Stranger
Over the years I've dived deeper and deeper into an abyss. Like wreckage from a celebrated vessel sunk and lost at sea, I lie dormant and resting in pieces, awaiting to be remembered, rediscovered and resurrected.
Last Night I Went To, Oh Fuck It
I'm trying to recall last night - the horrid kareoke session, the bad coffee beforehand, being surrounded by strange Hongkies, and the issues I was having with my calling card (aptly named Y-Kall) - but Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby is playing.
STOP! Collaborate and listen...
I've long realised that resistance to old, catchy songs is futile.
So...
I have to get up, put on my parachute pants, start spray-painting ICE somewhere in this office and rap to my poor, poor heart's content.
I'm trying to recall last night - the horrid kareoke session, the bad coffee beforehand, being surrounded by strange Hongkies, and the issues I was having with my calling card (aptly named Y-Kall) - but Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby is playing.
STOP! Collaborate and listen...
I've long realised that resistance to old, catchy songs is futile.
So...
I have to get up, put on my parachute pants, start spray-painting ICE somewhere in this office and rap to my poor, poor heart's content.
Remember
It's nice of you to remember.
That 20C text message, or that $5 card, or that free greeting is just as priceless to me as you are.
And I don't care if it was a day early or a day late, or even on time - you remembered that something was going down around the end of August that had to do with me, and that's good enough.
Thanks.
It's nice of you to remember.
That 20C text message, or that $5 card, or that free greeting is just as priceless to me as you are.
And I don't care if it was a day early or a day late, or even on time - you remembered that something was going down around the end of August that had to do with me, and that's good enough.
Thanks.
What Me Worry?
My girlfriend is overseas. She is staying with her Aunt. Her Aunt has another overseas guest who has a camera phone. He has taken a photo of my girlfriend. And he is using this photo to adorn his phone. He has called her at 11:30PM from an adjacent room to 'play cards'. He has contacted her twice today. Apparently, he has a keen interest in the weather at different times of the day. He has asked for her number here in Australia.
I keep telling myself that it's nothing. She keeps telling me that it's nothing. But every male who has ever dated a female knows that when she says nothing, there is a very high probability that that nothing is very much a something.
Oh, and he's a FOB. And everybody knows that they can't be trusted.
So, dear reader, I beg you. For the sake of my sanity, please direct deposit $1500 into my bank account so I may fly overseas and kill someone.
My girlfriend is overseas. She is staying with her Aunt. Her Aunt has another overseas guest who has a camera phone. He has taken a photo of my girlfriend. And he is using this photo to adorn his phone. He has called her at 11:30PM from an adjacent room to 'play cards'. He has contacted her twice today. Apparently, he has a keen interest in the weather at different times of the day. He has asked for her number here in Australia.
I keep telling myself that it's nothing. She keeps telling me that it's nothing. But every male who has ever dated a female knows that when she says nothing, there is a very high probability that that nothing is very much a something.
Oh, and he's a FOB. And everybody knows that they can't be trusted.
So, dear reader, I beg you. For the sake of my sanity, please direct deposit $1500 into my bank account so I may fly overseas and kill someone.
Questions
It's five minutes to nine and I'm hiding behind my usual column. A sign beside me reads Do Not Smoke but I've long been ignoring signs, and this one is no different.
As the V started to take effect, I started my usual flow of random thoughts. They aren't burning questions or grand realisations - my mind is much too feeble for that - but the finnicky details that you notice when you have such a limited scope. I guess it's just a symptom that is pointing towards a bad case of mhasafuckeduplife. My pickings are so personal and small that I am only really qualified to converse with the likes of curious 4 year-olds or pedantic and bitter housewives. Wow. I may have just found proof that deep down, I am an immature bitch.
I really should submit some of these to the Big Questions column in the weekend paper, in hope that I may touch someone out there. Who knows, there could be someone else out there nodding their head with their morning coffee thinking - Oh yeah, I too have wondered what the deal is with those Gideons and the Hotel industry. Or, better yet, they may even reply with a lame attempt at answering with humour. The possibilities are endless.
But back to more pressing matters - I'm late for work once again.
It's five minutes to nine and I'm hiding behind my usual column. A sign beside me reads Do Not Smoke but I've long been ignoring signs, and this one is no different.
As the V started to take effect, I started my usual flow of random thoughts. They aren't burning questions or grand realisations - my mind is much too feeble for that - but the finnicky details that you notice when you have such a limited scope. I guess it's just a symptom that is pointing towards a bad case of mhasafuckeduplife. My pickings are so personal and small that I am only really qualified to converse with the likes of curious 4 year-olds or pedantic and bitter housewives. Wow. I may have just found proof that deep down, I am an immature bitch.
I really should submit some of these to the Big Questions column in the weekend paper, in hope that I may touch someone out there. Who knows, there could be someone else out there nodding their head with their morning coffee thinking - Oh yeah, I too have wondered what the deal is with those Gideons and the Hotel industry. Or, better yet, they may even reply with a lame attempt at answering with humour. The possibilities are endless.
But back to more pressing matters - I'm late for work once again.
Stream of Unconsciousness
I park myself in front of a TV that doesn't work, in a chair that M found in an alleyway. The white plastic and blue cushion makes me feel like I've travelled through time - I never imagined it to be this easy! With eyes closed, I run my hands down the curved sides and there is a chance I may be in 2069, but, on second thought, I'm more likely to be in 1969.
I'm convinced I can feel the surrounds of my eyes turn into a dull, black shade as I watch the clock tick, tick, tick my evening away. I light a cigarette and reach for a bottle empty of beer, but full of butts and ash. Hurrah, another makeshift ashtray is born. Sooner or later, such bottles will control the room; they've already taken strategic posts and are multiplying so much quicker than we can clean them. Fuck it. I inhale a cocktail of toxins, exhale a cloud of smoke and breathe a sigh of relief.
I slowly start to drift away, and start to write. Years of developing typewriting skills has seen my already poor penmanship sink to even lower standards. But in this instance I think it is quite appropriate - messy writing for messy thoughts.
Solace in lyrics
But they belong to someone else
Do they serve any purpose
Other than to remind me of how I feel
Or felt
With a one track play-list
That you had wished to be rid of
But it will now linger
Like a catchy chorus
Another sucker, hooked
I was once told that we
Develop tunnel vision
To find ourselves
Oblivious to grand issues
That we fear bigger questions
Than those asked of us in routine
And that it is easier to focus on a goal
And set target for one aim
To narrow our vision
And escape the vast horizon
There are things left
Left unresolved
Like a chessboard
Neglected in mid-battle
And I'm too afraid
To face the inevitable carnage
That will ensue
Once I pick up the pieces
I don't watch movies much
Anymore
Because my train of thought
Has abandoned me
Like minutes passing through my fingers
Gone
And now they are just moving pictures
Difficult
And too hard to read.
I park myself in front of a TV that doesn't work, in a chair that M found in an alleyway. The white plastic and blue cushion makes me feel like I've travelled through time - I never imagined it to be this easy! With eyes closed, I run my hands down the curved sides and there is a chance I may be in 2069, but, on second thought, I'm more likely to be in 1969.
I'm convinced I can feel the surrounds of my eyes turn into a dull, black shade as I watch the clock tick, tick, tick my evening away. I light a cigarette and reach for a bottle empty of beer, but full of butts and ash. Hurrah, another makeshift ashtray is born. Sooner or later, such bottles will control the room; they've already taken strategic posts and are multiplying so much quicker than we can clean them. Fuck it. I inhale a cocktail of toxins, exhale a cloud of smoke and breathe a sigh of relief.
I slowly start to drift away, and start to write. Years of developing typewriting skills has seen my already poor penmanship sink to even lower standards. But in this instance I think it is quite appropriate - messy writing for messy thoughts.
Solace in lyrics
But they belong to someone else
Do they serve any purpose
Other than to remind me of how I feel
Or felt
With a one track play-list
That you had wished to be rid of
But it will now linger
Like a catchy chorus
Another sucker, hooked
I was once told that we
Develop tunnel vision
To find ourselves
Oblivious to grand issues
That we fear bigger questions
Than those asked of us in routine
And that it is easier to focus on a goal
And set target for one aim
To narrow our vision
And escape the vast horizon
There are things left
Left unresolved
Like a chessboard
Neglected in mid-battle
And I'm too afraid
To face the inevitable carnage
That will ensue
Once I pick up the pieces
I don't watch movies much
Anymore
Because my train of thought
Has abandoned me
Like minutes passing through my fingers
Gone
And now they are just moving pictures
Difficult
And too hard to read.
Things Fall Apart
In my room, cracks are appearing on the paint and though they are concealed, knowing that they are there is enough to irk me.
The central locking mechanism in my car is once again failing, and I'm left with a door that cannot be locked, in a suburb that cannot be completely trusted.
I slip my feet into my favourite pair of sneakers with ease as I watch it fray apart and tear at the sides; walking down the street, the strings are trailing behind the heel as if the pair had just been married.
In my room, cracks are appearing on the paint and though they are concealed, knowing that they are there is enough to irk me.
The central locking mechanism in my car is once again failing, and I'm left with a door that cannot be locked, in a suburb that cannot be completely trusted.
I slip my feet into my favourite pair of sneakers with ease as I watch it fray apart and tear at the sides; walking down the street, the strings are trailing behind the heel as if the pair had just been married.
Circles
It's been a while since I'd talked to L, and so I was quite happy to see her last night. Although at times our conversation fell short, it never produced an awkward silence. Our silent moments were, and have somehow always been, different. Ours were a calm break - welcome and timely.
Between cigarettes we talked our usual talk - our concerns for mutual friends, our dreams to travel, the uncertainty of our future, the uncertainty of our past and the hate/necessity relationship we have with our work. She spoke of a ballroom dancer who has a pet emu, I spoke of the complexity of something so simple as a Job Title (what the hell does a Billing Analyst do?), she spoke of fine dining and beachside apartments, I spoke of my overwhelming feeling of underachievement and regret, she quickly cut me off and brushed aside such a stupid notion. It wasn't a callous attempt to avoid a downhill and one-way road - it felt like a conviction of certainty that she had some sort of faith in me, and it was not worth spending time double-checking something so true. Well, that's how I took it anyway. We talked of Lost In Translation, and wishing we were one of two lost souls that find each other.
We parted soon enough and I made my way down to Soup Plus, and although I was feeling more bluesy than jazzy, it was the closest thing I could get to a cheap venue with good live music that would suit my mood. I felt as if I was on the hunt for a song to put in my soundtrack for the night and I dreamed a mute, vivid picture in my head of a camera panning upwards and outwards as I walked down a windy and empty Pitt Street. A sense of de ja vu passed through me, along with the winter wind and the lone and distinguished voice of an alto sax.
It's been a while since I'd talked to L, and so I was quite happy to see her last night. Although at times our conversation fell short, it never produced an awkward silence. Our silent moments were, and have somehow always been, different. Ours were a calm break - welcome and timely.
Between cigarettes we talked our usual talk - our concerns for mutual friends, our dreams to travel, the uncertainty of our future, the uncertainty of our past and the hate/necessity relationship we have with our work. She spoke of a ballroom dancer who has a pet emu, I spoke of the complexity of something so simple as a Job Title (what the hell does a Billing Analyst do?), she spoke of fine dining and beachside apartments, I spoke of my overwhelming feeling of underachievement and regret, she quickly cut me off and brushed aside such a stupid notion. It wasn't a callous attempt to avoid a downhill and one-way road - it felt like a conviction of certainty that she had some sort of faith in me, and it was not worth spending time double-checking something so true. Well, that's how I took it anyway. We talked of Lost In Translation, and wishing we were one of two lost souls that find each other.
We parted soon enough and I made my way down to Soup Plus, and although I was feeling more bluesy than jazzy, it was the closest thing I could get to a cheap venue with good live music that would suit my mood. I felt as if I was on the hunt for a song to put in my soundtrack for the night and I dreamed a mute, vivid picture in my head of a camera panning upwards and outwards as I walked down a windy and empty Pitt Street. A sense of de ja vu passed through me, along with the winter wind and the lone and distinguished voice of an alto sax.
Down
It's rough when the world kicks you down. It's even worse when they kick you while you're down. And like a feuding Triad member who crossed into the wrong side of Chinatown, I feel like I'm being kicked at by at least ten different pairs of the latest shoes from Addidas to Windsor Smith. It doesn't get any lower than that.
In the end there is no difference - it doesn't matter who dealt them or where they are dealt to, or even why they were dealt - they are unwelcome and they hurt.
It's rough when the world kicks you down. It's even worse when they kick you while you're down. And like a feuding Triad member who crossed into the wrong side of Chinatown, I feel like I'm being kicked at by at least ten different pairs of the latest shoes from Addidas to Windsor Smith. It doesn't get any lower than that.
In the end there is no difference - it doesn't matter who dealt them or where they are dealt to, or even why they were dealt - they are unwelcome and they hurt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)