“All the guys I meet are fucked up!” I whined

“Well, think about it, you are the epitome of normal, compared to you, everyone is fucked up!”

“Well yes, obviously. I’m totally normal!”

…

“Apart from your irrational fear of flying.”

“Ah yes, there is that.”

“Oooh, and your panic attacks.”

“Those too.”

“And your fear of commitment.”

“Yes. And I do rather like anchovies.”

“And you’re sarcastic on a level and frequency that goes way beyond normal.”

“You’re thinking about this too hard.”

“And you’re mean to ugly people.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are!”

“I am fucking not!”

“And you swear way too much and at inappropriate times.”

“Fuck you!”

“Haha.”

“Hehe.”

“You are normal…it’s just that opposites attract.”

“I love you, even though you’re fucking ugly”

“I love you too Freakgirl.”

Away’s not as good

I went away. I saw things, beautiful things.

I came back.

Being away was good. But, being back is better.

Back in Time

A walk around Katoomba brings back memories of another life, of primary-school friends, and sweaty hands and bus-sickness during a school excursion. Of rest-stops and an angry father, resentful of his progeny and their need to pee. Of turn-of-the-century style, federation charm and art deco glamour…The Savoy Cafe, The Paragon Cafe and Cafe Niagara.

And the bush pricks the memory…the heat and an unexpected thunderstorm deluge, car-windows left open and a car full of water, wet car-carpet stench, Eucalypt haze and cold little creeks, giant tree-ferns and scribbly gum.

Backward in time, forward in time; in some places, time, is irrelevant.

For a guilt-reduced afternoon

If you know a man is prone to crying, and you don’t like that,

Break up with him in public, over a good beer,

After 18 holes of golf (for which he has paid).

It quells the tear-show.

And the guilt you will feel will be much diminished.

As the butterflies flit behind him and the hot sun browns your skin.

Don’t get too comfortable

Leave me alone.

Stop! Don’t say a word.

I don’t give a toss that you:

think I’m beautiful;

think I have a great smile;

like my mind;

really enjoy my company;

<insert compliment here>.

Really, I don’t.

I want to be alone.

Go away.

I’m so over you, and you, and you, and you too!

Just go a-fucking-way.

See the sun, feel the sun

I wish you could walk with me past the gardens of Frangipani and Callistemon to the beach. I wish you could breathe in with me the salt-laden, sea-fresh air. I wish you could run with me along the beach, so your heart beats fast, and your sleep-slug blood turns ruby-red. I wish you could sit-wait with me on the cool sand for the sun to peek over the edge of my world. I wish you could feel the juxaposition of cool sand under your bare feet and heat-pulse of new-day sunshine on your face.

I really wish you could.

Good feeling

The bottlebrush, so tempting in the afternoon sun-glow. Lean out, just a little, over rail, on tiptoe, don’t look down, cold hand into sun, warm tingle; this is feeling.

Fingers, arm, toes, calves, back, reach-stretch. Eyes drop, momentarily, instant vertigo rush; this is feeling.

Palm touches sun-kissed leaves, they are soft-spiky and warm. Sun reddened stamens elude fingertips, sit back and drink in their colour; this is feeling.

Construction Time Again

I had a nectarine: sweet, juicy, ripe. I left in the fruit-bowl for too long and it rotted from the inside; I had to shake the disease.

I stopped eating fruit, took up vegetables, kumera, zucchini, carrot, after carrot. Vegetables are boring, vegetables are dull, a vegetable diet is unbalanced self-denial, you just can’t get enough.

I went shopping for an apple, or ten. I had simple, base needs, easy-to-fill: juicy, crisp, hard; a Jonathan, Delicious, Ambrosia…sweetest perfection. But, after sampling a few apples, I looked across the red-green fruit-mounds, and saw that oranges were in season; ooh, higher love.

For now, I live this way, this not-love, this strangelove; juice dripping off elbows and chin, happy but far from sated by agent orange, it’s just something to do. And it’s just a question of time before the question of lust becomes nothing.

I need to get the balance right, enforce a policy of truth, I have lost the meaning of love, I’ve got to find something…I think it’s called a heart.

RIP

Currently investigating a series of seemingly unrelated deaths in the fish world. Shebunkins, Comets, Danios, White Clouds; none have been spared. Coming on the tail of the recent “Catfish in the Filter” disaster of late 2007, the cold-blooded residents of LilliPilli Land are nervous, very nervous. The short residents perform head-counts with obsessive regularity; scanning tank/pot bottoms with well-trained, red-rimmed, ready-to-overflow-with-tears eyes.

And the short residents are a distrustful bunch, and have requested the recording of each disposal burial ceremony that they cannot attend due to prior commitments, lest I feed the dead to the cat resident…again.

Could not be fucked

Do you think I could be fucked bothering with the pot-of-gold when the end of the rainbow kissed the ground a mere couple of hundred meters from my abode? What need have I for gold?