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He lives in a stark office. All modern lines and neatly displayed books. He inspires that stark minimalism in his students. Greyscale prints line the walls, obscure artists and quirky points of view. Various authors line the walls, the greats, the obscure, the trendy, the popular. Two comfy chairs sit either side of a kitsch table where his plain black tea pot and cups rest. He strives to have a personal relationship with his students, knowing the value of networking and friendly relations with the up and comers. Knowing the fickleness of his profession. Knowing the value of his work.
Anger is cleansing. Like De La Rocha said, its a gift. Its what forces us to act, albeit not in appropriate ways. But the feminist adage 'if you aren't outraged, you aren't paying attention' is so apt. Its affect is almost instantaneous sometimes, your blood pressure shoots up, maybe your hands shake, you voice might tremble, you mind goes into overdrive. Sometimes its a cold anger though. One felt with cutting words and insults worthy of Shakespeare. Sometimes though its just useless. Its just boring and nothing will come of it. Except your own physiological response. Anger manifests strange ways.
Inspiration is a multifaceted thing, intangible, immeasurable, fleeting. Technicolour dream muses vie with professorial induction. Gentle massages of talent compete with the lightning struck bursts of art. Sometimes it comes on almost violent, the need to create, to write and paint and draw the images in your head. Sometimes the image builds up like an ark in your head, filled with two by two ideas. Other times there isn't anything there no matter how you search. Sometimes it isn't even art you aspire to, its something more, something better, something far more vast. It's the inspiration to be better, more.
So much for my vaunted intelligence. I just realised this thing is about a day behind me, seeing that I'm Australia. I'm an Antipodean. From Ultima Thule. Meridies Cruscian. The land of opportunity. Terra Australis. Terror Australis. The arse end of the world. Whatever you want to call it. I'm an odd one out though. Most of my fellow antipodeans believe in sport. Not barrack for, not love, but BELIEVE. Scary stuff. There are other things too, like our sense of fairness, work ethic, endurance, mateship, tall poppy syndrome, mistrust of authority. But sport is seen as this great tradition.
pretension, depression, pain, desire - all multifaceted jewels of personality. More of my own pretension and elitism coming out, but people who bleat on how good Bret Eaton Ellis is, and Eminem, and various other white, male, misogynist losers always earn my scorn. If you're gonna get pop culture to light your way, may as well be a Britney-queen people. Because at least she doesn't pretend the patriarchal structures she embodies are new and scary. They're just old and scary. Damn losers who use literature to prop up their own deluded fantasies of uniqueness and grandeur. Like they're not conforming.
Everyone has their shining time. When all the neurons fire straight and true. Where everything is silver shining blue in the background of thought. Mine was the early morning, the crisp clean, expectant air filling me with potential. By eleven I was spent, a loose cannon of mediocre achievements. Its changed now, my shining time is late at night. My pen scratching frantically in the dim light of a lamp. The electric blue flashes in a backdrop of stars and sleeping beauties. But my body hasn't adjusted so my fired up neurons fight with exhausted muscles. My body usually wins.
The sun burns. Not fierce yet, just insistent upon my skin. Warmth spreads from the stripe of light on my skin. The stipe burns but looks so pretty. And the warmth that spreads is so pleasant. Comforting. Noises shriek and fade in the background as the burning intensifies. I sit and endure, revelling. Something moves and the stripe widens to a square patch covering the smooth brittle skin of my shoulder. Warmth spreads further and the burning is eased only to worsen the longer I sit stilled in the light. My skin begins to turn a light shade of pink.
Your words wash over me like a dirty stream of foul water. I can't shake off the oiliness, the stench of your conversation. I sit quiet and still, not moving, murmuring occasional pithy phrases to satisfy your vile questions and in my head I build up walls. To lock you out, to lock you and your kind out, with your tired old phrases masking unmentionable terror. Axioms of idiocy supporting your futile masks. I know the truth, I know what you hide, I know what you hide from. But I sit still and quiet, allowing your idiocy to wash over.
My skin rests against yours. Dew wet with the sweat of the day. I look at the way your necklace curves around your neck and I want to take a photograph, paint the absolute perfection of skin and metal with light. I notice the downy hair, blonde and fine, that covers you all over. I notice it begin to prickle when my breath skims over your skin. I turn my face slightly so my lips rest against your skin now. Soft and sweet smelling. Your hands runs firm and smooth up the length of my back, drawing shudders through me.
She leant her cheek against her glove-clad hand and sighed. The material was rough against her soft cheek. She imagined someone watching her, watching her perfectly framed elfin face, resting lightly against one gloved-hand. Her thoughts galloped ahead like a small hyperactive child in well worn grooves. Someone would see this perfect countenance and fall heavily for her, somewhere dark inside the recesses of her brain she rebelled, somewhere the rebellion was won and she left. Not here though. Here the captive stayed lost and broken in the dark, the rebellion lost to a perfectly countenance and a gloved hand.
I watch your clumsy logic spear holes in truth and reason. Your thoughts blunder through the room like a drunken uncle at christmas who laughs a little too loud and whose jokes always fall flat. I avert my eyes from this shame of association. Not just you but all those who follow, who hang breathless on every proclamation. You are so caught up in your theories, your idea, in what you know and what you don't that there is no room for what others know. No room for what others think. Eventually you will fall, and I will feel sorry.
I can feel the change move upon me. I try to hold it back as long as possible, through this interminable day, through meeting after meeting, class after class. I can feel it grow and change within me, my muscles writhe in pain as I hold everything tense. I can't even let go in my office. I reach home with a scream of frustration and pain as it washes over me. The change. The pain and blood and hurt and anger and sadness and connection and growth and lost opportunities. The pain mostly. Centred within me, bursting outwards without light.
Peter wanders into the bathroom. I've begun to ignore his wanderings. At first it would startle me, send me into panics when he'd walk in while I bathed, or used the toilet. But now I know, now I understand and I ignore him as I continue about my toilette. I lift my leg over the metal basis and lower myself gently into the bath as is stares, then begins sketching. I hear the pencil scratch over the surface over the paper, his hand moving in wide sweeps, then scribbling little movements. I know he can create art out of me.
When no-one is watching I slink like a cat. I twist and I am lithe, turning silver-sly in the morning light. Strength pours from me like the pheromones of my desire. I can lift the world I can crush your skull. I am everything a nothing in the pocket of nothingness. I am all I am none I am a goddess for that moment. When no-one is watching I am more than I can ever be, could ever hope to be for you. I prowl and slink through the room, padding silent and deadly and beautiful. Until I remember myself.
butch femme fuck this drag of labelled shitkickers from the wrong side of the tracks in their ironic fashions and designer second hand fashion wear and statements like it somehow matter if is vintage new vintage styled real vintage old skool as if it matters when you started wearing the latest fashions as if it matters if you do or don't or die or won't its all worm food and fertiliser in the end its all posing and style and empty statements of how cool retro trendy ironic iconic fashionable vintage boi grrl pre-worn pre-loved pre-decided directed rapt rebellion. Whatever.
Its clichéd but sometimes all it needs is one word. Usually that gets applied to some kind little old lady saving a put-upon downtrodden young woman from certain doom. Usually. In real life its different though, its some fuck whining about how he's being ass-raped by the movie ticket prices, or some idiot lambasting her fat ass half the size of your own. Its those words that bring you down, those words that fuck you up and bring everything to a halt for that moment. One word can do everything. One word can make you into nothing but your emotions.
His face affected that patronising sneer she knew so well. Her ideas dismissed again by his eminence and intelligence. He was waiting for her cowed reply she knew. He waited. Somewhere the patronising look dropped as her fist jerked out and caught him in the jaw. Somewhere her rage found a momentary release in the blood dripped from his busted lip. Somewhere her own disdain mirrored and the engulfed his own. Somewhere he wasn't looking at her with that sneer. That somewhere wasn't here. Here he still stood, confused now by her silence and the peculiar look on her face.
Her sword tip trailed along the ground in a lazy line. The morning sun was weak and cool but sweat still steamed from her shoulders. Her nondescript brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun with a strip of cloth wound about her forehead. Her eyes were wide open taking in every detail, but reflecting nothing but alertness. She slowly bought the sword upwards until it pointed at her opponent. Their swords clashed in a flurry of movement but even so when she sprang back she looked as poised and quiet as usual. Suddenly she threw the sword away.
The world sinks away. Or is it me? I can't tell anymore. I've lost my way I've lost my sense of self in this sea of sensory depth. I come crashing through again, tasting my own sweat, knowing somehow that its coloured blue and salt white. I rock against the ground. I don't know why I'm down here though. I still rock against the cold concrete. My hair is wet, sticky plastered on my forehead in thin strips. I'm scared now I don't know where I am or why. I know its just the high I know I'm coming down.
Loud obnoxious clamouring voices batter me and I almost turn around and leave. Faces contorted in the effort to be heard above the boring guitar riffs. The smell of beer and cheap bourbon overwhelm your perfume. You stand out in the crowd, pale white skin, dark hair, green eyes, you sway through the crowd like a cat in grass. I watch men watching you. I watch you watch the men, and me watching the men. I watch your eyes glint, your head tilt, your hair flick in these practiced rituals. For one second your rose-red mouth curves into a sneer.
The fairies come out in the morning. Teensy little gold and white fairies. I saw a red one yesterday. Skipping along the spider web in the morning light. The acrid smoke stung my eyes and burnt my throat but the fairies made it all worthwhile. Watching them skate along the web then disappear. The red one was special. Just a flash of bright bright red among the common gold-white. It makes me feel so special to see the fairies. See them slide and speed along the spider-steel. So very special. I know its just light reflections, though it doesn't matter.
Misconceptions, misperceptions, watch them sail past each other in the night. Visions in your head of something not real, visions like holograms of who you want me to be. Visions of simplicity and docility in a funky cover. Pseudo-complexity that only you understand. You think you know, better than I know myself. You think its that way because we're all that way. You think you know the complexity, the experience, the pain, just because you're smart, you notice things, see things. But you don't. You think you know when you really don't I wonder what its like, that ignorant arrogance?
You're like the little bones in my ear. So tiny and small and apparently insignificant, but without them I sail headlong into dizzy vertigo and fall in and in and in. Not right away. Right away there's a sudden sense of loss, but that's OK. I know that. I can deal with that. It's the slow movement off course, it's the sidetracks, the hidden paths, the overgrown bushes in my mind. It's the way I lose my way, the way I get lost in my own dizzied senses. The way I wander lost without direction and falling into the dizziness.
I'm coming up roses sweet-pea. This time its all good, everythings good, tight and right. Just a few more weeks and we're sailing clean and pretty. You trust me dontcha sweetness? You believe in me dontcha? I'm doing this all for you! What more do ya want? I'm trying and you just don't give a flying fuck do ya? Ya sit there all day on your fat arse and take my money and gimme nothing back. I work my fucking arse off and ya sit there like you're too fucking highandmighty for the likes of me. Ya stupid fucking bitch.
Sarah often affected the countenance of a bored movie star. She would pose, languid and sublime against a badly repaired, beer-sodden bar, cigarette dangling precariously from an imperfectly manicured hand. Sipping her vodka cruiser like a martini, her little finger slightly lifted and eyes creasing into a slight frown over the end of the bottle. She would imitate boredom and cynicism and disinterest, only to drop it all in favour of a gruff and butch exterior. To drop it all and sit spraddle-legged on a barstool with hat in one hand and bottle in the other. She's a strange one.
I read that one word, that simple word, and tears spring to my eyes. In that moment you're holding me, you're leaving me, you're here, you're not. You're sitting on the couch playing Dynasty Warriors 3, Huang Gai, and you look over and smile that perfect smile, that perfect sly grin. You're kissing me half awake in early morning non-light. Rolling over in your sleep and nuzzling the crook of my neck. You're saying goodbye as you walk out the door. You're grinning that stupid grin. That word. One simple word brings everything up in one moment. My eyes clear.
turn the contrast up
blurs out the details
sunken dark eyes
so very very pretty
look off to the distance
but not frowning
unless of course you can do it without the wrinkles
blur out the background
the perfect frame for the perfect face
maybe not perfect
but it would be
if you gave me these things I need
then maybe I'd have the confidence to show you what you want
show you my pretty bust
show you my pretty stomach
my pretty cunt
maybe I'm a whore
whose giving me the money?
They got the news.
He shook, she held and thought:
Abandon yourself to fate, small one. Abandon yourself to faith, to vagaries of the internal weather. Abandon all hope, all expectations and all control in the face of this, a viral fine moment. Live each moment purer than the last in the face of this finality that lasts a lifetime. Finality that goes on for years. Shut your eyes and fall into the wind (careful not to scratch anyone on the way down). Abandon everything for this millstone around your neck. That and me.
What we have is already enough.
I watch the balloon float away, like some clichéd loss of childhood. It floats in the air, tugged this way and that by the air currents. Swaying, twirling back and forth in the bright blue sky. Its like my life is a movie, or a film clip for some maudlin sap sung by the latest pop flavour of the month. The latest blonde miss in tight jeans and sparkled underwear. I feel like I should be crying, or at least looking mournfully at the lost balloon. Instead I smile. A small private smile celebrating its inanimate freedom. It keeps floating.
It just won't stop. They just keep fucking talking the noise is driving me out of my mind. I can't see the noise is blinding me. All that exists is their inane conversation. Squawking senseless noise. Blinding me. Fucking blinding me. It just won't shut up. It just won't stop. It just keeps going onward fucking onward. Louder ever louder. I swear if it doesn't stop I'll fucking scream its killing me the fucking blindness of sound is killing me. They just keep talking, laughing, yelling incessant fucking noise. I just can't fucking handle it. I swear I'm going insane.
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