Written 21/7/2011

When Im in the city, for my work, I walk fast. Always. Im never in a hurry but I always walk fast. Because the city is in a hurry. In a hurry to get wherever its going, to be biger and faster and scarier. Becuase the city is scary. Standing bold. We dont work for a company or a firm, we work for the city. We are its minions. Slaves to the concrete.
 
I dont work here because I like it, i thought I would, before I started, but I dont. Buildings snear at me to look down on me, blocking the sun, menacingly, blocking the sun. Even the windows, the windows give nothing away, reflecting our own scared faces. Taunting us with our own face. I wonder what would happen if we smashed all the windows, poked holes in them, laughed that they were broken. Do you think they would frown? Be ashamed that we punctured its facade? Feel nude and fall down? Its insides bourn out for us to stare at?
 
The people, the city people, they want to look strong, they want to look like masters. Minions thought they are. They don't realise that they too, are slaves to the concrete. The concrete takes us over, makes hairs turn grey, our faces grey and peaky, even our suits, black and white, that makes grey. I'd like to count the grey hairs on this city, every one of them. I'd like to count the progress of our building masters.
 
Nothing sways here, so many things move but othing sways. The cars and the people, they are stiff, walk stiff, drive stiff, smile stiff, "thank you for this moring coffee, hi, I'm stiff." Id like to see them sway. Just once, see everyone sway and dance. And then sleep. These minions need sleep.

Try This For Size.

Written on 06/07/2011

This is the hardest part of growing up. Knowing that you’re not perfect, that something about you doesn’t fit the criteria. And everyone is competing, always. For jobs, for parking spots, for rental properties. Always competing and you cant always win. Some people are winners and some people are losers. I am in the process of figuring out if I am a winner or a loser and if that can ever change.

While I write this, I sit on a train. White shirt, black slacks and no smile. I look corporate. I type fast and don’t worry about the spelling mistakes. It makes me look good to type this way. I look corporate. I look like I matter.

What they don’t know is that I am actually on my way to a job interview. I still have people to impress. I am glad they can’t see what I write. I allow them to think that I matter, that I fit in the world.  I don’t want them to know how hard it is for me to pay the rent and the bills, that right now I have an electricity bill that I cant pay, that I go home alone and eat to make it go away.

On this train, I feel big, like an adult, like I’m respected. When I get to Sydney terminal I know I will shrink. The world will feel too big and I will act too small. I could always try the old “fake it 'till you make it” strategy and hope that I don’t lose my nerve.

A Little Jackson Mississippi

Today, I feel a little colored. I feel a little Jackson Mississippi 1965. So let me play this character just a little while.

I done had me one a the hardest days since…yesterday. The bank wont cash my cheque because my Mama done changed my name when I was a girl and now the papers don’t match. So I figure the light bill gone have to wait.

Down at the Centerlink they tell me I’s gotta look for ten jobs a week. I feel like tugging on her pony tail and tell her they aint even ten jobs a week to look for. Good for her though, in her Maree Kaye powder and her so-ciety smile. She gone eat dinner tonight. Good fo her.

I done got me $10 in my pocket book, no food in my fridge and a hefty train ticket I gotta pay for tomorrow to get to a interview for a job ill never have. And I figure, I’m on buy me a nice dinner.

At the Red Lea I ask for the smallest half a breast she got, even then I ask her to cut a bit off a’cause I aint paying more than $2.50. In the Coles I pick me up them cheap poe-tatoes with the eyes growing to baby Jesus and above. They cheap, and I figure, I don’t mind cutting them eyes out. I even pick me up one a them little tubs a the frozen yogurt, I done figure I deserve it. They $1.50 for a tiny tub which aint great value, but ill be grateful for the sweet later after the sour day I had.

Phone ring and I figure its my Mama, calling again to tell me things I a’ready know. But it aint, its that hoy-maloy from the job I done interviewed for on the Friday been. He want to ask more questions and I gone do my best.

Your Truth, My Truth

I read so many blogs centred around worshiping a god I don't feel. A divine being who apparently loves us all and works in our lives. Some man in the sky if you will, with puppeteer strings and a handle on things. And this is all well and good. But it's not my truth.

I am not one to insult or disrespect but I feel like I need to say, what makes your truth better then mine? In the mind of a religious person, there is no doubt that a god exists, hell, even in the minds of many non-religious people. It is an absolute fact to these people, that their friend is there. And I respect that and I accept that that is your truth. But I do feel, that my truth is disrespected.
My truth, my life, has no god. There is no doubt in my mind that evolution and the theory of natural selection hold the key to existence. And I believe it just as much as you believe in your god. So what makes your truth better than mine?

Why does your truth influence laws on my life? I don't follow your god, I shouldn't have to follow your rules. I agree that we all need morals, right and wrong, steal the candy? Don't steel the candy? And all of that. But why can't I choose to end my life because your god said so? Why can I not have the freedom to decide if I am fed up with being an old cripple, if that ever happens.
And why can't my friends get married because your god said so? Your god is not their truth. Their love doesn't hurt a fly. But your truth does. Your intension are swell, but its not our truth.

There are many people I know who say to me "But marriage is a Christian thing, why would you want to get married if you're not religious." But of course, non religious people marry all the time. So what's the difference? If you don't like it, if you don't agree with it, don't do it. Everyone deserves a choice.

I don't want to seem like an angry lost teenager, because I am not. I am confused. It seems so wrong to me. That I can accept and respect your truth, but you cant afford mine the same curtesy.

Tiny things you'll never remember.

Nobody ever talks about the little things. The dress that sits just so, the way you puff your cigarette. Not how you like your tea, smaller than that. What you think of your tea, that is small enough.

Here are some small things from my life;

I have a friendly lounge. Jolly and fat, like a too happy baker. The way a fat lady's bottom sags over a chair is the way it sits, sagging off itself. I think of telling it to lose a few pounds but I wouldn't want to sadden my jolly lounge. He is blue enough. Literally. And I dislike the colour blue, cerulean it is. Like an Oscar De La Renta gown from 2002. I like it more now, thinking of that, of Oscar.

Only I, and Adrian I suppose, know how to tend to this lounge. You see, he lets himself go every now and then. His cushions slide out from under our hides, his arms sag under the weight and his tum gets a little flat. We push him in, we plump him up and he smiles again. A too happy baker.

  ...

I try to brush my teeth the way the dentist says. In circles. But can anyone really do that? It just doesn't seem practical. And it takes to long. Three minuets they say, is how long you should brush your teeth. Maybe that's how they go in circles, maybe they do it slowly. Have you ever tried to keep your hand still and move your head instead? That doesn't work either.

One time, I was very drunk and tried to brush my teeth. For some reason it seemed an important thing to do. I mostly brushed my face and boy did it hurt. No wonder that paste gets rid of...whatever it is we're all fighting, its nearing on toxic. That storey makes me smile.

  ...

These are small things in my life. Small things.