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| ohsea.toc Australia. July 16 2012 22:00. Posts 338 | Profile Blog # |
Here I am, stuck in this great, sun-drenched city. Lines of rooftops ply their way to and fro the taller monuments of business. The palm tree before me drops its hard fruit on a tinned outhouse roof, startling the birds and bats asleep beneath its canopy. Next door the old woman calls for her cat: ‘Stella! Stella!’ Her garden extends all the way through the rear block and out onto Liverpool Lane. Our courtyard is cut short by another terrace. I can see through its window now. There is a fan turning lazily; a pile of papers sit on a desk, lifting upwards at times. Now the woman next door coughs into her parsley.
No reply yet from Angus. He is busy making visits to in-laws; collecting camping gear for a trip this week to Braidwood. Angus has a great beard which makes him look far older than he really is. We’re due to go camping together this week. I’m supplying the money for the camping ground; Angus is supplying the tent and a little gas stove. And the beard, of course.
There is little to do but wait. I’ve finished the quick crossword in today’s paper. I attempted the cryptic but couldn’t get a single clue out. ‘Shakespeare’s little place in the country?’ Sometimes I cheat and look up the answers online. I don’t learn much this way, but at least my curiosity is sated.
Someone is knocking at the door. Maybe it’s Angus? No. ‘I’m here to read the water meter’. ‘Oh, sure, come on in’. ‘I’m sorry, it’s a bit messy in here.’ He has a little torch to better read the numbers in the dark.
I’ve put some socks and a pair of pants in the dryer. The machine rumbles dolefully under the tin outhouse roof. Perhaps it knows it’s going to a new home. Kurt is moving out and taking the dryer with him. Amber is moving in and bringing unrelenting conversation with her. Last night was trying. We sat and talked together for a good hour, or rather she talked and I listened. Mexico, her fiancé, Mexico, her art, a little animation she had done, Mexico. At least Kurt was a little more reticent. The dryer rumbles on.
What about a walk through the botanical gardens? I could take my Ipod and listen to music. Maybe even the camera to record the botanics. I’d better fill in some of the clues before I go to impress Kurt. He’ll see it, no doubt.
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The names in this blog have been changed. I know no one called Kurt. The only Angus I know is a cocksure philosophy major who has answers where there are no questions. Amber is something else.
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I walked through the Botanical gardens this afternoon. Many of the plants are labelled, letting you know their place of origin, their typical characteristics; some of the plaques on indigenous plants feature sketches made by Joseph Banks, the botanist who accompanied James Cook on the First Fleet. Tourists abound here, particularly Chinese ones. They travel in packs, chatting amiably and posing in front of tall trees and statues of famous English plunderers.
The sink’s blocked in Darlinghurst. Kurt has left a reminder of his presence in the form of hokkien noodles strung through the grate. Also, he has taken back his rightful property: my bed base. The mattress now sits lonely on the floor.
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I went on a date last night. I’m not sure if that’s the best word to describe it. She had a ‘spare’ ticket to the City Recital Hall. Schubert’s Trout Quintet and Messiaen’s Quartet for the End of Time. The former is a lively affair; the latter was composed in a POW camp during WWII. It is not the best idea to sit through sixty minutes of mournful chamber music on a first date. Thoughts of frigid German woodland and emaciated POWs hardly stimulate warm conversation. Yes, what a sad piece it is. Yes, how lucky we are. Yes, let’s go home.
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As the dawn buttons up the night’s black shirt,
we part ways.
I continue on to my house,
you turn left into yours.
I have a few regrets,
perhaps I should have said this or that,
perhaps I should I have inquired more deeply into your childhood:
your brothers, your sister,
the ones who live on the peripheries of your now swollen life.
I hope that I have taken a central position,
that a rehearsed daydream may feature me.
That, when in turn the day covers the dawn with its thick cloth,
we will resume our walking, and our talk.
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| KING CHARLIE :D United States. July 16 2012 23:26. Posts 425 | Profile Blog # |
A wordsmith like yourself should have been able to close with the POW camp soundtrack...
"If we were ripped apart from eachother's arms,
perhaps by Nazis,
perhaps by Italians,
I would sit idly in my cell,
you sit in yours,
and I would wait for you."
Every writer needs a muse...she should be FLATTERED you even considered her for the position...
Last edit: 2012-07-16 23:29:42 |
| | NO TEAM WILL EVER BE AS GOOD AS TEAM LIQUID! |
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| ohsea.toc Australia. July 17 2012 00:15. Posts 338 | Profile Blog # |
Soundtrack? I am not merely a writer, I am a HUMAN being. I bleed. I tinker. I lose. I whimper. Schubert was like, 'Look what joyous music i make, look how happy one can be in creation!"
Your poem implies the afterlife. "I will wait for you after death. After Nazis or Italians rip us apart."
Thank you for the reply, it's nice to start a dialogue.
Last edit: 2012-07-17 00:15:58 |
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 Synwave United States. July 17 2012 02:01. Posts 2738 | Profile # |
| Your pacing is very interesting to read and Im curious about Mexico now. |
| | ♞Nerdrage is the cause of global warming♞ |
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| KING CHARLIE :D United States. July 17 2012 02:27. Posts 425 | Profile Blog # |
On July 17 2012 00:15 ohsea.toc wrote:
Soundtrack? I am not merely a writer, I am a HUMAN being. I bleed. I tinker. I lose. I whimper. Schubert was like, 'Look what joyous music i make, look how happy one can be in creation!"
Your poem implies the afterlife. "I will wait for you after death. After Nazis or Italians rip us apart."
Thank you for the reply, it's nice to start a dialogue.
Not trying to split hairs here, but you misquoted my poem, you son of a bitch.
Also, I never even referenced the afterlife, unless if you deem life to have ended when the Nazi's and Italian's separated the two of you. I was only talking about being in separate camps and not having immoral sex with the other prisoners, but waiting for her...or when you found her corpse at Auschwitz.
What girl wouldn't grab her ankles with sweet talk like that...
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| | NO TEAM WILL EVER BE AS GOOD AS TEAM LIQUID! |
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| ohsea.toc Australia. July 17 2012 14:10. Posts 338 | Profile Blog # |
Not trying to split hairs here, but you misquoted my poem, you son of a bitch.
Also, I never even referenced the afterlife, unless if you deem life to have ended when the Nazi's and Italian's separated the two of you. I was only talking about being in separate camps and not having immoral sex with the other prisoners, but waiting for her...or when you found her corpse at Auschwitz.
What girl wouldn't grab her ankles with sweet talk like that...
I certainly did, my apologies. This has taken a very morbid turn.
What are your experiences with muses? Dead people are usually the best ones. Last edit: 2012-07-17 17:47:03 |
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| ohsea.toc Australia. July 17 2012 15:29. Posts 338 | Profile Blog # |
Bravo! Here's another for those grey cells.
Fruit that goes out of fashion. (5 letters) |
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| ohsea.toc Australia. July 19 2012 16:01. Posts 338 | Profile Blog # |
On July 19 2012 06:37 Roe wrote:
Ugh, I give up!
+ Show Spoiler +
Not the most conspicuous of fruits. Last edit: 2012-07-19 16:01:31 |
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