You
You cast a look my way
And extend your hand
I reach out to meet You
Meet you halfway
You begin to tell me the siginificance
Of each tattoo on your body
As we light
Each others cigarettes
We are passive participants, I say
And You laugh at my remark
I tell You
That You are beautiful
But all I am
In your eyes
Your beautiful eyes
Is funny
You jumped out of your seat
When Outkast played
And All you could say was
HEY YA!
And all you could do
Was shake it
You shook it like a polaroid picture
And your moves were cooler than cool
They were Ice Cold!
You changed the order
Of with chips and salad
To whips a lad
And we attack the blackboard menu
Until it read
Like toilet graffiti
We stand back to laugh
Laugh at our ingenuity
And You smile at me
At us
At our moment
Spellbound
Lately I’ve been finding myself more and more entertained by non-mainstream movies. I’m not exactly about to start joining extreme left-wing parties, hypocritical critic circles, or intellectual snobs, but I will continue to enjoy such movies and keep them on my agenda – especially after what I saw last night.
D and I watched Spellbound, a documentary following eight children and their goal to become the American National Spelling Bee Champion.
I’d like to note every thought the movie evoked from me but I’d rather not write a lengthy passage that turns itself into a bad movie review.
So, I’ll keep it short and sweet.
1. I was very impressed by the African-American girl with the chain smoking-mother. Looking at her surroundings and peers, it’s a miracle that she would have the drive and determination to do what she does.
2. I felt quite disturbed by the 12-year-old vegetarian and coffee addict.
3. I felt sorry for the Indian boy who was made to rehearse 8,000 words a day by his father. Although it is evident his father wants the best for him, tutoring in four languages can’t leave much time to do what most 12-year-old boys do. And paying one thousand people in India to pray for him to win is going beyond a joke.
4. The kid with a short attention span is fucking annoying. Think of the most annoying kid you’ve ever met. Then double that. Now you’re getting close.
I’d also like to note that I did not know how to spell half the words these kids went through. But that’s not really saying much, is it?
Ok - the words they had to spell are fucking hard.
Good Night.
Lately I’ve been finding myself more and more entertained by non-mainstream movies. I’m not exactly about to start joining extreme left-wing parties, hypocritical critic circles, or intellectual snobs, but I will continue to enjoy such movies and keep them on my agenda – especially after what I saw last night.
D and I watched Spellbound, a documentary following eight children and their goal to become the American National Spelling Bee Champion.
I’d like to note every thought the movie evoked from me but I’d rather not write a lengthy passage that turns itself into a bad movie review.
So, I’ll keep it short and sweet.
1. I was very impressed by the African-American girl with the chain smoking-mother. Looking at her surroundings and peers, it’s a miracle that she would have the drive and determination to do what she does.
2. I felt quite disturbed by the 12-year-old vegetarian and coffee addict.
3. I felt sorry for the Indian boy who was made to rehearse 8,000 words a day by his father. Although it is evident his father wants the best for him, tutoring in four languages can’t leave much time to do what most 12-year-old boys do. And paying one thousand people in India to pray for him to win is going beyond a joke.
4. The kid with a short attention span is fucking annoying. Think of the most annoying kid you’ve ever met. Then double that. Now you’re getting close.
I’d also like to note that I did not know how to spell half the words these kids went through. But that’s not really saying much, is it?
Ok - the words they had to spell are fucking hard.
Good Night.
Contrast
I was lost in a black and white daydream when I recognised a real face in the crowd.
There she was, all smiles and cheer with a bright blue backpack, jeans and a tank top, brushing my shoulder in the post-lunch march back to work before recollection set in. Her face, as always, was beaming, talking of grand holiday plans with friends and an overseas trip with her long-term boyfriend. She has just finished her last semester of uni, secured a job in a good company and has the day to herself to windowshop.
There I was, feigning a smile and cheer with a beige bag, dark suit and a tie, brushing past others in the post-lunch march back to work before recollection set in. My expression, as always, was somewhat lost, talking of vague holiday plans with friends and a cancelled overseas trip with my family. I mentioned that I was no longer at uni, have been jumping between interviews without success and have the day to worry about a backlog of work and a dental appointment.
After I'd set the tone, few words were spoken outside of sociable manners - vague statements and empty promises - and we soon parted. I walked towards the station with my head hung low, attempting to divert my attention from an aching tooth to the contrasting tiles that paved the path before me.
I was lost in a black and white daydream when I recognised a real face in the crowd.
There she was, all smiles and cheer with a bright blue backpack, jeans and a tank top, brushing my shoulder in the post-lunch march back to work before recollection set in. Her face, as always, was beaming, talking of grand holiday plans with friends and an overseas trip with her long-term boyfriend. She has just finished her last semester of uni, secured a job in a good company and has the day to herself to windowshop.
There I was, feigning a smile and cheer with a beige bag, dark suit and a tie, brushing past others in the post-lunch march back to work before recollection set in. My expression, as always, was somewhat lost, talking of vague holiday plans with friends and a cancelled overseas trip with my family. I mentioned that I was no longer at uni, have been jumping between interviews without success and have the day to worry about a backlog of work and a dental appointment.
After I'd set the tone, few words were spoken outside of sociable manners - vague statements and empty promises - and we soon parted. I walked towards the station with my head hung low, attempting to divert my attention from an aching tooth to the contrasting tiles that paved the path before me.
I am Man, Hear Me Roar
Whoa.
Mate, Saturday was un-fucking-believable. First, drove down to M's place and had a bit of a read and write with this fuckwit trying to take my parking spot. I sorted him out good. Got there and knocked back some stubbies and kicked his ass in chess.
Had some maccas on the way to Dominator's place and got stuck into some more booze in the backyard. Played some cards and the loser had to do some arm curls. Mate, should have seen me - I was fucking killing it.
Knocked back a couple more schooners then we went down to the local to watch a kickboxing competition. Me mate A had his first fight and he cleaned the guy. You should have seen him though - he was cut to the shithouse. Then there was this guy, going for the Australian championship, and KO'd the other bloke in less than 2 mins in the first round. It was fantastic.
Went back to D's place to knock back some more New's before I got home. God knows how I got home.
I awoke the next day to find a slight hangover lingering and the taste of alcohol plaguing my tongue. I looked around the room to find my clothes scattered on the floor, reeking of second-hand smoke and general pub odour.
God, I feel like a mess.
It's time to wake up and clean.
Whoa.
Mate, Saturday was un-fucking-believable. First, drove down to M's place and had a bit of a read and write with this fuckwit trying to take my parking spot. I sorted him out good. Got there and knocked back some stubbies and kicked his ass in chess.
Had some maccas on the way to Dominator's place and got stuck into some more booze in the backyard. Played some cards and the loser had to do some arm curls. Mate, should have seen me - I was fucking killing it.
Knocked back a couple more schooners then we went down to the local to watch a kickboxing competition. Me mate A had his first fight and he cleaned the guy. You should have seen him though - he was cut to the shithouse. Then there was this guy, going for the Australian championship, and KO'd the other bloke in less than 2 mins in the first round. It was fantastic.
Went back to D's place to knock back some more New's before I got home. God knows how I got home.
I awoke the next day to find a slight hangover lingering and the taste of alcohol plaguing my tongue. I looked around the room to find my clothes scattered on the floor, reeking of second-hand smoke and general pub odour.
God, I feel like a mess.
It's time to wake up and clean.
Like You
I saw you driving by today, down the same road I was traveling in.
I like your hair, it's just as I had remembered it - the sunset highlighting all its colours, spanning from black to the lightest shades of brown; your fringe following the lead of your sculpted jaw-line.
I was two cars in front of you, in the same lane - did you see me?
I like the profile of your face in concentration - your head held high with a regal presence, softly arched brows, and a sincere seriousness in your eyes facing the peak hour battle.
I tried to travel next to you, but I was rudely told that the right lane is only for overtaking and speeding motorists.
I like your indifferent smile - delicately fragile and balanced, ready to touch extremities with the next provoking moment. It speaks no truths or lies, choosing to promote a mystery.
I paid close attention to my rear view mirror in vain hope that you would notice me in the traffic.
I like your arms and hands as they were gently stretched out, controlling the restless wheel with a casual elegance. Their movements were precise and graceful.
But within a minute you were out of my sight.
I think I still like you.
I saw you driving by today, down the same road I was traveling in.
I like your hair, it's just as I had remembered it - the sunset highlighting all its colours, spanning from black to the lightest shades of brown; your fringe following the lead of your sculpted jaw-line.
I was two cars in front of you, in the same lane - did you see me?
I like the profile of your face in concentration - your head held high with a regal presence, softly arched brows, and a sincere seriousness in your eyes facing the peak hour battle.
I tried to travel next to you, but I was rudely told that the right lane is only for overtaking and speeding motorists.
I like your indifferent smile - delicately fragile and balanced, ready to touch extremities with the next provoking moment. It speaks no truths or lies, choosing to promote a mystery.
I paid close attention to my rear view mirror in vain hope that you would notice me in the traffic.
I like your arms and hands as they were gently stretched out, controlling the restless wheel with a casual elegance. Their movements were precise and graceful.
But within a minute you were out of my sight.
I think I still like you.
Hurting
A sharp pain is exercising its will on my heart with every contraction. My breath is coming through in fits, fighting for available air . My hands are shaking uncontrollably and fixed open - willing to receive any help on offer. My eyes are rapidly blinking, hoping to erase every moment of agony, much like an attempt to wake from the worst nightmare. My legs are weak, failing to hold my body, let alone thoughts weighing on my mind.
Our bodies weren't created to tolerate such hurt.
Perhaps the only solace is to lie down in defeat, in hope of pleasant dreams.
A sharp pain is exercising its will on my heart with every contraction. My breath is coming through in fits, fighting for available air . My hands are shaking uncontrollably and fixed open - willing to receive any help on offer. My eyes are rapidly blinking, hoping to erase every moment of agony, much like an attempt to wake from the worst nightmare. My legs are weak, failing to hold my body, let alone thoughts weighing on my mind.
Our bodies weren't created to tolerate such hurt.
Perhaps the only solace is to lie down in defeat, in hope of pleasant dreams.
Something Need Doing?
I hate to admit it, but getting paid to do no work is highly overrated.
God I feel so empty...
On second thoughts, it shouldn't be such a big shock.
Observe...
$ + No Work = Emptiness
Let:
-(No Work) = Work
-($) = No $
-(Emptiness) = Fulfillment
Therefore:
No $ + Work = Fulfillment
Wow. Logic proves that volunteer work is truly fulfilling.
And that I'm shit bored.
I hate to admit it, but getting paid to do no work is highly overrated.
God I feel so empty...
On second thoughts, it shouldn't be such a big shock.
Observe...
$ + No Work = Emptiness
Let:
-(No Work) = Work
-($) = No $
-(Emptiness) = Fulfillment
Therefore:
No $ + Work = Fulfillment
Wow. Logic proves that volunteer work is truly fulfilling.
And that I'm shit bored.
Immobile
It's been five days...
You begin to think of the worst case scenario, the best case scenario and every other in between. Your imagination begins to run loose, aware that self-control isn't present to divert any wrongdoing. You try to combat it by acting nonchalantly for an audience inside your head.
You're watching your mobile with eager anticipation. You carry it into the bathroom. You begin to notice the slightest movements of the signal bar. You're fixated to the flickering screen. You throw it quick glances whenever both hands are occupied. You stare at it with an outstretched arm and begin to call upon divine powers to be at your will.
You are resigned to facing the facts - you are at their mercy. They have the power to keep you in limbo for as long as they want. And until you hear from them, your life is on hold.
Please call...
It's been five days...
You begin to think of the worst case scenario, the best case scenario and every other in between. Your imagination begins to run loose, aware that self-control isn't present to divert any wrongdoing. You try to combat it by acting nonchalantly for an audience inside your head.
You're watching your mobile with eager anticipation. You carry it into the bathroom. You begin to notice the slightest movements of the signal bar. You're fixated to the flickering screen. You throw it quick glances whenever both hands are occupied. You stare at it with an outstretched arm and begin to call upon divine powers to be at your will.
You are resigned to facing the facts - you are at their mercy. They have the power to keep you in limbo for as long as they want. And until you hear from them, your life is on hold.
Please call...
Reunion - A Dialogue
Mario A: An inquisitive male who likes to end most of his sentences with a question mark.
Mario B: A pessimist who is defensive, stubborn and somewhat lost.
It is 12:12AM on a warm November night. The pair are in bed, unable to conjure dreams to guide them to sleep and so turn to each other for a not-so-significant exchange.
A:So, are you going to the reunion?
B:Probably not.
A:Why?
B:Well, I just don't have anything to say to these people. What the hell do I tell them - that I've done nothing in my life for the last five years?
A:Why do you care what they think?
B:I don't know. I don't care about their opinions of me, just how I view myself. I think I'd feel uncomfortable.
A:Why would you feel uncomfortable?
B:*Shrugs*
A:Why not just drop in?
B:There's no point.
A:Don't you want to catch up with some of these people?
B:If I did, I would've made an effort by now.
A:Just go. What have you got to lose?
B:Fifty-five dollars.
A:There must be a bigger issue than cash?
B:There probably is. Maybe I'm just not aware of it at the moment.
A:Bleh, fuck it then. What's our next topic?
B:I want to get a tattoo.
And so the pair continue on in similar fashion, knowing that with every spent moment, time allocated for sleep is being consumed.
Mario A: An inquisitive male who likes to end most of his sentences with a question mark.
Mario B: A pessimist who is defensive, stubborn and somewhat lost.
It is 12:12AM on a warm November night. The pair are in bed, unable to conjure dreams to guide them to sleep and so turn to each other for a not-so-significant exchange.
A:So, are you going to the reunion?
B:Probably not.
A:Why?
B:Well, I just don't have anything to say to these people. What the hell do I tell them - that I've done nothing in my life for the last five years?
A:Why do you care what they think?
B:I don't know. I don't care about their opinions of me, just how I view myself. I think I'd feel uncomfortable.
A:Why would you feel uncomfortable?
B:*Shrugs*
A:Why not just drop in?
B:There's no point.
A:Don't you want to catch up with some of these people?
B:If I did, I would've made an effort by now.
A:Just go. What have you got to lose?
B:Fifty-five dollars.
A:There must be a bigger issue than cash?
B:There probably is. Maybe I'm just not aware of it at the moment.
A:Bleh, fuck it then. What's our next topic?
B:I want to get a tattoo.
And so the pair continue on in similar fashion, knowing that with every spent moment, time allocated for sleep is being consumed.
A New Look
After a disastrous attempt to attach bells and whistles to this blog, I have taken a vow to never touch anything I have no knowledge about - in this case, HTML.
But on the flipside I managed to dig up a simple and clean template for the new look projectamor.
Thank you blogskins.
After a disastrous attempt to attach bells and whistles to this blog, I have taken a vow to never touch anything I have no knowledge about - in this case, HTML.
But on the flipside I managed to dig up a simple and clean template for the new look projectamor.
Thank you blogskins.
Idol Ideals
I am but an Australian Idol fool.
At first I thought it was the combination of reality TV and live music that had me home every Sunday and Monday night without fail, but with every show that passes I'm finding that the core of my obsession lies with the entire voting process.
I think Guy should win. D thinks Guy should win. The judges think Guy should win. And I'm sure that if my couch were an animate object with half a brain he would say that Guy should win.
We've all based our judgements on the belief that the winner of this competition will be the most musically gifted, unsigned singer in Australia. I just hope that every other viewer in this country votes accordingly. But, like always, I have my doubts.
Right now I'm placing an unhealthy amount of significance in this competition, turning it into a battle between ideals and reality.
I hope the ideal Idol wins.
I am but an Australian Idol fool.
At first I thought it was the combination of reality TV and live music that had me home every Sunday and Monday night without fail, but with every show that passes I'm finding that the core of my obsession lies with the entire voting process.
I think Guy should win. D thinks Guy should win. The judges think Guy should win. And I'm sure that if my couch were an animate object with half a brain he would say that Guy should win.
We've all based our judgements on the belief that the winner of this competition will be the most musically gifted, unsigned singer in Australia. I just hope that every other viewer in this country votes accordingly. But, like always, I have my doubts.
Right now I'm placing an unhealthy amount of significance in this competition, turning it into a battle between ideals and reality.
I hope the ideal Idol wins.
Requiem
I’d just like to take some time out to acknowledge the passing of my Nissan NX Coupe. She was a reliable car, fun at most times and, like most second-hand cars, flawed with character. She served me for 50,000km's and I’d like to think that during our time together I had treated her well.
Ten days ago she was stolen from her usual spot on the street. Three days later she was found by police, abandoned in a suburban park. Despite being told otherwise, the car I saw at the holding yard was not the same one I knew and loved. After having to identify all the damage that had been done to her, I collected my remaining items and walked to the bus stop with a heavy heart, and a suspicion that it would be the last time that I would see her.
She will be missed greatly by family, friends, and, most of all, by me.
I’d just like to take some time out to acknowledge the passing of my Nissan NX Coupe. She was a reliable car, fun at most times and, like most second-hand cars, flawed with character. She served me for 50,000km's and I’d like to think that during our time together I had treated her well.
Ten days ago she was stolen from her usual spot on the street. Three days later she was found by police, abandoned in a suburban park. Despite being told otherwise, the car I saw at the holding yard was not the same one I knew and loved. After having to identify all the damage that had been done to her, I collected my remaining items and walked to the bus stop with a heavy heart, and a suspicion that it would be the last time that I would see her.
She will be missed greatly by family, friends, and, most of all, by me.
Pending
Deep in my wardrobe lies a shoebox that is filled with memories and promise. It sits there like a known treasure, waiting to be overturned and rediscovered. It rests in shadows, dormant and hibernating with creased scraps of written hopes. They long for a chance to once again see daylight and return to significance. The shoebox sits alongside outdated clothing – too small to wear, yet too important to discard – and kitschy trinkets carrying new dust and old marks. There is also an album nearby, housing photos of a colourful life. Cheap plastic and time have since robbed each photo, leaving little outside of fingerprint marks, faded backgrounds and lost faces.
A bittersweet mixture of optimism and anxiety runs through me every time I revisit any of these items. And it always ends with me shelving them back. It’s as if a never-ending argument was again unearthed, fiercely fought over in a quick battle, and just as quickly patched up. The band-aid solution - leaving the past behind and hoping that time will erase it from memory.
But there are so many things I cannot yet let go of, let alone forget.
Are they anchors preventing me to proceed? Or the wind necessary to turn flat sheets into full sails?
Maybe one day the twelve men in my head will reach a verdict.
Deep in my wardrobe lies a shoebox that is filled with memories and promise. It sits there like a known treasure, waiting to be overturned and rediscovered. It rests in shadows, dormant and hibernating with creased scraps of written hopes. They long for a chance to once again see daylight and return to significance. The shoebox sits alongside outdated clothing – too small to wear, yet too important to discard – and kitschy trinkets carrying new dust and old marks. There is also an album nearby, housing photos of a colourful life. Cheap plastic and time have since robbed each photo, leaving little outside of fingerprint marks, faded backgrounds and lost faces.
A bittersweet mixture of optimism and anxiety runs through me every time I revisit any of these items. And it always ends with me shelving them back. It’s as if a never-ending argument was again unearthed, fiercely fought over in a quick battle, and just as quickly patched up. The band-aid solution - leaving the past behind and hoping that time will erase it from memory.
But there are so many things I cannot yet let go of, let alone forget.
Are they anchors preventing me to proceed? Or the wind necessary to turn flat sheets into full sails?
Maybe one day the twelve men in my head will reach a verdict.
Hunting
Open - Cover Letter.doc
Open - CV.doc
Cut. Paste. Edit. Attach. Send.
With every application mailed off, a piece of my pride is also attached. It's not that I'm too proud to work for anybody else, but there is just something degrading about being judged on pieces of paper and people you know.
It almost feels as if the cover letter - the highlights, the best of, the top ten - is the pimp that attracts with promises of satisfaction and value. And the resume is the whore that bares everything that could be possibly consumed by an employer.
Job hunting is probably the most demeaning and repetitive task one could perform.
Except for market research and data entry - oh those years of miserable employment I won't soon forget.
Cut. Paste. Edit. Attach. Send.
(Repeat til fade)
Open - Cover Letter.doc
Open - CV.doc
Cut. Paste. Edit. Attach. Send.
With every application mailed off, a piece of my pride is also attached. It's not that I'm too proud to work for anybody else, but there is just something degrading about being judged on pieces of paper and people you know.
It almost feels as if the cover letter - the highlights, the best of, the top ten - is the pimp that attracts with promises of satisfaction and value. And the resume is the whore that bares everything that could be possibly consumed by an employer.
Job hunting is probably the most demeaning and repetitive task one could perform.
Except for market research and data entry - oh those years of miserable employment I won't soon forget.
Cut. Paste. Edit. Attach. Send.
(Repeat til fade)
Waiting with Scattered Thoughts
I'm standing outside, searching the sky for inspiration. I've been doing this quite frequently for the past few months, ever since Mars decided to come closer to earth. I'm not really too sure what I'm looking for, what to expect and whether or not I'll achieve anything outside of catching the common flu.
I'm hiding behind the house, killing myself with cigarettes and fighting an endless war between heart and mind. Some nights I feel like my indecisiveness is cowardly and stupid; others, brave and rational. Tonight, like most, I will sit on the fence. Right now, I feel safer when my feet aren't on the ground - I don't know where they will take me and afraid of where they may or may not.
I'm clutching my mobile within my pocket, waiting for a call. It's so much easier talking truths to others than to yourself. Maybe one day I'll experience a dream scene, where God's name will appear on the caller ID. I will be enlightened, set free and be able to add his name on my contact list. I will send him a MMS - a photo of me with a smile, a tear and a thank you sign. Maybe he has called before, using a friend's phone.
I'm hiding behind the shadows, ashamed of what my parents would think if they saw what I was doing. It's sad to realise that I'll never be able to live up to great expectations, though I know that's a great gift in itself. Tonight I will deftly maneuver through the sensor lights, with guilt trailing behind in the dark. Perhaps one day I will experience serendipity, accidentally trigger the lights by my parents' balcony, exposing the path I must walk. When I walk, I want to see them smile like the day I was born.
I'm looking forward to the beginning of a dreamy sleep. I am calm and at one with myself whilst tangling with you in between the sheets. The playful struggle for bed territory and exchanged smiles are memories that will forever kiss me good night. Now, reality is blurred - I wish I could see your face wake next to mine so I know that my moments of happiness weren't just a dream.
I'm walking back home. I look up to the sky with eyes to the stars.
Look at the stars
Don't they remind you
Just how feeble
We are
I'm standing outside, searching the sky for inspiration. I've been doing this quite frequently for the past few months, ever since Mars decided to come closer to earth. I'm not really too sure what I'm looking for, what to expect and whether or not I'll achieve anything outside of catching the common flu.
I'm hiding behind the house, killing myself with cigarettes and fighting an endless war between heart and mind. Some nights I feel like my indecisiveness is cowardly and stupid; others, brave and rational. Tonight, like most, I will sit on the fence. Right now, I feel safer when my feet aren't on the ground - I don't know where they will take me and afraid of where they may or may not.
I'm clutching my mobile within my pocket, waiting for a call. It's so much easier talking truths to others than to yourself. Maybe one day I'll experience a dream scene, where God's name will appear on the caller ID. I will be enlightened, set free and be able to add his name on my contact list. I will send him a MMS - a photo of me with a smile, a tear and a thank you sign. Maybe he has called before, using a friend's phone.
I'm hiding behind the shadows, ashamed of what my parents would think if they saw what I was doing. It's sad to realise that I'll never be able to live up to great expectations, though I know that's a great gift in itself. Tonight I will deftly maneuver through the sensor lights, with guilt trailing behind in the dark. Perhaps one day I will experience serendipity, accidentally trigger the lights by my parents' balcony, exposing the path I must walk. When I walk, I want to see them smile like the day I was born.
I'm looking forward to the beginning of a dreamy sleep. I am calm and at one with myself whilst tangling with you in between the sheets. The playful struggle for bed territory and exchanged smiles are memories that will forever kiss me good night. Now, reality is blurred - I wish I could see your face wake next to mine so I know that my moments of happiness weren't just a dream.
I'm walking back home. I look up to the sky with eyes to the stars.
Look at the stars
Don't they remind you
Just how feeble
We are
Split Screen Sadness
All you need is love that'll last cause
We had a love but we still said goodbye
Now we're tired, battered fighters
And it stings when it's nobody's fault
Cause there's nothing to blame
At the drop of your name, it's only the air you took
And the breath you left
So maybe I'll sleep inside my coat and
Wait on the porch til you come back home, alright
I can't find the fight
So I'll check the weather wherever you are
Cause I wanna know if you can see the stars tonight
Might be my only right
We share the sadness
Split screen sadness
All you need is love that'll last cause
We had a love but we still said goodbye
Now we're tired, battered fighters
And it stings when it's nobody's fault
Cause there's nothing to blame
At the drop of your name, it's only the air you took
And the breath you left
So maybe I'll sleep inside my coat and
Wait on the porch til you come back home, alright
I can't find the fight
So I'll check the weather wherever you are
Cause I wanna know if you can see the stars tonight
Might be my only right
We share the sadness
Split screen sadness
Secret Agent
The room was bare. A frayed straw mat covered most of the dirt floor. A window with a patched fly screen allowed sunlight to enter. The pale blue walls were scarred and peeled, exposing a dark, rotten wood. Three children were on the mat, seated as if they were participants in a board meeting on a triangular table. They were communicating in a way only children can understand - a unique mix of body language and developing verbal skills. Their meeting was soon adjourned by their mother. Lunch was ready. Two of the kids hurried off, running out of the room, the third followed using his arms to walk - he had no legs.
This was a scene from a documentary on SBS last night. I wish I had paid more attention to the facts but I could only come away with two main points:
1. During the Vietnam War 20 million gallons of a chemical known as Agent Orange was used, affecting an estimated 10-15% of southern Vietnam. Since then, there has been a significant increase in a myriad of diseases that were once uncommon in the region.
2. Recently the American Government and its Medical Board agreed to offer compensation to American Vietnam War Veterans who suffered certain diseases attributed to exposure to Agent Orange and other herbicide.
Now, three things really piss me off about this:
1. There are probably more diseases caused by Agent Orange than the Government choose to recognise.
2. They only consider those exposed to the chemical. What about the Vietnamese people who came into contact with this stuff and have had to live with its contaminating effects on their environment for the past 30 years?
3. The American Government has not offered to compensate, fund studies for, or, even apologise to the Vietnamese. Without funding, the Vietnamese cannot carry out medical research to prove their right to compensation.
It's just so wrong. I wish I could do something about this, aside from getting worked up.
The room was bare. A frayed straw mat covered most of the dirt floor. A window with a patched fly screen allowed sunlight to enter. The pale blue walls were scarred and peeled, exposing a dark, rotten wood. Three children were on the mat, seated as if they were participants in a board meeting on a triangular table. They were communicating in a way only children can understand - a unique mix of body language and developing verbal skills. Their meeting was soon adjourned by their mother. Lunch was ready. Two of the kids hurried off, running out of the room, the third followed using his arms to walk - he had no legs.
This was a scene from a documentary on SBS last night. I wish I had paid more attention to the facts but I could only come away with two main points:
1. During the Vietnam War 20 million gallons of a chemical known as Agent Orange was used, affecting an estimated 10-15% of southern Vietnam. Since then, there has been a significant increase in a myriad of diseases that were once uncommon in the region.
2. Recently the American Government and its Medical Board agreed to offer compensation to American Vietnam War Veterans who suffered certain diseases attributed to exposure to Agent Orange and other herbicide.
Now, three things really piss me off about this:
1. There are probably more diseases caused by Agent Orange than the Government choose to recognise.
2. They only consider those exposed to the chemical. What about the Vietnamese people who came into contact with this stuff and have had to live with its contaminating effects on their environment for the past 30 years?
3. The American Government has not offered to compensate, fund studies for, or, even apologise to the Vietnamese. Without funding, the Vietnamese cannot carry out medical research to prove their right to compensation.
It's just so wrong. I wish I could do something about this, aside from getting worked up.
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