You’re Not The Only One

Peach from Peach, Sarah from He Loves Me Not, Ariel from From Fuck Up To Fab, Ms R from Woman of Experience and Vi from Village Secrets) are putting together a book for WARCHILD written by bloggers. They would like you to submit (to bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk) a written piece about something you’ve been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share. It can literally be about anything: your relationships, your past, a road not taken, being a parent, an illness or your regrets etc. They’ve called it “You’re Not The Only One” to reflect the comradery of blogging.

For the full details go to Peach’s post on the project.

In summary:

• You must be a blogger with a live blog.
• It must be about something you’ve been through, amusing or serious or any style you like.
• You can submit in your blogname and remain anonymous, or not, up to you.
• It can’t be something previously published outside the blogworld, but anything from your blog, or something entirely new, is fine.
• Try to keep below 1500 words.
• You must pimp the book on your site and buy it if you make a submission to be in it!DEADLINE IS 29th FEBRUARY 2008 for submissions.
  
• Send your submissions to bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk

The beetle of truth

You look deep into the eyes of a beetle, and you will see yourself reflected there. It will be the real you, the whole you, the so-help-me-god you. And, you may not like what you see, but then again, you just might. You could admire the no-holds-barred you, the I-don’t-give-a-fuck you, or the unforgettable you, that shows so clearly in those black-pool eyes. You may despise the wracked-with-guilt you, the indecisive you, the yes-your-arse-looks-big-in-that-you-stupid-fool you. You must understand that what you see is the true you, in that moment in time. It takes a strong person to hold the truth-gaze of the beetle. It takes a stronger one to brave that coleopteran-gaze twice.

An unnatural state

We picked our way down the dusty track to the weed-infested waters edge. Inhaling deeply the heat-enhanced, cloying fragrance of privet blooms, we made our way along the river. The gums of the remnant bush do not fool, the river is disturbed.

“Good place to dump a body.” I say, letting the thoughts spill uncensored from my mouth. I’ve always told him everything, why not this?

“You, are screwy!” he says with a laugh.

“Well, think about it, just off a couple of major roads, but quiet as, no witnesses here.”

“You, are fucked up.”

“Whatever…I’m right though.”

We continue our nature walk through the unnatural environment. We spy a water dragon and make a two minute fuss of seeing a native animal, only to discover as we head on, that hundreds of the prehistoric-like beasties inhabit the track.

Splashing draws our attention to the middle of the river. The afternoon sun penetrates the green-brown water and everywhere we see massive, grey carp, swimming lazily near the surface. An orange fish swims up to a group of its dull-skinned brothers, confirming them as the foreigners I know them to be.

‘They are so big you could shoot them,” I say nodding at the carp.

“Jesus Lilli, what goes on in your head?” he says in mock surprise.

“They,” I say with one eye closed, pointing my hand-gun at the carp, “are big, fishy, target practice. Bang, boom, bang!”

“You, are fucked up. But it would be fun,” he admits, and I knew he would, after all, he is from far north Queensland.

The privet has started to make my eyes itch, the unnatural state of the National Park has me on edge. We round a bend in the track, and spy long white noodle-like streaks in the water ahead. As we get closer, I realise it is a mass of dead and near-dead eels. Bodies entwined, the eels have congregated in the shallows to die en masse. I shiver as I survey the death scene.
I pull out my camera and snap a few shots of the eels. As I finish snapping, I notice him looking at me with a scrunched up face.

“What?” I question.

“Seriously, dead eels? You want photos, of dead eels?” he laughs and shakes his head.

“Yes.”

“You, are fucked up.”

And he is right. I am, totally, and completely, fucked up…but I’m doing my best to get by.

Endless attraction

In this hothouse of seemingly endless potential, there’s something potently alluring about you. I want to rip you from your vine, rub your petals to my florid cheek, to barely-there kiss you with these ruby lips, and wear you in my hair. I feel an irrestible urge to inhale your intoxicating scent deep into my body, so you exude from my pores.

Too soon you may wilt, and I may become restless. But, before you decay into meaning nothing, I will place your deteriorating form into the pages of The Big Book of My History, and store your beauty forever more on the second shelf from the top.

Because who knows what lies outside this field of vision, 25 degrees to the left, and the world is my oyster, again.

Social constructs

One of my snails keeps making a break from the fish tank. I find him each day in varying locations in the kitchen; floor, bench, sink. But mostly, he heads for the fruit bowl, where he probably imagines his round self cunningly camouflaged in the mound of apples and pears.

In the microcosm that is my fish tank, none of the other snails have made the vaguest attempt at escaping. And so I imagine this snail to be an eccentric, an oddball, a drop-out, who thumbs his pneumostome at tank-society, and heads whenever he can for somewhere he doesn’t have to conform.

Or maybe it’s something even more basic that drives him out out the tank.

“Snail, why do you leave the tank? You know it’s not safe out here, you might get hurt, remember what happened with the cat…”

“Dude, if you knew how oppressive it is in that tank, you’d totally understand. Those other guys, they bitch all day and all night, about you not creating a gender-balanced society, about the limited diet, about the lack of anything new. But do they do anything to change things? NO! Me, I’m doing something man. Besides, I can’t help it, it’s instinct dude, I mean, I’m no hermaphrodite you know.”

“…Shit, are you are telling me that there are no chick snails in the tank?”

“No. There are chicks, there’s Winona and Ruth, but dude, Winona and Ruth are in a same-sex relationship, not that you were to know that, I guess.”‘

“Fuck me!”

“Well, I would…”

“Eewww. Right, I guess a trip to the pet shop is in order, to pick-up some new chicky babes for the tank.”

“Can I come?”

“No, but you can think of me as your nayan.”

“Well, you didn’t choose too well last time, so you’ll pardon my scepticism regarding your ability in that area.”

“You wanty chicky babe?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’ll get her for you, as long as you promise not to leave the tank anymore.”

“Ohhhkaaaay. But what about some girls for Roger, Akemi, Deshi, Tupac and Malachi?”

“Of course…but wait, what about the other guys?”

“Marco and Nick? Oh you don’t need to worry about girls for those two, unless of course you find some girls called Amanda Love and Sofonda Cox,” winks the snail.

115

The breeze or attractions unknown kept the others at bay, and for two glorious minutes I was alone. For one minute and fifty five seconds, I stared at the empty seat across from me. It wasn’t the weathered, silvery grain of the timber seat that held my attention, it was its potential-laden emptiness. One hundred and fifteen seconds of sanguine anticipation, and five seconds to capture the memory of those moments in time where the possibilities were endless.