(untitled)

So it is, the loner sits
at bottoms of empty stairs
waiting for someone to run
up or down
or have bottles broken to bits

Or maybe a gorgeous girl to come by
to pay for entry
at the loner's frown

while the bartender mixes and shakes his drinks
all to a tango red twirl

The magic box on level four

I recently handed in the last assignment of my first semester at Curtin University. It was quite a thrilling moment; walking up the stairs (the flight after the elevator that only goes to level three), stapling the cover sheet and pages together, and finally dropping it all into the little opening labelled ASSIGNMENT DROPBOX in the Media, Culture and Creative Arts offices. I felt accomplished, complete and fully deserving of a Twix. Which was when the sensation hit me; even though I could physically see the pile of papers inside the mail box that I know are collected at 4 pm every day, I still couldn't help but imagine what a magical thing that drop box might be. There is the obvious fact of it only being reached by means of stairs that follow an elevator only going to level three. So that's exhibit A. Very Isla de Muerta from Pirates of the Caribbean, if you ask me ("It's an island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is" - cue eerie, dark music). And then there's that feeling that once you drop your pages and allow them to hit the other pile below, they are somehow teleported to a different place. Like you let go of your words - the ones you were in control of just a moment ago - and send them flying out into the universe at rocket speed to some great abyss of the unknown. Images of offices filled with coffee-drinking, glass-wearing, somewhat insane professors all marking papers in a haste flashed across my mind. And that's when I began to realise that the only really magical thing about that drop box is that it gets filled by us crazy students in the first place.

Saturday Night Fever

Wake up, says the teacher
as the classroom is dismissed
by a new flow of insta-lows
to a life that don't exist

with the dreams and hookers and those strips
of cocaine gist
dies another failing year
that wouldn't seem to bare
the absolute rejection of the after-midnight list.


Wake up, says the doorman
as the final beats die out
to a freshly ground, street-like sound
pumping all about

in cities of dreams that crash down at dawn
and whither in the hands of those with clout -
waits the restless, spiked-as-fuck souls
all made up of doubt

Cause when a heart breaks, it don't break even.

The in between truly seems endless. When everything is too slow or too fast; too bitter or too sweet, and you're moving at a pace completely detached from what you thought was your life. You ask yourself the scary questions. Will I ever write again? Will it ever feel the same? Was that my shot? And you tear yourself apart, bleed the broken heart out and try to feel the emptiness at it slowly creeps up on you. The Script had it right; we don't break even. But the same goes for the mending. It comes in waves, like the beach you're too afraid to face because the last time you were on it, it was in that past life before everything broke and had to be picked up by your absolute and complete self. There are inbetweens in the in between, and sometimes your feelings will trick you and make you believe that it was over when it isn't. But eventually you realise that all you need is not love, but time. Time to let the pieces find each other again and become a brand new whole that now consists of one more experience you kinda wish you hadn't had, but kinda feel like you needed. And when your mind and heart begin to wrap themselves around that fact, things pick up. You opt for three jobs, two brand new and one old, but still new because you're approaching it from an entirely different perspective. You start smiling again, and laughing at the things that used to make you cry; you go to see sappy romantic movies such as Water For Elephants, and enjoy them on your own. The in between is still there, but it is not as strong or fierce as it used to be, and you start to see the end of what used to be a grave, horrid, long tunnel. It has become linear, instead of the repetitive cycle you pessimistically had begun to believe would never end, and it makes you feel good to know that even though the experience can never be forgotten, it can be left behind. So you start reading again, and cleaning the dishes after a meal, rather than leaving them for days. You delete the pictures you had hidden, but still saved, in the hope that you could one day take them out and see happiness, and it makes you feel good to do it. You begin to wake up feeling happy, and not incomplete at the empty other side of the bed. In fact, you place the pillow in the middle, so the whole thing is yours. And eventually, one day, you turn around while tending the bar to face a lovely young man who is smiling at you, without expectation or discontent or fear. Just a smile and piercing blue eyes, which lift you up for that one moment, while the amazing jazz music plays in the background and becomes the soundtrack to your own and finally deserved restoration.

Overweight

“Remember in the good old days, when you could take 30 kgs?” my friend Lindi says to me in an irritated voice after hearing the explanation for my pre-flight paranoia. I am 10 kgs overweight, and have very carefully packed my stuff together so that I will not get caught and have to go through another draining ninja move with my extensive excess luggage. Coming from Perth to Africa it had been a near-death experience. It seems, however, that human beings are always in the business of wanting more. Taking luggage, for example, my friend Lindi was right in her reminiscing about the insane amount of weight you could bring onto a plane ten or fifteen years back. But there was a weight limit back then, too. Which I’m sure was exceeded, like now. And eventually, like I tend to think I can always get away with a trivial six kilos, I’m sure the airlines stopped to think about how much they could get out of that exact craving in their passengers of wanting more. I can picture the board room meeting, where a brilliant apprentice says quietly to himself “I’d just make ‘em pay for it,” followed by the evolution of such an idea in the greedy CEO’s mind. And where does this leave me some years back? “You’re looking at about 200 dollars,” from an Irish woman who I have to explain the principle of electronic encoded visas in my passport to. That’s what I’m looking at. And still, it gets me thinking; do we always want more? And, much more to the point and so much more interesting; do we assume we can get away with it? These thoughts brought to me further philosophies about our relationship with good old Mother Earth. To me, the parallel is simple; like I tend to assume I can easily get away with an extra 10 kgs, I similarly tend to assume that the global exploitation of increasingly degrading natural resources will not affect my life. I can get away with my massive ecological footprint. I will always be able to throw my trash out into bins for someone to collect, and there will always be healthy salmon for me to purchase at the local Coles. But still, it gets me thinking. What if Mother Earth decides one day that she’ll make me pay for my overweight? I think I can say with fair certainty that the price won’t be in the form of an uncomfortable credit card bill in my mail box.

Peace of wind, peace of mind

It is truly amazing to be back. Although the fog created a two hour delay on my flight, I didn't care. T. I. A. My second home welcomes me with sunny days and howling winds; the good kind that don't scare you, but simply allows for a heightened appreciation of the air and its smells. The amazing colours let me breathe again, and spend unmeasured amounts of time on whatever I feel like. There are no trains to catch, and no assignments due. No "With or Without You" ringing in my ears and reminding me of that which I need to forget; here, among the dry mountains and lazy days, there is only peace of mind.

Being back in Africa has allowed me, in only two days, to remember what relaxation is. 2 pm is replaced by "the afternoon"; immediately by "just now". I can sit on a bench for the western concept of hours in an African minute and enjoy life to an extent I believe we are unable to elsewhere. In those places where it's always where to go, where to be, who to see, what to do. Hakuna matata they say in kiSwahili, and it does mean no worries for the rest of your days on the continent of calm. It therefore becomes ironic to me when westerners associate Africa with war and misery; a high pace to everything because of all the horrible events that pass by. True enough, that is one aspect of the colossus that is this beautiful continent. But enjoying life without time limits or obligations or expectations is truly and proudly African. I am proud to call this a second home and can do nothing but rejoice at the amazing peace the howling wind brings to my far too haunted mind when I sit in a lovely garden and surround myself with the essence of this wondrous place.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart/Sometimes they wither

The withered flowers still light up my pale, sick table. What good can possibly come from this pain and agony? Although he is gone, he is all around me, in every square centimetre of my apartment, as if he never left. The flowers look up at me, defeated like my own heart, asking for death and where the next batch is, to replace them. The next batch does not come. These dying roses are the last remnant of a ritual I fell in love with far too soon, far too quick, transfixed in that bliss of pathetic hope and naïve admiration. I look to the trash and try to master the strength of picking them up and throwing them out, along with his Madhatter 10/6 note, reminding me of that amazing St Pattys night when he told me of our future he had planned. I try to clean him out. I wash the table on which his beer spilt; I rip the sheets of my bed, surrounding myself in his smell unified with mine; I vacuum clean and suck his soul out of my own. But the flowers persist. Although they are dead now, their heartbeat is his, pumping through my apartment like fierce fireworks of poisoned sparks. I smell the roses, but just as us, their essence has departed this world, and entered another realm of reality, like his darkened one. I get out of bed and feel all my muscles screaming out in pain with the sickness. But I force myself. I pick up the shirt I wore that night we said goodbye and put it in with the rest of the laundry; my underwear from the bathroom where we shared our last shower. It is all thrown into a big, blue IKEA bag and placed by my door, waiting for the rain to stop outside so his essence can disappear into the washing machine drain and in the calm, soothing, comforting autumn wind. Ironic. I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall. Three weeks in ignorant bliss. The future ahead, without you around. I sit down in the large cathedral and pray you’ll be all right. Not to God. To the architects who brought us together, who placed me into this misery and pain, who are now my enemies, who posed me with an impossible puzzle I was forced to turn down. And still I beg them for your release. If I could only make that deal with them; I would give anything to have you back in my life, and must still persist in my conviction that you are gone, for now. “And remember that I will always love you. Bye my love – for now,” you wrote. The flowers shriek. “After Africa,” I tell them, “I’ll deal with you then”.