Thursday, November 24, 2011

Malt (raw)

On Sunday night the stars are sometimes so bright I can't see them. It usually happens somewhere between my Sunday arvo fever and the late night grooves that aren't there; when I brush my hair hoping something will actually happen.

Something or anything - it doesn't matter. Le Carré said "the cat sat on the dog's mat" is the beginning of a story and I wondered if he's right. Maybe when I'm all written out and my mind no longer fulfils the pen's needs I will write about a cat. But that is for another day, when all the little pieces of glass have shattered into a million more and Jack Johnson has stopped telling that girl "don't let your dreams be dreams". Which is a beautiful sentiment in itself, but I'm not really worried. Jack Johnson is married anyway and poets like him don't grow on trees.

The bookshop was still lovely today though not magical like the one in Freo. It had shelves like before, filled with works that aren't mine, and a guy from uni with a funny tremble in his voice. Somehow, reading without purpose other than that of creativity is a harsh process. To notice the sentiments and the words and the brilliance, all with the eloquent stamp of "published". Where are my words? I refuse to accept that they are lost or out on some limb in my body that I am not aware of and won't be aware of again.

On the table next to mine sit invisible people who used to be tangible but somehow got lost inside my mind. The hat with a feather from South Africa, where the bartender is from, and an argument that was mine to play out. I wonder if they got left by choice or if the doorman kicked them out for being too tangible.

Perhaps they were never there and always existed as things only real in my wild and loose imagination. Or maybe I need to go treasure hunting to find them again, in between the laughter I'm pretty sure is going to out-compete mine.

The walls are black but the mirror sparkles and I'm not even halfway through my drink. Yet.

But wait! A sentiment, a whisper, like the dream that was Rome in Gladiator, of something that may be. It tingles within me and perhaps even when the stars are shining bright in the evening sky we can finally see, something might actually happen. On a Sunday, maybe. I sit still; tired alcohol mixes and the paint strokes are mere paint strokes and not waves... Here we go again.

There is a story that needs to be told and just like the chandelier in the mirror I know it's somewhere inside my mind. That place or which I don't know - no clue at all, and Mr. Pugh's voice rings in my ears: I mustn't stop writing because I'm good at it. I wonder if Mr. Pugh knew that the pen runs out of ink even in the good writer's mind; the bottle openers stop functioning and the cocktails mix themselves and there is nothing special about them anymore. It all becomes boring and dry like that tutor who tries to be the teacher but is really just the student. Nothing wrong with that, he's just being his best, which isn't much at all.

Perhaps the story is somewhere inside all the colours the light makes over my head reflecting on the cranberry red drink I have in front of me. It stands untouched, for the most part, as my eyes wander towards the bar I can't really see through the wall behind that blurry, liquid thing.

Pieces forgotten, pieces remembered

On a night of what I thought was unbearable heat and absolutely nothing else, I began to look through the pages full of words I hadn’t read for months. They were my own words; refreshing little tangents in an everyday that is ever-changing, ever-moving, ever-growing as life rolls along in this magical place I now call my home. Bob Marley was demanding his soul satisfied as I collected from my shelf of notebooks the Paolo Coelho yearly planner for 2011 - the one I was going to fill out until December 31st when 2012 would come to a beginning. I stopped completing the diary on April 14th, three days after my 20th birthday, for reasons not unknown, but still vague and now distant somehow. The pages had remained blank, and as I looked through the diary I could almost feel a sentiment of sorrow at those pieces of white that were somehow lost to me.

At the turn of every blank month, however, was a word. May: Creativity. June: Independence. July: Acknowledgement. August: Wisdom. September: Decency. October: Justice. When I came to the month I found myself in - six months of empty later - the word read understanding, and I came to realise that those past words were in themselves satisfactory enough to allow me the remembrance of half a year gone by. Opening up to new things and crafting a new life in May; coming to terms with pain and misery in June, but yet deciding to break free from the horrid circle of self-blame for a time so short and yet so significant that it still astounds me now. Feeling peaceful and happy in July and allowing for all those little things the universe sends you to come right along and hit you with all their might, while enjoying the beautiful company of someone from home. Growing up in August and September, and moving further and further towards a comfortable place of self respect and self appreciation; being free and independent and my own in October. It was amazing to me that although three quarters of a journal had remained unfilled, I could still piece together the amazing journey this year has come to be in the now completely magnificent life I lead. I am thankful for all those experiences that live only in my mind and soul, and feel gloriously excited for the ones I will soon have on the other side of the world in December, being the month of meaning.

It’s been a good year.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

2:30 am

Everything is unwound, unbound, untoned, unchained all over again.

Funny thing, that wall of scared and hate and petrified,

it bounces up

and down

Like a sick jellyfish wobbling where it should be standing


I think that maybe it’s all a matter of clouds, and perspective on the sky

- like that comment on the moon a few nights away -

whether the weather rains or suns on me, that jellyfish still keeps wobbling

But I suppose that’s better too, than the rock solid, diamond strong other something,

which used to be a cosmos at the inner pieces

of inside.

When it was all veins and beats and tired, worn-out muscle that strained and pulled and drained

and became a sort of essence to what I believed my core to be

Now, the mist seems to clear - terrifyingly bright the outside is - and smiles become truthful,
rather than


Tuesday, November 8, 2011


There comes a time (in fact, there comes many times when you're my age; this funny stage that so many people refer to as "growing up" or "becoming an adult") when you begin slowly and surely to realise that you are utterly and completely your own responsibility. And it's not just - in fact, it's not even close to just - the bills and the rent and the uni assignments and the dinner reservations and all that other obligation stuff society demands that you bite over like a big, fat cheeseburger with a big, fat smile. It's yourself. Your inner peace, the strength of your will, the stamina of your patience. Mahatma Gandhi said that happiness is when what you say, what you think, and what you do are in harmony - kinda like a happy person in a happy spirit in a happy body. I think it's never too early to realise that you deserve your own life. It is not something to be saved for when you are older and richer and have less things on your hands. If everything on your hands is just becoming things and not enjoyable moments of happiness, then they really and truly should not be there. They are but wasting moments in a life that you'll look at when you're what we call old (so, like 50) and either be satisfied with, at peace with and even proud of or regret, wonder and despair over. Sure, those are blacks and whites, but you get the picture. I'm also not saying that everything in life is absolutely fantastic; there are certainly hard times, and those can be tough and uncomfortable and I know I've wanted to run away from them many a time. What I am saying, though, is that at a certain point enough becomes enough and if you don't feel like reading the Penguin copy of Pride and Prejudice staring down at you from your bookshelf and would rather go to a shop and purchase a secondhand copy of Shadow of the Wind, then so be it. In fact, it should a moment of true enjoyment, because you are allowing yourself to do as you wish. To me, it's kind of like being a child again, when you only did and said what you felt like and let everything else hear otherwise should it be so. I'm liking this newfound excitement for what I feel and how I want to be. I know I want to write and read and travel and be a happy spirit in a happy body in a happy me. I know I don't want to waste time on people who drain me of energy or spend my time doing what is expected of me by people I don't even know, otherwise called society. Some would perhaps call this irresponsible. Others childish. I call it freedom.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

We pillage and plunder, we're really bad eggs....

Drink up me hearties, yoho. It's funny how no matter which goals you set for yourself, the city and beat of the rhythm has a way of taking you to a place where those ambitions don't matter, and it's just you, the night, and the music. Last night I visited Deville's Pad in Perth for the first time; a truly sinful place, full of temptation, gorgeous bartenders and 84-year old Big Jay McNeely's honkin' saxophone from the stage. I entered on the premise of being home by 11 pm (which I knew wouldn't happened) and got home at seven o'clock this morning, having met a whole bunch of interesting people, tasted snow crab for the first time, and randomly watched the Norwegian movie Troll Hunter at a friend's house in Maylands. It's amazing how responsibilities, commitments, obligations and all those other grown-up things vanish the minute you enter an interesting venue - and I suppose just that is the definition of a good club - and get lost in the moment. It is a truly disappearing art, that ability to be just where you are, when you are and who you are and enjoy it. I suppose a Sunday night is as good as any to be a little irresponsible, at least if you don't have a back to back shift waiting for you in the morning. Cause when you get home, shower and put on your morning clothes, all that magical stuff from last night disappears and you're just a regular, boring, full-of-obligations 20 year old girl who's on her way to work where the first customers of the day are bound to make some snidy comment about the keyboard going while the service stands completely still. It's worth it though. I'll take an exhausted day of rude customers for a night of amazing magic any time.