roll of toilet paper from the coffee shop downstairs.<br />‘So this is where I'm at’, I think, ‘is it?’<br /><br />I've just moved to a new apartment. The movers dumped my boxes however they fell, all piled together in a jumble on the bedroom floor. No room for a bed to be put down. No idea where my tooth brush is. None of it feels like it means much right now. In fact I feel like throwing it all away - stuff is heavy.<br /><br />It gets worse: Stuff is heavy, but relationships seem light. So light I might have forgotten to pack them into this mess. My new roommate, who I have met only twice before today, feels like possibly the closest person to me. Perhaps slightly less close than the old roommates, who I only just met eight months ago, off Craig's List. Is this really where I'm at? My whole adult life of exploring, meeting, relating, sometimes connecting - where are any of those people? What about the good times, the shared jokes, the shared tears and philosophies? Right now, in this new place, all those ties seem no stronger than airy strands of dew long since evaporated by the summer sun. The sunny summer of 2008.<br />New York City.<br />The lightness of friends<br />weighs heavily.<br /><br />Unplanting my belongings from the shelves and drawers in which they've taken root seems also to uproot my psyche. The routine of a place, the ability to feel my way to the bathroom in the dark or reach for a coffee mug and know where it will be gives me a sense of context and belonging. Shallow perhaps, but comforting.<br />Standing in a new street now, as movers grunt and struggle ungently with boxes containing that mug and everything else I own - from the van to the curb, up two flights of narrow stairs, to an ungainly pile in the new bedroom - all the roots, and their comfort, have been pulled out. My main arteries, I know, are strong and will be fine. They’ll soon start to feel their way down into this new apartment/ground/place, but for the moment they are lying exposed in a heap, feeling the pain of all the little, furry capillary roots roughly broken away and left behind as they were extracted.<br /><br />More than anything, I am very aware of it all: I have moved a lot.<br /><br />I call my parents and appreciate the fact that they are were they should be. My father chats on about mathematics, about a seminar he's teaching.<br />“People generally over overestimate the importance of small digits.” He tells me.<br />And that seems like a metaphor for life.<br />I half-way tune him out as I cut open a few boxes and tentatively search for my toothbrush, but his voice on the other end of the airwaves brings me comfort.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-64452019067522960352008-09-03T23:18:00.000+01:002008-09-03T23:19:52.933+01:00Untitled (K. Howe)Funny. My therapist seems fond of saying to me, "You often want to explain how it works." She thinks that I want to explain away the feeling, I think. It might stop me from feeling the feeling, I think she thinks, this inclination of mine toward abstraction.<br /><br />I want to explain how it works ("it") because I feel like this will help me feel the feeling. I like having a map. If I know I am halfway up the mountain because it says so on the map, and I can tell how big the mountain is, and what lies to the left if I turn that way, and what lies straight up if I keep on persisting, then I am much more likely to say, "my what a gorgeously treacherous mountain this is!" The mountain becomes a tourist destination. Like a roller coaster at an amusement park. Magic Mountain.<br /><br />I resist these packaged emotions in the culture at large, of course. How trite, I think. Why not experience life, I say. Those people are missing the sublime. I wag my mental finger at them.<br /><br />And yet, when I find myself caught out on the exposed ragged face of my mountain inside, with thunder and lightening clapping all around, my appreciation for the sublime is no more useful than the soggy, disintegrated scraps of my attempted maps.<br /><br />We talked about it again recently - why she evades my desire to draw neat maps of my internal wilderness. "Its mainly because you always ask at the end of session," she said.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-32377853757056566052008-09-03T23:16:00.001+01:002008-09-03T23:18:24.343+01:00Rain Don't Never Stop, It Does."There's something special about you” Big Gruff says when I’ve finished wiping the wet wooden bench with a beer towel.<br />I grin and pull the other towel off my shoulder, lay it on the bench, sit down and sip my Guiness.<br />“You could have got one for the boys too” Ems says, squinting over this cigarette butt.<br />“I’m an ideas man”, I say, “I’ll show you the way, but I won’t hold your hand.”<br />For that bit of cheek I earn a paw to the side of the head. These are tough working men, men with big, calloused hands who build stone walls for a living. A friendly push is like most people’s right hook. I dodge most of it and stretch my legs out, sighing in pantomime comfort. The others lean on the low wall and watch me. Big Gruff ducks into the pub, the light and sound from inside loud as the door opens, quiet again. He comes back a moment later with four more beer towels, throws one to each of the other men. They sit back and arrange themselves on the bench, like dogs in the shade of a sunny afternoon, except it’s nearly ten and raining softly.<br />We’d smoked some of Gruff’s North African hash on the way down, walking through the woods in single file, ground ivy and tall oaks. As the high crept up on me I became suddenly aware of how many times we’d walked that path before, how boyish we were still in our confidence and overgrown pecking order. Boys with kids to feed and mortgages. Boys never the less.<br />It was strong, that hash, and we’re still stoned now. I guess that’s why we stayed out here, away from the noise and damp warmth of the bar, where we can smoke and watch the rain fall, orange in the street light.<br />“Who was that German guy who shook my hand when we got here?” I ask, pulling weed and Rizla out of my pocket. There is a pause, someone sighs, someone else spits. No one wants to explain because they think I should already know. They don’t approve of the years I’ve spent away.<br />“Teddy met him years ago”, Ems says eventually, “He’s a copper.”<br />The he settles into story telling mode, we settle into listening:<br />“Teddy and a few of the boys were driving to Berlin in Teddy’s old Ford Fiesta, remember that?”<br />The lads grunt and murmur appreciation.<br />“It was a real shit box. A fucking crap heap. They were doing ninety past a school bus on the autobahn. Someone had his arse pressed against the window, cos it was girls on the bus, see? Then this copper pops on his siren, he’s right behind them like, and pulls them over. He walks up to the car, which is full of god knows what and stinking of skunk, with his PPK out and starts his speech. But Teddy gives him the old ‘we’re good Welsh lads’ bit and eventually calms him down and invites him to stay with him in Wales.<br />Well. They got away with it- you know what Teddy was like- and forgot all about it, except in a few months this German copper and his wife turn up at Teddy’s house. Teddy opens the door like ‘who the fuck are these old farts?’, but they stayed and loved it and they’ve been back every year since. Even came back for the funeral and everything. Mad about Wales they are. He’s even got himself a dragon tattooed on his arm.”<br />The others nod and smile. I turn to look through the condensation smudged window at the German and his wife, chatting to some locals. The boys start talking about Teddy’s old Ford Fiesta, other cars they’ve known. I sit back and chuckle, lighting the joint I rolled while Ems was telling the story. ‘There’s something special about you lot’, I think, passing the joint to my left and shifting my already numb buttocks to a more comfortable position on the wet bench. ‘Something old and odd and utterly unique’.<br />And I smile again and sigh contentedly, this time for nobody’s benefit but my own, and the rain falls softly down on us, unheeded, orange in the street light.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-61669663180618150022008-09-03T23:13:00.001+01:002008-09-03T23:15:38.654+01:00This Is Not A Cry For HelpHigh. Flat on my belly on the edge. Looking down. Spit rolls off my tongue, forms a ball as it falls, swaying in the updraft, out of sight long before it hits the ground. Miles away. So far down it makes my muscles ache, my head throb. What evolutionary use can there be for this instinctive turning to jelly? This weakness in the knees? This swimming brain? Surely it would be better to have more control over myself, not less.<br /><br />I force myself up, hands and knees, blood metronomic behind my eyes. I want to cower, to cling, to shrink away, but instead I push up and kneel. It's almost completely silent here, no wind, other than a soft rising from the sun-baked valley below. No birds, no planes. A grasshopper now and then, and this droning throb, the thump and sloshing whine of blood inside.<br /> Up. Up and onto my feet. Steady. Straight.<br />-Now open your eyes. Hadn't noticed they were closed. Relax. If this was just a curb, six inches high… Don’t think, don’t enter the battle to justify this. Just be…<br /><br />And this is all there is and ever will be: Me and life and death. Here, or anywhere, always the same: A struggle against fear, an endless need to let go and accept that it’s all the same, curbs and cliffs, woods and trees, mountains and molehills. Almost impossible, almost always out of reach, that clarity, until I take one last deep breath, stretch my hands so that warm air dries the sweat upon my palms, between my fingers… and jump, face first, swan dive, arms outstretched, wind suddenly loud and getting louder, a smile on my face.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-40101857808213564762008-09-03T23:11:00.000+01:002008-09-03T23:13:00.423+01:00But Why?My friend's teenage son came to the house yesterday. He stood in the doorway with his mate. They both have floppy metro-sexual haircuts. His friend wasn't wearing any shoes. There were wet sock marks on the slate where he stood.<br />"We found a buzzard"<br />"We think it's dying"<br />"What do you want me to do about it?"<br />"Dunno... catch it?"<br /><br />On the way through the fields I berated the friend for wearing socks with no shoes. I was bare foot. I couldn't find any socks. I kept getting thorns in my feet. When the boys laughed their voice boxes made kind of booming sounds.<br />We found the buzzard where they'd left it. I wrapped it in an Emirates Airlines blanket and picked it up. It's beak was wide open and it's tongue was stuck out.<br />"Doesn't look too good does it?"<br />"Told you"<br />I put it in the box. It didn't look good in there either.<br />"What do you want me to do with it now?"<br />"Dunno... take it home"<br />"Yeah. We don't want it. We're camping"<br />I told them what I thought of them and left them in the field.<br />Back at the house my sister and her sons were picking peas.<br />"Look at this"<br />"What is it?"<br />"Hello uncle Willy"<br />"Hello Maxy"<br />"What is it?"<br />"It's a buzzard in a box"<br />"Why?"<br />Dad came over. He'd been clearing and resetting the mouse traps in the pea bed. He had a mouse by the tail.<br />"Try feeding it this"<br />We all crowded around the box, six heads looking down at the buzzard. He really didn't look happy. Dad dropped the mouse in. The buzzard just glared at us.<br />My sister went into the house and came back with a knife and a chopping board.<br />"Maybe it needs to have cut-up mouse"<br />She started cutting up the mouse. Her husband stopped the building work he'd been doing and walked over.<br />"Try skinning it"<br />Everyone crowded around the mouse. I got some water for the buzzard. Then I tried to feed it a bit of mouse. It still just glared.<br />"I'm going to put it in the shed"<br />"Put the blanket over the box"<br />"OK"<br /><br />That night I lifted the blanket and opened the box. The buzzard looked much more comfortable. His beak was closed and his tongue no longer stuck out. I closed the box again.<br /><br />This morning mum and I took the box into the field by the house. It was raining steadily. The sky was gray, black over the mountains. I opened the box and the buzzard stood up. It turned and glared at me again, then it stretched it's winds and flew off. It circled a couple of times, screaming. We shielded our eyes against the rain and watched it fly into the woods.<br />"That was good" I said to mum.<br />"Yeah" she said. Then we walked back to the house.W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-36389930679665110892008-09-03T23:01:00.001+01:002008-09-03T23:07:52.510+01:00This Ragged Day<p class="MsoNormal">It would be sensible to start slowly,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">to think first, and then write.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But it's grey out there</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and one of our sheep is missing</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and I have to find her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In acres of damp woodland,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">young bracken beneath the oaks</p> <p class="MsoNormal">raindrops on sagging spider's webs,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">tall grass in the paddocks, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">ravens in the ragged mist,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">drifting about the high places.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wet rock and the smell of dead leaves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It would be sensible to find a path </p> <p class="MsoNormal">among these rambling lumps of prose, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">to form foundations from which to grow,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">bones on which to hang flesh,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">skin, veins, branches, leaves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But sometimes a mountain can seem too high</p> <p class="MsoNormal">when you look at it form the fields by the sea.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes it's better to put your head down,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">watch your feet a while,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">clear your mind of mountain thoughts </p> <p class="MsoNormal">or bones</p> <p class="MsoNormal">or borrowed meat</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and plod</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and think of nothing structured.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Until a feeling comes,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">a feeling that you've come a little way,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and you can raise your head and look about</p> <p class="MsoNormal">at how far you've come,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and how far you have to go.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The cows are smaller than they were</p> <p class="MsoNormal">because you are</p> <p class="MsoNormal">further away</p> <p class="MsoNormal">but the mountain</p> <p class="MsoNormal">is closer</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and you know what you have to do,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">to get to where</p> <p class="MsoNormal">you want to go.</p>W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-399402768357343822.post-52904650444970246402008-09-03T18:35:00.000+01:002008-09-03T18:55:22.319+01:00The One About The Old Man Dancing<p class="MsoNormal">An old man stood on the cliff path, his arms outstretched, the wind in his teeth. He said to the froth below: "If I don't do it myself, someone else will just do it badly."<br />People passed him and were curious, some were annoyed that the old man was standing there like that; joggers, dog-walkers and sight seers.<br />When he jumped they gasped, and watched him flap and career, a rhythm of the waves, rushing and dancing like a man half his age.<br />When he was all cleaned up I passed the place where he stood, and wondered who the tattered, brown flowers were for, and when the rain would stop.</p>W.Grittenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03696566085422731605noreply@blogger.com0