Thursday, July 27, 2006
6 June 1987
It's like a worn gravel; a white gravely dust, stretching on to where
the grass begins at the foot of the mound. The bank sweeps down
to a scribble of water plants, and it smells. That's what's left
of where I need to run. I'm focussing on my breath, and the pain trail
branching into my left and right lungs; a sharp strap edging along the hip.
I stop here and look back, and see figures bobbing out of the mirage.
Sweat stings my eyes. There's a promise here somewhere, it's waiting
in the distance. It's shaped like an oil stain and hides its scent
beneath the dried clay. I'm off again; I see people appear, screaming
left and right, with banners and cars out over the incline. I know
it will soon quieten down and there won't be much more to it: this vague
track that tastes like cement. I feel it through the hairs on my arms.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Alright Now
I'm feeling pretty wretched now. The garbage bins have rolled
down the street and the mail's jammed up in the box.
This morning I made an effort: I screwed the lid back on the sugar
before I went out for a run. But I was wobbling by the afternoon.
At three I convinced Sandra to a game of scrabble, but I
gave up as soon as she sat down at the coffee table.
Now I have to clean up the letters she threw across the room.
It's starting to be night time. And I still haven't switched on
the lounge room light. I could probably watch the television
or read a thick book. I've got lots of books: adventure, novels,
popular science. This morning I read about DNA on the toilet.
Despite all this, I got the shopping done. I finally bought a mug
to replace the big chipped one Mum gave me when I left home.
I'll mow the grass tomorrow, and I'll stand here at the same time
smelling the cut-grass. That'll be something. Whenever I hear that,
there's always someone laughing. It's that show on the TV next door.
I wonder what it would look like? To pile up all the shoes
I've ever owned in an empty depot down by the river. I would look
for that brown pair Mum bought me in primary school.
They were non-regulation so I tried to polish them black. Each day,
the brown leather would re-emerge like the shoes' true self.
It's a dream. They've demolished those old warehouses. The whole
wharf area has been re-developed. I thought about buying one
of those new split levels. But it's like a lot of things: you know,
an investment decision. One thing's certain. I'll check the use-by date
before stocking up on smoked mussels. I'll wait a few more minutes ...
I could get Bernie to massage my calves. He could use that new oil
I bought at the church markets. Lavender. That would stop the ache
that's making me nauseous. It's all connected up, I suppose. But it
could be the other way round. I'd better get back inside
and finish the painting. When I find out the true reasons, the causes,
the pattern of the whole, I'll start a fire. Damp or not.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Breathless
"We are unutterably wrong; we are unlovable and unworthy
of any care or attention, only deserving criticism
and negative reactions from others. There is no help for us ,
no possibility of improvement because of a sense
of unalterable deficiency lodged deep inside
the self. We are conspicuous in our weakness, quite transparent,
our badness visible for all to see. We compare ourselves
with others who seem immeasurably superior."
