"You're probably pretty upset. I don't blame you"
- Frank Mercer, Matchstick Men
The heat seeped into everything, the streets, the houses, even the lights that illuminated the old amusement park nearby seemed to gleam with a hotter, more intense light. Summer had settled on the old city like an great dragon over it's treasure. It smothered and made everything hard to breath, a pillow of humidity pressed against every pore. Nights like this made Tarquin want to move east, run away from the orgy of hang ups and awkward social interactions he had made for himself during his time growing up here. Life had become more like a game of Tetris, more focused on negotiating where to place your baggage in amongst other's, trying to forget, to make it disappear.
His daze was broken by headlights turning into the neglected car park. He swallowed hard, rubbing his face he slowly got out of his car. The headlights illuminated the entrance to the old, forgotten fun park. The amber hue catching the smiling faces of the clown statues, hunched over the main gates like harlequin Gargoyles, their grins once beckoning children in, now took on a much more sinister, insidious turn. The headlights extinguished, returning the car park to in previous dark state and a small, nuggety gentleman got out. Tarquin, moved towards the man, half way between walking and running, halfway between panic and resolution. "Carmine told me you had some information about my brother..." asked Tarquin, trying to remain calm. The nuggety gentleman rubbed his palms on his jacket, sweaty, nervous "Yeah, yeah... right, uhhh. Listen, I don't really know about this man. I'm kinda deep in this shit, I don't wanna turn out like Ozzie..." Tarquin grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and pushed him up against the door of his car "...what are you deep into?!" Tarquin demanded "What was my brother deep into?! Why are you so afrai..." his clumsy interrogation was cut short by headlights, turning into the carpark, bright, aggressive. This isn't right. The nuggety gentleman's breathing rapidly increased "Ahh Fuck man!" he squirmed, trying to get out of Tarquin's grip.
"Who the fuck is that?!" Tarquin asked "You were followed god damn it!" he cursed, punching the gentleman, the hard bone of his jaw bruising Tarquin's knuckles, the sharp pain through his fingers, the wet smack of sweat and flesh. The ominous headlights approached faster, showing no signs of slowing, showing no signs of changing direction. "Get up!" Tarquin ordered, dragging the nuggety man by the collar, the man pushed Tarquin to the ground "Fuck that, I'm gone!" he ran to get back into the car. The headlights careened towards the car, for a moment, time slowed, Tarquin looked to the car and the nuggety gentleman, then to the old forgotten amusement park gates, then at the blinding headlights. Run. Tarquin dived out of the way, narrowly missing the headlights as they ploughed into the nuggety man, then the car, a sandwich, a mixture of twisted metal and gouged meat. Run. The door to the steaming, blood washed car opened "Mr Dangerfield, I believe I told you..." Mr Niles. "...to let the police do their job!" Run. Mr Niles raised his arm something dull, long, matte black and metal in his blue gloved hand. Run. Tarquin, took a breathe, a beat, a long exhale, and ran towards the gates of the park, the darkness shadowing his escape, blanketing, making it hard to aim. "Tarquin!" Mr Niles sqeezed off three rounds, missing in a shower of sparks and riquochets, he ran after him.
To be continued...
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A Man of Salt and Shadow
"The Sphinxes eyes stay closed, until someone who does not feel his own worth tries to pass by."
- Engywook, The Neverending Story.
"In the old house we had a shitty, half built garage attached to the side. The owners before had converted the downstairs three car garage into a basement and had been in the process of building an exterior garage before the events that led to them selling it. The was a small gap in between the garage and the house, about a metre and a half wide. Due to the garden being on a higher level and poor knowledge in retaining wall construction, soil and detritus would fill the meter and a half wide, house deep alleyway. A tattered shade cloth made the sun into blotched patterns of whites, greys and charcoal which added a certain eeriness to the alley even in the sunniest of days. That side of the house was avoided as much as possible when chasing friends and brothers around the large block with water balloons and toy guns. Only ever seen once at night.
The summer moon was full and beat down from the twilight sky with almost as much ferocity as it's daytime counterpart. It was the end of the week and Dad was away, being teenagers we took advantage of the situation with zeal and alcohol. Wes had left his bike by the garage. Drunk, dazed, stupid I jokingly ran around the side of the house to get steal it. That's when I saw him. Leaning on the brick in the small alley between the house and the disused garage. A stranger. I remember him perfectly. He was complete darkness, as if no light could escape. He lifted a cigarette up to his lips and pulled, a long, dull inhale. The smoldering cigarette breifly lighting his upper lip, a dim sanguine glint in porcelain black eyes. They catch me. I stand, still, not even breathing, trying to comprehend what I am looking at. He looks at me front on, smiles, the white of his teeth luminous and vivid. I am frozen, hypnotised, a self imposed paralysis. He shows me his knife, it's clean and cool, a lime green in the moonlight. He takes another drag, ponders, then walks off. I shake. I wipe the tears and eventually compose myself. When I return everyone else has gone to bed. I tell no one what I saw. What I felt. Pure, beautiful fear."
- Engywook, The Neverending Story.
"In the old house we had a shitty, half built garage attached to the side. The owners before had converted the downstairs three car garage into a basement and had been in the process of building an exterior garage before the events that led to them selling it. The was a small gap in between the garage and the house, about a metre and a half wide. Due to the garden being on a higher level and poor knowledge in retaining wall construction, soil and detritus would fill the meter and a half wide, house deep alleyway. A tattered shade cloth made the sun into blotched patterns of whites, greys and charcoal which added a certain eeriness to the alley even in the sunniest of days. That side of the house was avoided as much as possible when chasing friends and brothers around the large block with water balloons and toy guns. Only ever seen once at night.
The summer moon was full and beat down from the twilight sky with almost as much ferocity as it's daytime counterpart. It was the end of the week and Dad was away, being teenagers we took advantage of the situation with zeal and alcohol. Wes had left his bike by the garage. Drunk, dazed, stupid I jokingly ran around the side of the house to get steal it. That's when I saw him. Leaning on the brick in the small alley between the house and the disused garage. A stranger. I remember him perfectly. He was complete darkness, as if no light could escape. He lifted a cigarette up to his lips and pulled, a long, dull inhale. The smoldering cigarette breifly lighting his upper lip, a dim sanguine glint in porcelain black eyes. They catch me. I stand, still, not even breathing, trying to comprehend what I am looking at. He looks at me front on, smiles, the white of his teeth luminous and vivid. I am frozen, hypnotised, a self imposed paralysis. He shows me his knife, it's clean and cool, a lime green in the moonlight. He takes another drag, ponders, then walks off. I shake. I wipe the tears and eventually compose myself. When I return everyone else has gone to bed. I tell no one what I saw. What I felt. Pure, beautiful fear."
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 5
"If this world were to end, there would only be you... and him... and no one else."
-Dr Lilian Thurman, Donnie Darko
"Come on Tarquin..." Emily spoke gently, the pale, cloud filtered light filling the gaps between the door that framed her. Tarquin slipped on his musty grey suit and looked toward her, unable to see her backlit face. "...Tarquin"
"I'm coming" he replied, getting used to the smooth leather soles of his father's shoes and walking to the backlit girl.
The two walked to the car, the gravel of his parent's poorly sealed driveway announcing the start of their journey to the funeral home. Tarquin opened the door to Emily's car "Thank you..." he said, Emily stopped, looking up at the awkward man child "For coming with me... I appreciate it." Emily gave a smile, he hadn't seen that smile in a long time. Tarquin missed that smile and replied with the same. Emily had not seen his for longer, she too missed it.
The pale ghostly white light that shone through the overcast sky seemed to wash out the city, bringing out the greys and silvers for all to see. The moisture in the air could be felt in the sinuses and between the joints. The atmosphere was heavy, low and distant, clouds rubbing together in the horizon, creating static to be held and discharged at a later time and place. The old Chrysler moved slowly between the early Saturday traffic, the two sat, their silences rubbing together, creating static.
The funeral home was of the usual garish limestone brickwork reminiscent of the Nineties. The glare of the clouds reflecting the sun was no more evident and damaging to the eyes than here. Squinting, Tarquin stepped out of the old Chrysler cursing the fact the he was doomed to wander the Earth with a head that would make the trendiest sunglasses look awkward and misplaced. His father waited for them by the entrance "Emily, it's great to see you girl" he greeted her with a kiss to the cheek, then looking to Tarquin's feet "Nice shoes"
"Where's Sylvia?" Tarquin asked, ignoring the shoes comment
"Tark, please" Tarquin's father placed his hand on his son's shoulder "Today, you will call her mother...please" Tarquin replied with a nod "Thanks boy. I appreciate it..." he rubbed Tarquin's hair "Go say hello to your Mother" he ordered with a slap on Tarquin's back.
Five hours later
Tarquin's head leant against the car window, looking at a bubble in the tint, the trees of his parent's neighbourhood distorting as they pass through it. Tarquin; drunk, tired, looks at Emily. He hadn't seen her in years but it was really only months, exactly three months to the day. Three months to the day she had broken up with him in a shitty chain coffee shop in a shitty chain mall. Three months to the day he had his nose broke. Three months and one day ago she was his. She catches him looking "What?" she inquired, her eyes frustrated. "That man knows who killed Osric."
Three hours earlier.
The old Chrysler pulled back into the poorly sealed driveway, joining the ranks of other cars now parked at the charming character house in a charming character suburb. Two older gentlemen in silvered moustaches were slouched on the cedar railing of the balcony, smoking, drinking, chewing. Tarquin stepped out of his ex girlfriend's vehicle, the smell of pipe and cigar, gin and rye, cheese and frankfurts. They give Tarquin a friendly nod and light pat on the shoulder, their mouths dry with ashen tongues. His father hears Tarquin enter and calls from the kitchen "Tark!" summoned, the son walks down the jarrah floored corridor. "What took ya?" the older Dangerfield asked. "There was an accident on Seville, traffic took for ever" the younger replied
"Typical, all those nosey bastards rubber necking. Should'a took Chelmsford"
"Yeah... well... we're here now"
"hmmm" the father drained the rest of the Glenmorangie and slapped Tarquin on the back, Tarquin not letting the sting show. "You did a great job back there kid!" the father moving to Emily, "...and you. You're beautiful, come here!" the large, portly man embracing Emily "This one is a good one Tarquin! I like this one, you look after this one!"
"He does, don't worry" she replied, going along with it.
One hour earlier.
"The wake shall be held at Mr and Mrs Dangerfield's residence. They invite you all to join them there. Thankyou and may God be with you" the Chaplain preached as the gaggle went their seperate ways. Tarquin looked around the maudlin crowd, the cemetery; a beautiful green, shaded by ancient oaks gave a surreal hue. On a small mound, beside one of the old oaks Tarquin spotted a man. He stood by the trunk, cigarette smoking, black suit. blonde hair, thick black glasses. Tarquin squinted through the glare as the black figure sipped at a takeaway coffee mug. "Tarquin!" a hand broke his curious gaze, Emily "You did good Tarquin" she said with a punch to the arms, her soft smile almost wiping his memory of everything but. "Whatchya lookin' at?" Emily asked, wrapping her arm into his. Tarquin looked back at the old oak on the hill "Nothing".
Four hours later.
Tarquin sat on the brown couch, the test on the television, a single malt resting in his hands resting on the brown couch. "You're Tarquin aren't you?" a voice called through the commentary of the cricket. Tarquin looked to the voice interrupting his drunken malaise. The man from the hill. "It could be" he took another sip of the brown liquour "depends who's asking." The man reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a white handkerchief and placing it over the neighbouring arm chair before sitting "My name is Niles" he added, shaking Tarquin's hand "I'm sorry for the loss of your brother Mr Dangerfield" as Niles spoke he busied himself, pulling out an alcohol wipe, opening it, cleaning his hands, he did this without thinking, feverishly, as if an outside force were compelling him "I represent my client. Now my client is not unreasonable. My client is sad for you loss and understands that it must be hard to lose a member of the family..." Tarquin's knuckles whitened around his tumbler, teeth clenched. "I've been fortunate enough to have access to the police reports Mr Dangerfield and I assure you that there was no third party involved in your brother's death..." Tarquin's heart skipped and rallied, his pulse grew faster "Your brother was a fucked up loser junkie nothing mor..." Tarquin threw the contents of his glass onto the floor, grabbing Niles' freshly pressed, crisp white shirt and pressing the glass tumbler against his face but not breaking it. "Nothing more?" Tarquin growled through teeth clenched firm. His plan would be to watch it crack and smash into Mr Niles' face. Watching the glass burst and enter... "What the fuck is going on in my house?!" Tarquin's father boomed "Tarquin?!"
"It's alright Mr Dangerfield..." Niles replied, staring at Tarquin "... I believe I was just leaving" Niles slid slowly out of Tarquin's grip. "Thankyou for you time" he said, collecting the handkercheif from the arm chair and left, quietly, cold. Tarquin looked at his father, dropping the tumbler to the floor, the glass splintering and scattering underneath the nice furniture. "I think you should too boy. Go sleep it off..." the father said, sipping at his Glenmorangie and floating back into the other room "...Emily, take your fancy fella home".
"Who the hell was that?" Emily asked, she had heard the noise from the garden and had come, undetected by Tarquin to investigate. "Just an old friend..." Tarquin replied, walking to the long mahogoney hallway, staring down it "...nothing more."
To be continued...
-Dr Lilian Thurman, Donnie Darko
"Come on Tarquin..." Emily spoke gently, the pale, cloud filtered light filling the gaps between the door that framed her. Tarquin slipped on his musty grey suit and looked toward her, unable to see her backlit face. "...Tarquin"
"I'm coming" he replied, getting used to the smooth leather soles of his father's shoes and walking to the backlit girl.
The two walked to the car, the gravel of his parent's poorly sealed driveway announcing the start of their journey to the funeral home. Tarquin opened the door to Emily's car "Thank you..." he said, Emily stopped, looking up at the awkward man child "For coming with me... I appreciate it." Emily gave a smile, he hadn't seen that smile in a long time. Tarquin missed that smile and replied with the same. Emily had not seen his for longer, she too missed it.
The pale ghostly white light that shone through the overcast sky seemed to wash out the city, bringing out the greys and silvers for all to see. The moisture in the air could be felt in the sinuses and between the joints. The atmosphere was heavy, low and distant, clouds rubbing together in the horizon, creating static to be held and discharged at a later time and place. The old Chrysler moved slowly between the early Saturday traffic, the two sat, their silences rubbing together, creating static.
The funeral home was of the usual garish limestone brickwork reminiscent of the Nineties. The glare of the clouds reflecting the sun was no more evident and damaging to the eyes than here. Squinting, Tarquin stepped out of the old Chrysler cursing the fact the he was doomed to wander the Earth with a head that would make the trendiest sunglasses look awkward and misplaced. His father waited for them by the entrance "Emily, it's great to see you girl" he greeted her with a kiss to the cheek, then looking to Tarquin's feet "Nice shoes"
"Where's Sylvia?" Tarquin asked, ignoring the shoes comment
"Tark, please" Tarquin's father placed his hand on his son's shoulder "Today, you will call her mother...please" Tarquin replied with a nod "Thanks boy. I appreciate it..." he rubbed Tarquin's hair "Go say hello to your Mother" he ordered with a slap on Tarquin's back.
Five hours later
Tarquin's head leant against the car window, looking at a bubble in the tint, the trees of his parent's neighbourhood distorting as they pass through it. Tarquin; drunk, tired, looks at Emily. He hadn't seen her in years but it was really only months, exactly three months to the day. Three months to the day she had broken up with him in a shitty chain coffee shop in a shitty chain mall. Three months to the day he had his nose broke. Three months and one day ago she was his. She catches him looking "What?" she inquired, her eyes frustrated. "That man knows who killed Osric."
Three hours earlier.
The old Chrysler pulled back into the poorly sealed driveway, joining the ranks of other cars now parked at the charming character house in a charming character suburb. Two older gentlemen in silvered moustaches were slouched on the cedar railing of the balcony, smoking, drinking, chewing. Tarquin stepped out of his ex girlfriend's vehicle, the smell of pipe and cigar, gin and rye, cheese and frankfurts. They give Tarquin a friendly nod and light pat on the shoulder, their mouths dry with ashen tongues. His father hears Tarquin enter and calls from the kitchen "Tark!" summoned, the son walks down the jarrah floored corridor. "What took ya?" the older Dangerfield asked. "There was an accident on Seville, traffic took for ever" the younger replied
"Typical, all those nosey bastards rubber necking. Should'a took Chelmsford"
"Yeah... well... we're here now"
"hmmm" the father drained the rest of the Glenmorangie and slapped Tarquin on the back, Tarquin not letting the sting show. "You did a great job back there kid!" the father moving to Emily, "...and you. You're beautiful, come here!" the large, portly man embracing Emily "This one is a good one Tarquin! I like this one, you look after this one!"
"He does, don't worry" she replied, going along with it.
One hour earlier.
"The wake shall be held at Mr and Mrs Dangerfield's residence. They invite you all to join them there. Thankyou and may God be with you" the Chaplain preached as the gaggle went their seperate ways. Tarquin looked around the maudlin crowd, the cemetery; a beautiful green, shaded by ancient oaks gave a surreal hue. On a small mound, beside one of the old oaks Tarquin spotted a man. He stood by the trunk, cigarette smoking, black suit. blonde hair, thick black glasses. Tarquin squinted through the glare as the black figure sipped at a takeaway coffee mug. "Tarquin!" a hand broke his curious gaze, Emily "You did good Tarquin" she said with a punch to the arms, her soft smile almost wiping his memory of everything but. "Whatchya lookin' at?" Emily asked, wrapping her arm into his. Tarquin looked back at the old oak on the hill "Nothing".
Four hours later.
Tarquin sat on the brown couch, the test on the television, a single malt resting in his hands resting on the brown couch. "You're Tarquin aren't you?" a voice called through the commentary of the cricket. Tarquin looked to the voice interrupting his drunken malaise. The man from the hill. "It could be" he took another sip of the brown liquour "depends who's asking." The man reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a white handkerchief and placing it over the neighbouring arm chair before sitting "My name is Niles" he added, shaking Tarquin's hand "I'm sorry for the loss of your brother Mr Dangerfield" as Niles spoke he busied himself, pulling out an alcohol wipe, opening it, cleaning his hands, he did this without thinking, feverishly, as if an outside force were compelling him "I represent my client. Now my client is not unreasonable. My client is sad for you loss and understands that it must be hard to lose a member of the family..." Tarquin's knuckles whitened around his tumbler, teeth clenched. "I've been fortunate enough to have access to the police reports Mr Dangerfield and I assure you that there was no third party involved in your brother's death..." Tarquin's heart skipped and rallied, his pulse grew faster "Your brother was a fucked up loser junkie nothing mor..." Tarquin threw the contents of his glass onto the floor, grabbing Niles' freshly pressed, crisp white shirt and pressing the glass tumbler against his face but not breaking it. "Nothing more?" Tarquin growled through teeth clenched firm. His plan would be to watch it crack and smash into Mr Niles' face. Watching the glass burst and enter... "What the fuck is going on in my house?!" Tarquin's father boomed "Tarquin?!"
"It's alright Mr Dangerfield..." Niles replied, staring at Tarquin "... I believe I was just leaving" Niles slid slowly out of Tarquin's grip. "Thankyou for you time" he said, collecting the handkercheif from the arm chair and left, quietly, cold. Tarquin looked at his father, dropping the tumbler to the floor, the glass splintering and scattering underneath the nice furniture. "I think you should too boy. Go sleep it off..." the father said, sipping at his Glenmorangie and floating back into the other room "...Emily, take your fancy fella home".
"Who the hell was that?" Emily asked, she had heard the noise from the garden and had come, undetected by Tarquin to investigate. "Just an old friend..." Tarquin replied, walking to the long mahogoney hallway, staring down it "...nothing more."
To be continued...
Four and Twenty Black Birds
"Smokey, my friend, you are entering a world of pain."
- Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski.
"Thing is..." he said, lighting the cigarette and giving it to his companion "I don't mind" he continued, wiping the tears and sweat from his companion's face. "I mean what do you do for a living? You're a Businessman? A Tailor? A Waiter? Do you think twice about it? Do you ever wonder about doing something different?" His companion shook his head, his eyes winced, blood gently carressing his ears "No" he smiles and kneels down next to his companion "I didn't think so" he adds, taking the cigarette out of his companion's mouth for a drag then placing it back between the quivering lips "That's why I like you. That's why I feel like I have to explain myself" he stands and walks over to the bed "This is what I do" he turns, smiling "If I am a Tailor then you are my suit" he turns around and drains the takeaway coffee cup on the bedside table. "Who knows? Maybe in another life we could have been friends. Go drinking, picking up girls, double date, see a movie, watch the big... game." He turns back to his companion, something dull, long, matte black and metal in his blue gloved hand. He pauses for a moment, studying his companion, staring "But to be honest, I find the idea of that kind of life quite boring, replusive even. When I see those... people... cattle, I'm convinced I've made the right decision. Guidance councellor be damned. Do you know what I'm saying? No?" He points the object at the head of his companion and pulls the trigger, quickly, quietly. "No" he sighs, throwing the object back on the bed and wrapping his companion in the plastic beneath. "Nobody understands me"
The warm amber halogen lights to the apartment turn on, the large red door closes. "Baby!?" he asks, a quick loving sound of Baby replies as she bounces onto the kitchen counter and purrs to greet him. "Miss me?" he puts the matte black metal suitcase down "Daddy just has to wash his hands" he explains, walking to the bathroom, making sure to wash both sides of each hand four times and scrub his fingernails. After cleaning the mirror and the bathroom just to make sure, vacuuming his lounge room just to make sure, changing his sheets just to be sure, feeding and brushing Baby, he sits, a warm green tea in hand, opposite his computer. He waits for the computer to boot up by going through his Swedish furniture catalogue, circling what he wants, the Bëklus shelf series, the Miningrodä chaise/couch combination provided in a sophisticated brown, tan or black leather. Baby jumps up into his lap and nestles lovingly into him "I love you too" he laughs, stroking the nape of Baby's neck, she purrs. He checks his mail, discarding the advertisements and promotions for soft porn and longer erections with disdain, settling on an important email, opening it. "It looks like Daddy's finally getting a head in this industry" he smiled, tapping the desk in excitement. "Tarquin? That's a funny name."
- Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski.
"Thing is..." he said, lighting the cigarette and giving it to his companion "I don't mind" he continued, wiping the tears and sweat from his companion's face. "I mean what do you do for a living? You're a Businessman? A Tailor? A Waiter? Do you think twice about it? Do you ever wonder about doing something different?" His companion shook his head, his eyes winced, blood gently carressing his ears "No" he smiles and kneels down next to his companion "I didn't think so" he adds, taking the cigarette out of his companion's mouth for a drag then placing it back between the quivering lips "That's why I like you. That's why I feel like I have to explain myself" he stands and walks over to the bed "This is what I do" he turns, smiling "If I am a Tailor then you are my suit" he turns around and drains the takeaway coffee cup on the bedside table. "Who knows? Maybe in another life we could have been friends. Go drinking, picking up girls, double date, see a movie, watch the big... game." He turns back to his companion, something dull, long, matte black and metal in his blue gloved hand. He pauses for a moment, studying his companion, staring "But to be honest, I find the idea of that kind of life quite boring, replusive even. When I see those... people... cattle, I'm convinced I've made the right decision. Guidance councellor be damned. Do you know what I'm saying? No?" He points the object at the head of his companion and pulls the trigger, quickly, quietly. "No" he sighs, throwing the object back on the bed and wrapping his companion in the plastic beneath. "Nobody understands me"
The warm amber halogen lights to the apartment turn on, the large red door closes. "Baby!?" he asks, a quick loving sound of Baby replies as she bounces onto the kitchen counter and purrs to greet him. "Miss me?" he puts the matte black metal suitcase down "Daddy just has to wash his hands" he explains, walking to the bathroom, making sure to wash both sides of each hand four times and scrub his fingernails. After cleaning the mirror and the bathroom just to make sure, vacuuming his lounge room just to make sure, changing his sheets just to be sure, feeding and brushing Baby, he sits, a warm green tea in hand, opposite his computer. He waits for the computer to boot up by going through his Swedish furniture catalogue, circling what he wants, the Bëklus shelf series, the Miningrodä chaise/couch combination provided in a sophisticated brown, tan or black leather. Baby jumps up into his lap and nestles lovingly into him "I love you too" he laughs, stroking the nape of Baby's neck, she purrs. He checks his mail, discarding the advertisements and promotions for soft porn and longer erections with disdain, settling on an important email, opening it. "It looks like Daddy's finally getting a head in this industry" he smiled, tapping the desk in excitement. "Tarquin? That's a funny name."
Thursday, September 4, 2008
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 4
"Killing isn't like smoking. You can stop."
- Catherine, Basic Instinct
The halfway house lay in disarray among the small centenary houses of the neighbourhood. The setting Sun threw blood orange and gold onto everything, betraying Winter's depart. The air, while warm and relaxed, let it be known that the nights were still cold. But for now, for the brief period at the end of the day, the neighbourhood borough was a hive of people enjoying the weather and trying to forget that they lived in the same street as the neglected halfway house. Many nights recently there had been cars picking up and letting off, not to mention a great deal more shouting and domestic fury at the elderly hovel. Tarquin stood outside the house, the lattice that had originally meant to prevent prying eyes from seeing under the porch was all but completely destroyed leaving the dark lightless din of the underside of the house exposed. While not showing it, this unnerved Tarquin, recently developing quite the irrational fear of the dark. Even within his apartment Tarquin was loathed to plunge himself into complete night, resorting to leaving the toilet light on permanently.
Tarquin knocked on the chipped white pine front door. The door was surprisingly prompt to open, a small blonde haired young man sticking his face out to greet Tarquin. "Yes?" the small blonde haired young man predicated. Tarquin cleared his throat " Hi, I was wondering if I could speak with you about som..."
"I don't answer questions from pigs" Blonde haired man spat
"I'm not the police, I'm just... looking for someone and they used to stay here..."
"Lot's of people stay here dude and it's hard to keep up with all these bastards..."
"Please, I just need to ask you a few questions..." Tarquin scrambled for a picture in his pocket
"Sorry, bud I got shit to do..." Blonde haired man went to close the door but Tarquin stopped him, jamming it with his foot and pushing the door open. "Listen fuckwit, you're going to tell me what you know about Osric Dangerfield" Tarquin loomed over the emaciated junkie, presenting the picture of his brother clearly. "I know he stayed here and I know you must know something. I'm his brother." There was a pause as the blonde haired man studied Tarquin.
"His brother huh?" Tarquin nodded, panting. "Why didn't you say so?" he added, motioning for Tarquin to enter the warren. "If I'd have known you were Ozzie's brother I wouldn't of been such an asshole. Bastard still has all of his stuff here, even though I'm lettin' Steph sleep in there bastard has paid up to the rest of the month so it's still his room. Don't tell him Steph is sleepin' in his bed" Blonde haired man stopped in the long hallway, turning to Tarquin "He hates Steph." the pseudo whisper was followed by a wet, staggered cough "Name's Carmine" offering the wet coughed on hand to Tarquin "Tarquin." he replied with an awkward wave. Carmine opened the door to a room off shooting the dank hallway "Steph!" he shouted "Fuck off! This is Ozzie's brother." No response from the female figure lying in the unmade bed "Steph! Wake the fuck up you stupid bitch!" Steph, groggily awoke with a question and was promptly shoved out into the dank corridor, cursing and screaming as she went "... don't tell Ozzie I was sleeping in his bed!" she finished, walking down into the main living quarter, mumbling inaudible curses of Carmine's name as she went. "Ozzie was always pretty clean as you can see" Carmine explained as Tarquin ignored, engrossed in where his brother used to live. "Thankyou Carmine. I'll just have a look around for a moment."
"Uhh... yeah... sure. If you need any..."
"Thanks Carmine."
The door closed, leaving Osric's brother in his Osric's room. The walls, a pale yellow and the atmosphere stale. Dust and vermin droppings clogged the old vents in the corner of the ceiling, leading straight into the roof space. A chest of drawers, an old TV, a dirty mirror, a picture tacked on it. Tarquin inspected the woman in the Polaroid, he face smiling with Osric beside her. Who is she?. A knock on the door interupted Tarquin's inspection and Carmine's bird like revere stuck through. "Heya, I thought you may want to know. Ozzie was back on the gear. I wasn't gonna tell nobody cuz he used to pay a bit more for the room... But if Ozzie is in some kinda trouble... He was a good dude, wierd dude, but a good dude"
"Did Ozzie hang around or bring anyone over?"
"Naw, I don't think so. I never saw him bring anyone over. Dude kinda kept to himself most of the time." Carmine smacked his tongue, remembering the thing he came in for "Ozzie left his phone here. Motherfucker's been ringing non stop for a couple 'o days." he added, offering the small phone to Tarquin "You haven't answered it?"
"Do I look like a secretary to you?"
"Thanks" replied Tarquin, taking the phone and the photo off the mirror "You don't know who this is do you Carmine?" Carmine squinted.
"Sorry champ, wish I could help you."
"How much is rent here?"
"Hundred a week"
"Mind if I come back?" Tarquin asked handing Carmine two hundred dollars.
"Nah, come anytime. I'll even keep that stupid slut Steph out for you if you want?"
"That's fine thankyou" Tarquin pocketed the polaroid and mobile phone.
"Is Ozzie okay?" Carmine asked innocently, following Tarquin out of the house.
"No..." Tarquin replied, stepping off the erroded porch step into the dusk "No he isn't".
To be continued...
- Catherine, Basic Instinct
The halfway house lay in disarray among the small centenary houses of the neighbourhood. The setting Sun threw blood orange and gold onto everything, betraying Winter's depart. The air, while warm and relaxed, let it be known that the nights were still cold. But for now, for the brief period at the end of the day, the neighbourhood borough was a hive of people enjoying the weather and trying to forget that they lived in the same street as the neglected halfway house. Many nights recently there had been cars picking up and letting off, not to mention a great deal more shouting and domestic fury at the elderly hovel. Tarquin stood outside the house, the lattice that had originally meant to prevent prying eyes from seeing under the porch was all but completely destroyed leaving the dark lightless din of the underside of the house exposed. While not showing it, this unnerved Tarquin, recently developing quite the irrational fear of the dark. Even within his apartment Tarquin was loathed to plunge himself into complete night, resorting to leaving the toilet light on permanently.
Tarquin knocked on the chipped white pine front door. The door was surprisingly prompt to open, a small blonde haired young man sticking his face out to greet Tarquin. "Yes?" the small blonde haired young man predicated. Tarquin cleared his throat " Hi, I was wondering if I could speak with you about som..."
"I don't answer questions from pigs" Blonde haired man spat
"I'm not the police, I'm just... looking for someone and they used to stay here..."
"Lot's of people stay here dude and it's hard to keep up with all these bastards..."
"Please, I just need to ask you a few questions..." Tarquin scrambled for a picture in his pocket
"Sorry, bud I got shit to do..." Blonde haired man went to close the door but Tarquin stopped him, jamming it with his foot and pushing the door open. "Listen fuckwit, you're going to tell me what you know about Osric Dangerfield" Tarquin loomed over the emaciated junkie, presenting the picture of his brother clearly. "I know he stayed here and I know you must know something. I'm his brother." There was a pause as the blonde haired man studied Tarquin.
"His brother huh?" Tarquin nodded, panting. "Why didn't you say so?" he added, motioning for Tarquin to enter the warren. "If I'd have known you were Ozzie's brother I wouldn't of been such an asshole. Bastard still has all of his stuff here, even though I'm lettin' Steph sleep in there bastard has paid up to the rest of the month so it's still his room. Don't tell him Steph is sleepin' in his bed" Blonde haired man stopped in the long hallway, turning to Tarquin "He hates Steph." the pseudo whisper was followed by a wet, staggered cough "Name's Carmine" offering the wet coughed on hand to Tarquin "Tarquin." he replied with an awkward wave. Carmine opened the door to a room off shooting the dank hallway "Steph!" he shouted "Fuck off! This is Ozzie's brother." No response from the female figure lying in the unmade bed "Steph! Wake the fuck up you stupid bitch!" Steph, groggily awoke with a question and was promptly shoved out into the dank corridor, cursing and screaming as she went "... don't tell Ozzie I was sleeping in his bed!" she finished, walking down into the main living quarter, mumbling inaudible curses of Carmine's name as she went. "Ozzie was always pretty clean as you can see" Carmine explained as Tarquin ignored, engrossed in where his brother used to live. "Thankyou Carmine. I'll just have a look around for a moment."
"Uhh... yeah... sure. If you need any..."
"Thanks Carmine."
The door closed, leaving Osric's brother in his Osric's room. The walls, a pale yellow and the atmosphere stale. Dust and vermin droppings clogged the old vents in the corner of the ceiling, leading straight into the roof space. A chest of drawers, an old TV, a dirty mirror, a picture tacked on it. Tarquin inspected the woman in the Polaroid, he face smiling with Osric beside her. Who is she?. A knock on the door interupted Tarquin's inspection and Carmine's bird like revere stuck through. "Heya, I thought you may want to know. Ozzie was back on the gear. I wasn't gonna tell nobody cuz he used to pay a bit more for the room... But if Ozzie is in some kinda trouble... He was a good dude, wierd dude, but a good dude"
"Did Ozzie hang around or bring anyone over?"
"Naw, I don't think so. I never saw him bring anyone over. Dude kinda kept to himself most of the time." Carmine smacked his tongue, remembering the thing he came in for "Ozzie left his phone here. Motherfucker's been ringing non stop for a couple 'o days." he added, offering the small phone to Tarquin "You haven't answered it?"
"Do I look like a secretary to you?"
"Thanks" replied Tarquin, taking the phone and the photo off the mirror "You don't know who this is do you Carmine?" Carmine squinted.
"Sorry champ, wish I could help you."
"How much is rent here?"
"Hundred a week"
"Mind if I come back?" Tarquin asked handing Carmine two hundred dollars.
"Nah, come anytime. I'll even keep that stupid slut Steph out for you if you want?"
"That's fine thankyou" Tarquin pocketed the polaroid and mobile phone.
"Is Ozzie okay?" Carmine asked innocently, following Tarquin out of the house.
"No..." Tarquin replied, stepping off the erroded porch step into the dusk "No he isn't".
To be continued...
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Of Carrion Men
"Throw one at me if you want, hash head. I've got all five senses and I slept last night, that puts me six up on the lot of you."
- Brendan Frye, Brick.
The old bed sagged and gaped, seeming to swallow Tarquin. Sleeping. Deep and dreamless. The silence of the early morning broken periodically by an errant car along the sallow lights of the old cracked Fleet street. In the distance on a hill, a water tower, looming over the houses and hate factories like an obscene giant, desperately observing his horde. The faint smell of moisture in the air, the clouds like shadows in the sky, occasionally catching the glint of the nearby strip malls and hardware mega stores, a fluorescent orgy of light.
In the peaceful din, a figure. It climbs up the railing of apartment fifteen. The figure looks around, quiet, it's black eyes catching the a shine of the hardware sign . The figure leans back over the rail and helps another up. Tarquin. Sleeping. The old lock of the old aluminium framed glass door is unlocked by the figure who was helped up. Tarquin stirs but doesn't wake, years of living in the complex of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street has aclimatised him to noise. It's hard to sleep if there isn't now. The old man underneath him in seven shouting at the television, the junkie couple fucking or fighting or both next to him in fourteen, the single middle aged wierd guy in twelve reminding Tarquin of what he is doomed to become. Two hundred and thirty four constantly breathes and seethes, a honeycombe of sadistic sweat and tears, a monument to apathy and hopelessness and Tarquin, a part of it. His mortgage, his Swedish kitchen, his beige loungeroom, his old aluminium framed glass door opening.
They filter, taking only what necessary, like black wrays silently moving along the sea bed. Lifting what is needed, discarding what isn't. Tarquin. Sleeping. The door of Tarquin's room is slowly opened by a wray. It looks at Tarquin, it's black eyes catching the red hue of the alarm clock radio. The door betrays the wray with a sound and Tarquin's eyes open and trace to the location. The wray stands, cold, icy, still. They stare at eachother, a rich sweat enveloping Tarquin, his palms clammed, his heart skipping. This isn't a dream it's a nightmare. They stare. How long have we being staring at eachother? It feels like forever. The wray is joined by it's companion. They both stare, they all stare. Tarquin remembers where the knife is and takes a breath. One of the wrays shift it's weight to move. Go. In a beat, in what seems like the liminal space between moments he throws the covers towards the wray and moves, his hand catching his father's knife. A war cry, the only thing Tarquin could think to say as the two wrays and he collided. His father's knife finding a stomach, the wray's fists' and bodies finding Tarquin's. His father's knife returning to the same stomach once more and once more and once more. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. A wray screams, his arms reach and strangle Tarquin. A crack. As violent and sudden as it started the fight is over. Tarquin, breathless looks down, a sharp burning in his lung. The other wray runs, leaving Tarquin and it's companion. The companion is still. They both slump to the ground. Tarquin drops his father's knife and touches the cold metal phillips head sticking out of his right lung. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. Tarquin and the wray slump, together, still, both of them leaning on eachother. Tarquin strains to see around him, his eyes bruised and bloody and crying. The taste of iron rich on his tongue.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thrity four Fleet street Tarquin struggles to breath, he is tired and wants to sleep. He needs his sleep. He has work in the morning. It's starting to rain. Tarquin struggles to breath and remember why he is on the floor with a motionless wray. The wray isn't stuggling. The wray is still. Tarquin tries to talk but can only manage a gargle of rich, dark blood. Tarquin misses his mother. Tarquin wants his mother. Tarquin lies, sobbing, next to a dead boy in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street. In a pool of thick, wet blood. Missing his mother. In the dark. In the rain. In the distance, sirens.
They filter, taking only what necessary, like black wrays silently moving along the sea bed. Lifting what is needed, discarding what isn't. Tarquin. Sleeping. The door of Tarquin's room is slowly opened by a wray. It looks at Tarquin, it's black eyes catching the red hue of the alarm clock radio. The door betrays the wray with a sound and Tarquin's eyes open and trace to the location. The wray stands, cold, icy, still. They stare at eachother, a rich sweat enveloping Tarquin, his palms clammed, his heart skipping. This isn't a dream it's a nightmare. They stare. How long have we being staring at eachother? It feels like forever. The wray is joined by it's companion. They both stare, they all stare. Tarquin remembers where the knife is and takes a breath. One of the wrays shift it's weight to move. Go. In a beat, in what seems like the liminal space between moments he throws the covers towards the wray and moves, his hand catching his father's knife. A war cry, the only thing Tarquin could think to say as the two wrays and he collided. His father's knife finding a stomach, the wray's fists' and bodies finding Tarquin's. His father's knife returning to the same stomach once more and once more and once more. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. A wray screams, his arms reach and strangle Tarquin. A crack. As violent and sudden as it started the fight is over. Tarquin, breathless looks down, a sharp burning in his lung. The other wray runs, leaving Tarquin and it's companion. The companion is still. They both slump to the ground. Tarquin drops his father's knife and touches the cold metal phillips head sticking out of his right lung. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. Tarquin and the wray slump, together, still, both of them leaning on eachother. Tarquin strains to see around him, his eyes bruised and bloody and crying. The taste of iron rich on his tongue.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thrity four Fleet street Tarquin struggles to breath, he is tired and wants to sleep. He needs his sleep. He has work in the morning. It's starting to rain. Tarquin struggles to breath and remember why he is on the floor with a motionless wray. The wray isn't stuggling. The wray is still. Tarquin tries to talk but can only manage a gargle of rich, dark blood. Tarquin misses his mother. Tarquin wants his mother. Tarquin lies, sobbing, next to a dead boy in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street. In a pool of thick, wet blood. Missing his mother. In the dark. In the rain. In the distance, sirens.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 3
"You can't buy a bag of peanuts in this town without some one writing a song about you."
-Charles Foster Kane, Citizen Kane.
The fog. Tarquin has never seen fog like this. Not here. It smothers everything around it and seems to dull his senses. He feels like he just had a moment of clarity and realised that he is indeed mildly retarded. "Just to the left please." Awkward Taxi Driver responds with a confused look onwards through the dark yellow grey blackness of the dense low lying cloud and brought the cab to a gentle stop.Tarquin opens the door of the taxi and steps out onto fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street and slowly pulls away. Thanks.
The key enters. The knob turns. The bag is thrown. Thump. A breath. A deep, inevitable sigh. The light of apartment fifteen of the small fifteen apartment hate factory located on two hundred and thirty floor Fleet street cinched on. A flash indicating a new bulb is needed. Tarquin snaps the switch back to the off position and leant back against the entrance. A breath. He took off his beanie, scrunching it up, the thick synthetic knit against his clammy palm. Tarquin throws it into the kitchen, replying with sound indicating it hit the sink. The old sink. My beanie is probably wet now.
Two hours ago
"Yes" Tarquin replied to the doctor's question. Emotionless and still. Just like the thing in front of him. "We have some forms that you'll have to sign before you leave." Silence. "Do you need me to call you a cab?" Silence. "Is there anyone I can call?" Silence. "Take your time." Silence. Nothing but. It's quiet.
Three hours later
Tarquin sat, in the darkness, against the door, in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, in the suburb across the road from the nice one, with a wet beanie and a burnt bulb, in the fog, in the darkness. Struggling to understand where he had just been, what had happened, what he had seen. I better call Dad.
Twenty three hours ago
"When was the last time you saw your brother Mr Dangerfield?" Suited Man asked, his tone empathetic with a barely visible scent of hostility strung through. "I don't know..." Stammered. "Probably at the tea house a couple of weeks ago"
"And what did you see talk to him about?"
"Nothing. We talked about nothing. We only ever talk about that."
"Then why would you go and see him?"
"Because he asked me dammit and he's my brother and when my fucked up brother who I never fucking see calls and asks me for coffee I go okay. Aren't you supposed to already know this stuff? Don't you people have satellites?"
"Mr Dangerfield you'll want to be calming down and helping us find your brother"
A breath. A pause. The careful hum of the light. "I saw him last Tuesday. He called me. Said he wanted to see me. We met at the tea house a block and a half away from me. I gave him some money and I haven't seen or heard from him since. We're not that close."
"How much money did you give him?"
Not enough.
Twenty four hours later
The phone clicked. The dial tone had changed into the faster tone, the one that lets you know you've waited too long to call someone. The tone oscillating and dancing next to Tarquin's ear then clicking silent. Tarquin dropped the phone and stared. The fog was clearing and the sun was showing the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. Tarquin sits. Osric is dead.
To be continued...
-Charles Foster Kane, Citizen Kane.
The fog. Tarquin has never seen fog like this. Not here. It smothers everything around it and seems to dull his senses. He feels like he just had a moment of clarity and realised that he is indeed mildly retarded. "Just to the left please." Awkward Taxi Driver responds with a confused look onwards through the dark yellow grey blackness of the dense low lying cloud and brought the cab to a gentle stop.Tarquin opens the door of the taxi and steps out onto fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street and slowly pulls away. Thanks.
The key enters. The knob turns. The bag is thrown. Thump. A breath. A deep, inevitable sigh. The light of apartment fifteen of the small fifteen apartment hate factory located on two hundred and thirty floor Fleet street cinched on. A flash indicating a new bulb is needed. Tarquin snaps the switch back to the off position and leant back against the entrance. A breath. He took off his beanie, scrunching it up, the thick synthetic knit against his clammy palm. Tarquin throws it into the kitchen, replying with sound indicating it hit the sink. The old sink. My beanie is probably wet now.
Two hours ago
"Yes" Tarquin replied to the doctor's question. Emotionless and still. Just like the thing in front of him. "We have some forms that you'll have to sign before you leave." Silence. "Do you need me to call you a cab?" Silence. "Is there anyone I can call?" Silence. "Take your time." Silence. Nothing but. It's quiet.
Three hours later
Tarquin sat, in the darkness, against the door, in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, in the suburb across the road from the nice one, with a wet beanie and a burnt bulb, in the fog, in the darkness. Struggling to understand where he had just been, what had happened, what he had seen. I better call Dad.
Twenty three hours ago
"When was the last time you saw your brother Mr Dangerfield?" Suited Man asked, his tone empathetic with a barely visible scent of hostility strung through. "I don't know..." Stammered. "Probably at the tea house a couple of weeks ago"
"And what did you see talk to him about?"
"Nothing. We talked about nothing. We only ever talk about that."
"Then why would you go and see him?"
"Because he asked me dammit and he's my brother and when my fucked up brother who I never fucking see calls and asks me for coffee I go okay. Aren't you supposed to already know this stuff? Don't you people have satellites?"
"Mr Dangerfield you'll want to be calming down and helping us find your brother"
A breath. A pause. The careful hum of the light. "I saw him last Tuesday. He called me. Said he wanted to see me. We met at the tea house a block and a half away from me. I gave him some money and I haven't seen or heard from him since. We're not that close."
"How much money did you give him?"
Not enough.
Twenty four hours later
The phone clicked. The dial tone had changed into the faster tone, the one that lets you know you've waited too long to call someone. The tone oscillating and dancing next to Tarquin's ear then clicking silent. Tarquin dropped the phone and stared. The fog was clearing and the sun was showing the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. Tarquin sits. Osric is dead.
To be continued...
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
...right in the Sipowicz!
"Short term he oughtta settle for getting his head out of his ass."
-Andy Sipowicz, NYPD Blue.
The tea house lay on the corner of Fleet street and Harley. A block and a half down from apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four of the same long street and seemed to be made entirely of wood. The weather boards clothing the portly warren and sealing away the brick foundation from the public. Tarquin was a regular and would always try to act like one even though Chirpy Waitress thought that Tarquin wanted her every time he ordered at the counter. I want her. He felt that the added tension of her knowing that he wanted her and him knowing she knew he wanted her left a particular strain on the waitress/regular customer interaction thus making it difficult for him to relax his anus. When Tarquin got tense, his anus would too. That was the typical Tarquin/anus interaction. Am I tense because my anus is tense or is my anus tense because I'm tense?
How many times did I just think of the word anus just then? Five times? Is that too much? I think there might be something wrong with me.
"Sorry I'm late" the voice broke Tarquin from his worry and sat down opposite him. "Check out that waitress I'd totally tap that huh?" the voice talked at Tarquin as it took off it's coat and scarf. "Does she make you tense your asshole?"
"Shut the fuck up" hissed Tarquin "I wish I'd never fucking told you about that" leaning into the centre of the small table, a mix of ply wood and old milk crates glued and nailed together, a beacon to the theory that anyone label even the shittiest of things trendy. "You are such a cunt. I forgot how much of a cunt you are" Everytime Tarquin would throw the 'C' Word at the other side of the fusion of MDF and old Brownes' crates he would clench his teeth and take it off voice making it seem as though he was both allergic to something and mildly retarded.
"You're doing that allergic retard thing again do you realise this? I can't believe you still do that I thought you grew out of it after the shit I gave you in school?"
Tarquin took a breath and leant back into his chair, it was, like all the other chairs completely unique, the entire tea house looked like it had been requisitioned from countless estate auctions of countless dead little old ladies.
Before Tarquin could retaliate, the voice made a a pre-emptive strike onward "...never mind about that come on now listen I need some help here I met this girl and she seemed real nice but it turned out she was a bit of a junkie and one time you wouldn't believe this one time I was sleeping over at her place and I woke up the next morning and she was gone man like you wouldn't believe this she was totally gone like fucking disappeared but get a load of this like she totally stole my wallet it's fucking unbelievable..." Tarquin lifted his hand to the voice's face "Osric please. How much do you need?"
My anus is tense.
-Andy Sipowicz, NYPD Blue.
The tea house lay on the corner of Fleet street and Harley. A block and a half down from apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four of the same long street and seemed to be made entirely of wood. The weather boards clothing the portly warren and sealing away the brick foundation from the public. Tarquin was a regular and would always try to act like one even though Chirpy Waitress thought that Tarquin wanted her every time he ordered at the counter. I want her. He felt that the added tension of her knowing that he wanted her and him knowing she knew he wanted her left a particular strain on the waitress/regular customer interaction thus making it difficult for him to relax his anus. When Tarquin got tense, his anus would too. That was the typical Tarquin/anus interaction. Am I tense because my anus is tense or is my anus tense because I'm tense?
How many times did I just think of the word anus just then? Five times? Is that too much? I think there might be something wrong with me.
"Sorry I'm late" the voice broke Tarquin from his worry and sat down opposite him. "Check out that waitress I'd totally tap that huh?" the voice talked at Tarquin as it took off it's coat and scarf. "Does she make you tense your asshole?"
"Shut the fuck up" hissed Tarquin "I wish I'd never fucking told you about that" leaning into the centre of the small table, a mix of ply wood and old milk crates glued and nailed together, a beacon to the theory that anyone label even the shittiest of things trendy. "You are such a cunt. I forgot how much of a cunt you are" Everytime Tarquin would throw the 'C' Word at the other side of the fusion of MDF and old Brownes' crates he would clench his teeth and take it off voice making it seem as though he was both allergic to something and mildly retarded.
"You're doing that allergic retard thing again do you realise this? I can't believe you still do that I thought you grew out of it after the shit I gave you in school?"
Tarquin took a breath and leant back into his chair, it was, like all the other chairs completely unique, the entire tea house looked like it had been requisitioned from countless estate auctions of countless dead little old ladies.
Before Tarquin could retaliate, the voice made a a pre-emptive strike onward "...never mind about that come on now listen I need some help here I met this girl and she seemed real nice but it turned out she was a bit of a junkie and one time you wouldn't believe this one time I was sleeping over at her place and I woke up the next morning and she was gone man like you wouldn't believe this she was totally gone like fucking disappeared but get a load of this like she totally stole my wallet it's fucking unbelievable..." Tarquin lifted his hand to the voice's face "Osric please. How much do you need?"
My anus is tense.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 2
"Everybody's sin is nobody's sin, and everybody's crime is no crime at all."
- Alfred, Kinsey.
The city sprawls mercilessly on. A figure stands on the brink. Haze settles. The sun shows the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. In the Northern district the ugly remnants of last nights party painfully make their way home. The scars of the evening's revelry fresh. Machinery turns on to help clean away the fun had by others. Water falls, heavy, cold, strong.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street the silence is broken only by heavy, deep, clumsy breathing. The one man apartment is dark, a small slice of gold protrudes from the light left on in the toilet, a halo around the edges. Old food on old plates lie sleeping in an old sink, the last of the original kitchen, a beacon in a kitchen owing it's allegiance to the Swedes.
The slumber of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street is sharply disturbed by a fast, authoritative knock at the door. It becomes part of Tarquin's dream, the man with no face looking to the sound and telling Tarquin it's for him. Tarquin, who is clad only in his underwear goes to the door which bubbles and bleeds. The doorknob is frozen but useable. Another knock enters Tarquin's dream and it makes the door angry, it seethes and breathes and growls. A greater knock brings him back to apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, followed by a voice demanding he get up and open the door. What the fuck? Tarquin looks around and throws off his sheet. Stumbling, still half naked and half asleep he open the door.
"Tarquin Dangerfield?" Suited Man says showing him identification, Tarquin pretends to read it and nods, rubbing his left shoulder for something to do. "Sorry to disturb you Mr Dangerfield, we need to ask you a few questions" Tarquin staggers, he isn't wearing any pants. Where are my pants? "What's this about?"
"Please, if you wouldn't mind coming with us to the station. We need to ask you a few questions concerning Ozzie"
"Osric? Can't you ask him?"
"You're brother is missing Mr Dangerfield. Please come with us and we'll let you know all the details."
Where are my pants?
To be continued...
- Alfred, Kinsey.
The city sprawls mercilessly on. A figure stands on the brink. Haze settles. The sun shows the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. In the Northern district the ugly remnants of last nights party painfully make their way home. The scars of the evening's revelry fresh. Machinery turns on to help clean away the fun had by others. Water falls, heavy, cold, strong.
In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street the silence is broken only by heavy, deep, clumsy breathing. The one man apartment is dark, a small slice of gold protrudes from the light left on in the toilet, a halo around the edges. Old food on old plates lie sleeping in an old sink, the last of the original kitchen, a beacon in a kitchen owing it's allegiance to the Swedes.
The slumber of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street is sharply disturbed by a fast, authoritative knock at the door. It becomes part of Tarquin's dream, the man with no face looking to the sound and telling Tarquin it's for him. Tarquin, who is clad only in his underwear goes to the door which bubbles and bleeds. The doorknob is frozen but useable. Another knock enters Tarquin's dream and it makes the door angry, it seethes and breathes and growls. A greater knock brings him back to apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, followed by a voice demanding he get up and open the door. What the fuck? Tarquin looks around and throws off his sheet. Stumbling, still half naked and half asleep he open the door.
"Tarquin Dangerfield?" Suited Man says showing him identification, Tarquin pretends to read it and nods, rubbing his left shoulder for something to do. "Sorry to disturb you Mr Dangerfield, we need to ask you a few questions" Tarquin staggers, he isn't wearing any pants. Where are my pants? "What's this about?"
"Please, if you wouldn't mind coming with us to the station. We need to ask you a few questions concerning Ozzie"
"Osric? Can't you ask him?"
"You're brother is missing Mr Dangerfield. Please come with us and we'll let you know all the details."
Where are my pants?
To be continued...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Bile and Turpentine.
"Oh, as if you had no choice? There's a moment, there's always a moment, "I can do this, I can give into this, or I can resist it", and I don't know when your moment was, but I bet you there was one."
-Alice, Closer.
Tarquin sits in the old car, the windows opaque with condensation. The rain washes outside. The white, stark lights of nearby strip malls and service stations glitter in the distance through the water running down the windshield. Tarquin sits. His eye is enlarged; the surrounding skin red and broken. His nose runs and the eye can't stop weeping. Tarquin tries to touch it but finds out he can't. He squeezes his Ventolin inhaler, hands shaking, empty. "...fuck" he throws the Ventolin inhaler at the windscreen, bouncing and reflecting around the tight confines of the old Ford.
How did this happen?
One and a half hours ago
"I'm just not feeling it, you know?" Blonde Haired Girl said looking blankly at Tarq. He had let his hair grow longer for some reason and as a result his head seemed larger with the added hair of relatively unremarkable colour. This was all Tarquin could think about while Blonde Haired Girl sat and stared at him for a reply. "Great." Tarquin mouth farted. Blonde Haired Girl's eyes mixed in an orgy of uncertainty then settled to meet Tarquin's apathy, after all, that was what first attracted him to her. Blonde Haired Girl leaves the silence leaving Tarquin in his.
Sigh.
An hour ago
He walks, the lights of the nearby strips malls and service stations under lighting the approaching dark clouds, there is still the faint hint that the sun has set only moments ago. Rain in the distance, appearing to evaporate before getting close to the ground it's over. Tropical. Tarquin looks to a sound of a man, yelling. A brief sound underneath that sounded familiarly female. Tarquin looks to see if anyone else is around who can care about it so he doesn't have to. No one. He swallows hard and squeezes his Ventolin.
I need more.
45 minutes ago
The two small men seem to encircle her. One wears jeans, one has a beanie sporting an Aussie Rules team. The other has a tight t-shirt, it has something in Latin on it and faux worn print. Blonde Haired Girl stands, her bag on the sweating bitumen. Blonde Haired Girl is pricked up. Blonde Haired Girl stands, pricked up like a cat. "Do you need some help?" The Two Small Men look to the sound.
Oh no.
10 minutes ago
His keys slip through his red hands. The rain is thick and cold. Tarquin awkwardly bends down, falling onto all fours next to the old Ford. The cool of the bitumen against his palms. Tarquin drools and picks up his keys, the taste of iron and wine on his tongue. The old Ford lets Tarquin in and he slumps to the seat, his wet jumper compressing and releasing it's contents on the back of the old velour seat. After watching him being beaten she said thank you. She offered him a ride. She smiled and said she would call him to make sure he's okay. She thanked him again. Tarquin leaves the silence leaving Emily in hers.
20 minutes later
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. Tarquin sits on the couch that folds out into a futon. Tarquin sleeps. Tarquin feels good. Tarquin is a hero.
Tarquin is a hero.
-Alice, Closer.
Tarquin sits in the old car, the windows opaque with condensation. The rain washes outside. The white, stark lights of nearby strip malls and service stations glitter in the distance through the water running down the windshield. Tarquin sits. His eye is enlarged; the surrounding skin red and broken. His nose runs and the eye can't stop weeping. Tarquin tries to touch it but finds out he can't. He squeezes his Ventolin inhaler, hands shaking, empty. "...fuck" he throws the Ventolin inhaler at the windscreen, bouncing and reflecting around the tight confines of the old Ford.
How did this happen?
One and a half hours ago
"I'm just not feeling it, you know?" Blonde Haired Girl said looking blankly at Tarq. He had let his hair grow longer for some reason and as a result his head seemed larger with the added hair of relatively unremarkable colour. This was all Tarquin could think about while Blonde Haired Girl sat and stared at him for a reply. "Great." Tarquin mouth farted. Blonde Haired Girl's eyes mixed in an orgy of uncertainty then settled to meet Tarquin's apathy, after all, that was what first attracted him to her. Blonde Haired Girl leaves the silence leaving Tarquin in his.
Sigh.
An hour ago
He walks, the lights of the nearby strips malls and service stations under lighting the approaching dark clouds, there is still the faint hint that the sun has set only moments ago. Rain in the distance, appearing to evaporate before getting close to the ground it's over. Tropical. Tarquin looks to a sound of a man, yelling. A brief sound underneath that sounded familiarly female. Tarquin looks to see if anyone else is around who can care about it so he doesn't have to. No one. He swallows hard and squeezes his Ventolin.
I need more.
45 minutes ago
The two small men seem to encircle her. One wears jeans, one has a beanie sporting an Aussie Rules team. The other has a tight t-shirt, it has something in Latin on it and faux worn print. Blonde Haired Girl stands, her bag on the sweating bitumen. Blonde Haired Girl is pricked up. Blonde Haired Girl stands, pricked up like a cat. "Do you need some help?" The Two Small Men look to the sound.
Oh no.
10 minutes ago
His keys slip through his red hands. The rain is thick and cold. Tarquin awkwardly bends down, falling onto all fours next to the old Ford. The cool of the bitumen against his palms. Tarquin drools and picks up his keys, the taste of iron and wine on his tongue. The old Ford lets Tarquin in and he slumps to the seat, his wet jumper compressing and releasing it's contents on the back of the old velour seat. After watching him being beaten she said thank you. She offered him a ride. She smiled and said she would call him to make sure he's okay. She thanked him again. Tarquin leaves the silence leaving Emily in hers.
20 minutes later
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. Tarquin sits on the couch that folds out into a futon. Tarquin sleeps. Tarquin feels good. Tarquin is a hero.
Tarquin is a hero.
Monday, May 26, 2008
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt
"You are what you love, not what loves you, I decided that a long time ago."
-Donald Kaufman, Adaptation.
Tarquin puts down his pen to drain the last of the grainy blackness from his cup and wipes the corner of his mouth. "Thanks a lot!" Chirpy Waitress spurts as she steals away the empty. Tarquin smiles, for a split second catches the eyes of Chirpy Waitress. "Thanks a lot" Tarquin replies, immediately wishing he hadn't. Chirpy Waitress pretends to ignore him and walks away. Why do I want to fall in love with every woman that shows me the least bit of attention? Tarquin puts his imitation Moleskine into his bag and begins to leave.
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. The one hundred dollar a week apartment is colder than the outside and feels like another person besides the young Tarquin hasn't stepped into it's austere embrace for some time. He travels to the bathroom, coffee always makes me wee. Tarquin's satchel lay open; his cheap fake notebook lay exposed, the rounded corners resting out, glasses and various painkillers rolling in slow motion under the couch that folds out into a futon.
I may have done something bad. Something I may have underestimated and not fully understood. But now I'm in it and I have no idea where I stand. All I know now is that I am now responsible for some one's misery. It seems I can now scratch that one off the list. The sad truth is, that one may have been scratched off the list a long time ago and I may not have even realised it.
To be continued...
-Donald Kaufman, Adaptation.
Tarquin puts down his pen to drain the last of the grainy blackness from his cup and wipes the corner of his mouth. "Thanks a lot!" Chirpy Waitress spurts as she steals away the empty. Tarquin smiles, for a split second catches the eyes of Chirpy Waitress. "Thanks a lot" Tarquin replies, immediately wishing he hadn't. Chirpy Waitress pretends to ignore him and walks away. Why do I want to fall in love with every woman that shows me the least bit of attention? Tarquin puts his imitation Moleskine into his bag and begins to leave.
The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. The one hundred dollar a week apartment is colder than the outside and feels like another person besides the young Tarquin hasn't stepped into it's austere embrace for some time. He travels to the bathroom, coffee always makes me wee. Tarquin's satchel lay open; his cheap fake notebook lay exposed, the rounded corners resting out, glasses and various painkillers rolling in slow motion under the couch that folds out into a futon.
I may have done something bad. Something I may have underestimated and not fully understood. But now I'm in it and I have no idea where I stand. All I know now is that I am now responsible for some one's misery. It seems I can now scratch that one off the list. The sad truth is, that one may have been scratched off the list a long time ago and I may not have even realised it.
To be continued...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
No, I am Spartacus!
My aging computer constantly spirals into the dark, tartan depths of obsolescence and groans as the once mighty machine opens the ever pretentious iTunes. I find my artist of choice amongst my dense Forrest of music and I begin.
I generally write with music, I find it helps me think. Of recent I have found Radiohead's latest album In Rainbows quite fruitful and recommend it to anyone. But it doesn't just help me think but also greatly influences my writing.
That is why I have decided to see if this little experiment will work. It's part to better my writing abilities and part to see if anyone actually reads this poor excuse for a blog (which this with any luck boosts the content and gives the blog more substance than just an excuse for a small angry man to vent his frustrations in a tawdry and pretentious manner.)
Comment on this post with any musical suggestion, I will find it, if I don't have it I will get it and I will write a short story while playing only that piece. I will do this every fortnight, starting with the first suggestion I get. The stories may be fiction or non fiction and with any luck will reflect what music was playing through the old 80's speakers that I rescued from a garage sale when I was 15 years old.
With any luck, it won't be shit. So please, throw some at me, I will choose one at random and begin.
With any luck, it won't be shit.
NOTE: Submit comments by clicking the small link saying comment. I really shouldn't need to put this note but hey, kids these days.
I generally write with music, I find it helps me think. Of recent I have found Radiohead's latest album In Rainbows quite fruitful and recommend it to anyone. But it doesn't just help me think but also greatly influences my writing.
That is why I have decided to see if this little experiment will work. It's part to better my writing abilities and part to see if anyone actually reads this poor excuse for a blog (which this with any luck boosts the content and gives the blog more substance than just an excuse for a small angry man to vent his frustrations in a tawdry and pretentious manner.)
Comment on this post with any musical suggestion, I will find it, if I don't have it I will get it and I will write a short story while playing only that piece. I will do this every fortnight, starting with the first suggestion I get. The stories may be fiction or non fiction and with any luck will reflect what music was playing through the old 80's speakers that I rescued from a garage sale when I was 15 years old.
With any luck, it won't be shit. So please, throw some at me, I will choose one at random and begin.
With any luck, it won't be shit.
NOTE: Submit comments by clicking the small link saying comment. I really shouldn't need to put this note but hey, kids these days.
Friday, April 25, 2008
The National Anthem
He puts the iron down and pulls himself through his warm, crisp pinstripe collared shirt. He's got a nice pair of slacks on, some affordable yet expensive looking square toed shoes that he picked up at an affordable yet expensive looking shop in the city two weeks ago. His hair is gelled, his teeth are white, his undercurrent of rage bubbles away, unrelenting beneath.
Where does he go? Where can possibly satiate his lust for goodtimes? Where can he go to pick up? Where the women bubble with the same rage?
The atmosphere was palpable when for the first time in 6 years I walked past the fast food burger place on Stirling st and entered what I liken to the place God ate some expensive food, pulled down his trousers and squeezed out a fat turd onto Perth.
We had been taken (against our good judgement) to a party in Claremont. This party turned out sour and so a friend and I took our leave and walked down the street to the party area of the illustrious suburb. A man passed in a blur, chased on by another with a police issued baton, girls shreaking and worrying behind them. We walked on.
One bar had a line like it was to get into a ride at Disney land, except the kids are jostling and shouting and beating the shit out of eachother while others attend a nearby hotdog stand that's sole buisness is said line. We walked on.
We went into another bar and began the usual pilgrimage to the bar for drinks. At the bar there was a tender who was the angriest person I have ever seen in the Hostility industry. He couldn't even do his job properly because he was so angry, kept breaking glasses. I don't know about you but I love my drinks served with a side of seething hatred. It's very easy to get pissed off when you work in the Hostility Industry but I worked in it for nearly 4 years and I was never has openly hostile as that young lad before us. After receiving a gin with the least amount of gin I have ever seen. We walked on.
At another bar I spent half an hour talking to two girls who's enquired as to wether I was gay or not. Now I can forgive them for this because I am definately not the most manly man in the history of men. I don't give a shit about cars or football, I like clothes, the arts and have the arms of a 13 year old. But the reason they gave me as to why they thought I was homosexual was not these things. It was because I was enjoying myself, I was outgoing, loud, laughing, generally doing what I do when I am in good company and well oiled with liquor. To me that shows that something is not right in your life if these are your reasons for making assumptions on others sexuality. We walked on.
It's a completely different world to what I experience. These guys and girls are rich and miserable and angry. They go out for a what they brand A Good Time and the result couldn't be further from the truth. Wether they hate their job, their studies, the fact that they are trapped in a predetermined life set forth by their family or themselves. They use alcohol as a means to escape and it only serves as the only release of these emotions. Claremont prides itself as a bastion of good taste and opulence. But beneath the façade is a place uglier and more perilous than other low socio economic suburbs like the ever vilified Balga. A place where boys hang out with boys and girls hang out with girls, conversing only when it serves the need to breed. The fact that I was having a great time with both male and female and fucking laughing and smiling and therefore I must not be interested in females reinforces this statement. Being a miserable cunt must be so in right now. In Claremont's case. I Walked on.
This may sound like a practise in arrogance and over inflated sense of self. But I honestly wasn't expecting to find that in Claremont. Maybe I am too old for my age, if so when did I become such a jaded old bastard stuck in the body of underdeveloped 24 year old? I don't mean to sound this way, I really just don't get it. Something Daniel Kitson said when I saw him MC one night at the Hifi Bar comes to mind and I'm not sure its totally relevant or suitable to sum up with but fuck it. If your boyfriend is an asshole that likes to get in fights then you are just as much of an asshole as he. Because only an asshole wants to hang out with other assholes. So walk on.
Where does he go? Where can possibly satiate his lust for goodtimes? Where can he go to pick up? Where the women bubble with the same rage?
The atmosphere was palpable when for the first time in 6 years I walked past the fast food burger place on Stirling st and entered what I liken to the place God ate some expensive food, pulled down his trousers and squeezed out a fat turd onto Perth.
We had been taken (against our good judgement) to a party in Claremont. This party turned out sour and so a friend and I took our leave and walked down the street to the party area of the illustrious suburb. A man passed in a blur, chased on by another with a police issued baton, girls shreaking and worrying behind them. We walked on.
One bar had a line like it was to get into a ride at Disney land, except the kids are jostling and shouting and beating the shit out of eachother while others attend a nearby hotdog stand that's sole buisness is said line. We walked on.
We went into another bar and began the usual pilgrimage to the bar for drinks. At the bar there was a tender who was the angriest person I have ever seen in the Hostility industry. He couldn't even do his job properly because he was so angry, kept breaking glasses. I don't know about you but I love my drinks served with a side of seething hatred. It's very easy to get pissed off when you work in the Hostility Industry but I worked in it for nearly 4 years and I was never has openly hostile as that young lad before us. After receiving a gin with the least amount of gin I have ever seen. We walked on.
At another bar I spent half an hour talking to two girls who's enquired as to wether I was gay or not. Now I can forgive them for this because I am definately not the most manly man in the history of men. I don't give a shit about cars or football, I like clothes, the arts and have the arms of a 13 year old. But the reason they gave me as to why they thought I was homosexual was not these things. It was because I was enjoying myself, I was outgoing, loud, laughing, generally doing what I do when I am in good company and well oiled with liquor. To me that shows that something is not right in your life if these are your reasons for making assumptions on others sexuality. We walked on.
It's a completely different world to what I experience. These guys and girls are rich and miserable and angry. They go out for a what they brand A Good Time and the result couldn't be further from the truth. Wether they hate their job, their studies, the fact that they are trapped in a predetermined life set forth by their family or themselves. They use alcohol as a means to escape and it only serves as the only release of these emotions. Claremont prides itself as a bastion of good taste and opulence. But beneath the façade is a place uglier and more perilous than other low socio economic suburbs like the ever vilified Balga. A place where boys hang out with boys and girls hang out with girls, conversing only when it serves the need to breed. The fact that I was having a great time with both male and female and fucking laughing and smiling and therefore I must not be interested in females reinforces this statement. Being a miserable cunt must be so in right now. In Claremont's case. I Walked on.
This may sound like a practise in arrogance and over inflated sense of self. But I honestly wasn't expecting to find that in Claremont. Maybe I am too old for my age, if so when did I become such a jaded old bastard stuck in the body of underdeveloped 24 year old? I don't mean to sound this way, I really just don't get it. Something Daniel Kitson said when I saw him MC one night at the Hifi Bar comes to mind and I'm not sure its totally relevant or suitable to sum up with but fuck it. If your boyfriend is an asshole that likes to get in fights then you are just as much of an asshole as he. Because only an asshole wants to hang out with other assholes. So walk on.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
15 Step
20 odd shows. 26 nights. 18 odd gigs. 20 good people. Too many litres. Spell check tells me I've spelt litre wrong. I know when I'm right. Except for when I'm wrong in which case I think I'm right until I realise I'm wrong. Stupid American spell check.
I can say that because I am an Australian/American, unlike one comedian I saw at the Hifi who thought that because he lived there once for a year he thinks it's okay for the first thing to leave his mouth when he came out on stage to be "I hate Americans. Who here hates Americans?" to which a gaggle of ignorant morons reply with woots and yeahs. It would be a completely different story if he came out and said "I hate Jews. Who here hates Jews?" I'm not saying that Jews have it sweet but to come out on stage and the first thing that you expound to the audience is "I hate Americans" says to me that you have some mighty fine blinders on. After all, whether you like it or not people we are America Lite. The fact that I sit here typing this with a Krispy Kreme doughnut by my side only serves to reinforce my statement. It's not as though by saying this I am advocating the outrageous violations to both basic Human rights and decency that the United States has and will commit. All I am saying is that in 100 years people will look back with mouths a gasp and fists clenched at the US and we will be right there beside it. This notion that Australians are somewhat better, holier, less to blame than our American counterparts is true only in our fiction loving minds. We followed the President like we followed the Queen into Gallipoli and for that ladies and gentlemen we can only blame ourselves and those bodies which represent us. It is a sad fact that Internationally, Australians are becoming social pariahs just as much as our annoying soya mocha latte decaff with a twist Yankee brothers and sisters. But no. It's so much easier to hate than to acknowledge that we are becoming more and more similar ever day and try to make a change from there. But it's so much easier.
When it boils down to it, it's just plain racist. It's just us and them. Which is awesome. It makes me proud to be Human. If you're not part of the problem you're part of the bigger nastier all encompassing problem that will ensure the ultimate destruction of us all. "I'm not racist. I love black people. But I fucken' hate Americans"
One more night. 3 more shows. 20 good people. Too many litres.
A long way to go.
I can say that because I am an Australian/American, unlike one comedian I saw at the Hifi who thought that because he lived there once for a year he thinks it's okay for the first thing to leave his mouth when he came out on stage to be "I hate Americans. Who here hates Americans?" to which a gaggle of ignorant morons reply with woots and yeahs. It would be a completely different story if he came out and said "I hate Jews. Who here hates Jews?" I'm not saying that Jews have it sweet but to come out on stage and the first thing that you expound to the audience is "I hate Americans" says to me that you have some mighty fine blinders on. After all, whether you like it or not people we are America Lite. The fact that I sit here typing this with a Krispy Kreme doughnut by my side only serves to reinforce my statement. It's not as though by saying this I am advocating the outrageous violations to both basic Human rights and decency that the United States has and will commit. All I am saying is that in 100 years people will look back with mouths a gasp and fists clenched at the US and we will be right there beside it. This notion that Australians are somewhat better, holier, less to blame than our American counterparts is true only in our fiction loving minds. We followed the President like we followed the Queen into Gallipoli and for that ladies and gentlemen we can only blame ourselves and those bodies which represent us. It is a sad fact that Internationally, Australians are becoming social pariahs just as much as our annoying soya mocha latte decaff with a twist Yankee brothers and sisters. But no. It's so much easier to hate than to acknowledge that we are becoming more and more similar ever day and try to make a change from there. But it's so much easier.
When it boils down to it, it's just plain racist. It's just us and them. Which is awesome. It makes me proud to be Human. If you're not part of the problem you're part of the bigger nastier all encompassing problem that will ensure the ultimate destruction of us all. "I'm not racist. I love black people. But I fucken' hate Americans"
One more night. 3 more shows. 20 good people. Too many litres.
A long way to go.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Coffee and Cigarettes
There isn't much time as I must go and flyer in twenty minutes. The air is warm and wet, like when you put a wet towel over your head and lie in the sun by the pool for too long. Melbourne was supposed to be cold. I didn't buy an expensive jacket just to carry it around with me all the time dammit.
In 2006 I came here. I was at The Trades Hall one night. Cold night. We were all sitting at a long bench table, drinking $4.00 pints of Mountain Goat. There were multiple jazz cigarettes being passed around. A ragtime band played and a gorgeous woman dancing on our table. I remember Xavier, Horabin and I looking at eachother. Awesome. That was a moment. A point. We felt like the lords of our creation.
In 2008 I have had many more of those moments and I haven't even been here a week. The festival is magic. There is no way else to put it. In my previous post I wrote about a perfect moment. The conditions being just right for that moment to exist. Here the conditions are ripe.
A man could live in a place like this. A man could be happy with his lot no matter how large or small.
I have ten minutes left.
I have another week and a half here in the place of Melbourne. I have to admit that at the rate I am going that prospect does exhaust me somewhat. But, there are more exciting things coming. More shows to see. More places to go. Trades Hall awaits. Improv awaits. Krispy Kreme awaits.
I have eight minutes left. But by the time I proof read, pack up and walk down the the Town Hall it will be time to get to work. The conditions are ripe. The Lords are waiting.
In 2006 I came here. I was at The Trades Hall one night. Cold night. We were all sitting at a long bench table, drinking $4.00 pints of Mountain Goat. There were multiple jazz cigarettes being passed around. A ragtime band played and a gorgeous woman dancing on our table. I remember Xavier, Horabin and I looking at eachother. Awesome. That was a moment. A point. We felt like the lords of our creation.
In 2008 I have had many more of those moments and I haven't even been here a week. The festival is magic. There is no way else to put it. In my previous post I wrote about a perfect moment. The conditions being just right for that moment to exist. Here the conditions are ripe.
A man could live in a place like this. A man could be happy with his lot no matter how large or small.
I have ten minutes left.
I have another week and a half here in the place of Melbourne. I have to admit that at the rate I am going that prospect does exhaust me somewhat. But, there are more exciting things coming. More shows to see. More places to go. Trades Hall awaits. Improv awaits. Krispy Kreme awaits.
I have eight minutes left. But by the time I proof read, pack up and walk down the the Town Hall it will be time to get to work. The conditions are ripe. The Lords are waiting.
Monday, March 17, 2008
I Drink Your Milkshake
One day I was walking on James st in Northbridge. I was passing that nightclub next to the Brass Monkey. One of those nightclubs that kept changing it's name every three months. It was TIME for a while then something else, then DV8. Who calls a nightclub DV8 and isn't the kind of person that sits in the park and stares at women passing for 6 hours? I ask you. It was like someone just had alot of money from our recent Boom and just went "Fuck it, I'm going to make a club so that I don't have to sit in the park. I'll make them come here. Then we can stare at them and get them drunk". Awesome. I don't know about you but I when I come into Port from fighting badguys I would definitely go to Northbridge - more importantly - I want to go to the one that has painted my flag right across their club, then tried to paint over it, only to do half of it and then leave it so that there is just white and red stripes - the Swiss sailors love that shit.
Anyway, I digress. I was walking past DV8 or whatever the fuck it was called at that point. What do the owners think?
"Business isn't so great Sampson. What should we do?"
"Change the name, that'll fix our monetary woes"
Awesomeness.
Anyway, I digress. I was walking past that place that I love and there was a promotional poster for some HipHop night, Presumably on at the HipHop Capital of Australia DV8 or whatever the fuck it was called at that point. In true HipHop style there was a pretty lady (I say "Pretty lady" with my generic European accent in my head as I type it... Pretty lady... Gets me everytime).
Anyway, I digress. But not really if you think about it. Actually you don't need to think about it because it is quite obvious that I wasn't digressing then, I just said it to fill up time and feel better about how much I wrote today. Well Done Ben!
Anyway, I digress. At that precise moment a young man was skate boarding and he stopped at the poster. I stopped. He looked at the poster. And without looking to see if someone was looking he reached up and touched the pretty lady (Oh Edwardo) on her 2 dimenional breast. The man; who shall be called Faceman from now on, then mumbled something and took off leaving nothing but a confused Ben and a felt up poster.
Then. the other day I was standing at a bus stop waiting for it's namesake to come, when the same thing happened again. Sans Faceman and his crazy skateboard antics of course. This time this older guy; who shall now be called Mr Catcher Fellowgood, was standing next to the advertisement - which was for Sultana Bran or some shit - looked at the poster, then proceeded to reach and grab the glassy 2 dimensional breast of the chick who was happier and more successful because she ate Sultana Bran or some shit. He didn't even care if someone was watching. Which they were. They being me.
Is there something that these ladies of advertising are offering that I am not aware of?Mr Fellowgood, Faceman, if youby some cosmic transaction stumble upon and read my fair internets page you should be ashamed of yourselves. Those ladies didn't do anything except try to inform you about what was going on and all you did was tarnish their good reputation and disrespect them by copping a feel. Now if you excuse me, I am going to touch pictures of myself... I think I even freaked myself out when I said that.
Anyway, I digress.
Anyway, I digress. I was walking past DV8 or whatever the fuck it was called at that point. What do the owners think?
"Business isn't so great Sampson. What should we do?"
"Change the name, that'll fix our monetary woes"
Awesomeness.
Anyway, I digress. I was walking past that place that I love and there was a promotional poster for some HipHop night, Presumably on at the HipHop Capital of Australia DV8 or whatever the fuck it was called at that point. In true HipHop style there was a pretty lady (I say "Pretty lady" with my generic European accent in my head as I type it... Pretty lady... Gets me everytime).
Anyway, I digress. But not really if you think about it. Actually you don't need to think about it because it is quite obvious that I wasn't digressing then, I just said it to fill up time and feel better about how much I wrote today. Well Done Ben!
Anyway, I digress. At that precise moment a young man was skate boarding and he stopped at the poster. I stopped. He looked at the poster. And without looking to see if someone was looking he reached up and touched the pretty lady (Oh Edwardo) on her 2 dimenional breast. The man; who shall be called Faceman from now on, then mumbled something and took off leaving nothing but a confused Ben and a felt up poster.
Then. the other day I was standing at a bus stop waiting for it's namesake to come, when the same thing happened again. Sans Faceman and his crazy skateboard antics of course. This time this older guy; who shall now be called Mr Catcher Fellowgood, was standing next to the advertisement - which was for Sultana Bran or some shit - looked at the poster, then proceeded to reach and grab the glassy 2 dimensional breast of the chick who was happier and more successful because she ate Sultana Bran or some shit. He didn't even care if someone was watching. Which they were. They being me.
Is there something that these ladies of advertising are offering that I am not aware of?Mr Fellowgood, Faceman, if youby some cosmic transaction stumble upon and read my fair internets page you should be ashamed of yourselves. Those ladies didn't do anything except try to inform you about what was going on and all you did was tarnish their good reputation and disrespect them by copping a feel. Now if you excuse me, I am going to touch pictures of myself... I think I even freaked myself out when I said that.
Anyway, I digress.
Fire at Heart
Another piece of old white fence is sacrificed to the fire. The drink; a mixture of grains and dry ginger ale. Laughter and talk. The Chalk Circle is over and I need to pack. A moment. A perfect one. I smile and laugh, drunkenly. It's been too long between. Laughter and talk. Perfect.
I awake hydrophilic. Stomach hates me. Head hates me. Totally worth it. The long shower is fitting. The shower that you lean your head on the tiles and let the water wash over you. The rhythm of the shower. I need to brush my teeth.
I have a place that I need to go to but I'm not in any hurry. I need to pack. This year seems to be learning. I'm really enjoying this year. I think she and I are going to get on just fine. I think we should go steady. Did I wake up with all my clothes still on this morning? I must have been drunk. I have been getting very drunk recently. I blame the grains. Last night was brilliant. One of those nights that everything comes together. Like a perfect storm or jacket or flat white. I look around the circle which the fire is at heart. This is what my life should be; friends, fire and music. Last night was brilliant.
If I met with my younger self I think he'd be happy to see me. Granted he may be a bit pissed off with 2002 and 2003. But with good reason. I think he'd be happy with what he would become. I am. Sure there are many things I want, have, need to do to better myself and rightly so. But at the moment, at the young stage of this Rat. I think it is off to a very good start.
Thanks for reading this Blog, I realise it isn't the most entertaining thing in the world and you could be watching reruns of House. But you have chosen to take a small amount of time to read over the nonsensical ramblings of a small man who will undoubedly grow up to be a crazy old small man. But really who could think of a better way to be. Laughter and talk.
I need to pack.
I awake hydrophilic. Stomach hates me. Head hates me. Totally worth it. The long shower is fitting. The shower that you lean your head on the tiles and let the water wash over you. The rhythm of the shower. I need to brush my teeth.
I have a place that I need to go to but I'm not in any hurry. I need to pack. This year seems to be learning. I'm really enjoying this year. I think she and I are going to get on just fine. I think we should go steady. Did I wake up with all my clothes still on this morning? I must have been drunk. I have been getting very drunk recently. I blame the grains. Last night was brilliant. One of those nights that everything comes together. Like a perfect storm or jacket or flat white. I look around the circle which the fire is at heart. This is what my life should be; friends, fire and music. Last night was brilliant.
If I met with my younger self I think he'd be happy to see me. Granted he may be a bit pissed off with 2002 and 2003. But with good reason. I think he'd be happy with what he would become. I am. Sure there are many things I want, have, need to do to better myself and rightly so. But at the moment, at the young stage of this Rat. I think it is off to a very good start.
Thanks for reading this Blog, I realise it isn't the most entertaining thing in the world and you could be watching reruns of House. But you have chosen to take a small amount of time to read over the nonsensical ramblings of a small man who will undoubedly grow up to be a crazy old small man. But really who could think of a better way to be. Laughter and talk.
I need to pack.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Projection on to Plaster
Its 1:00am, my computer fan sounds like someone is breathing on a mirror so they can write a message, a message that will fade away and disappear. But this sound doesn't, it stays. The message stays. The bulb is too strong. Even the dull mother-of-pearl light shade cannot stem its unrelenting stream. My fingers smell of onion. The rich smell of Ben fills my room, everyone has a smell. It's chemistry.
As I get older I seem to be becoming more and more disappointed with who I become. Yet this doesn't seem to worry me. It's inevitable. The child that you were will always be twice the man you are now. That's why I always remember back with a grin. Yes, there were bad days just like there are now; the time me and a kid from the Cricket team I was on were messing about in the car and his finger 
got caught in the door, and no matter how much I yelled and how much he screamed no one seemed to hear. No one seemed to care. That was not a good day. Nor was the day I was running through the big concrete pipes we had in the play ground and a friend tripped me up by accident. I cried. The lad who was chasing me cried. My friend said sorry. Yet I chose to blame it on the lad who was chasing me. I knew it was my own fault, yet I blamed it on him. For some reason I still harbour a great shame about that incident. The boy's crying, helpless face still burnt into my mind like a bright light in closed eyes. A bright unrelenting stream. Though these were not the proudest moment of my childhood, the best moments far outweigh and outlast the worst. I wish I could remember the kid from the Cricket team's name. 
Here in lies the contraction.
To be disappointed in friends. That is the worst. It upsets me so that I have no fantastic story, no quirky metaphor, nothing to show for it. Nothing but a noisy computer fan that is about to end it's secret little message in the mirror.
Reckoner
The couch's right arm is torn, empty bottles and a fold out rocking chair; the weave tired and frayed. A mural on the wall next to it; a small word in the right hand corner where the fibro meets the concrete reads Vortex. I call it my Extra Dimensional Portal. I don't know who created the Portal, nor do I dare use it. Waking up to a knock on the door late at night. I open it and there stands a man dressed in a white cube and a pyramid for a hat. He looks at me wide eyed and lets out a tone. In Cube Man speak this is hello, but I don't know because I don't speak Cube Man speak. I sigh, bleary "You must go back. You don't belong here. You must return" Cube Man looks sad, but I can't be sure because I don't know how Cube Man shows his feelings. He returns to Cube World. One day I will go through the portal, one day I will visit Cube World and no one will be able to understand me because they don't speak my speech or read how I feel, but I will go anyway. I go because I am curious, I go because I think it will be fun, however co
nfusing, however frustrating, however scary.I have made mistakes in my life, I have disappointed people, hurt people, angered people, yelled at people, made people sad. Sometimes I realise this, sometimes I am ignorant or oblivious to this, sometimes I don't care, sometimes I do. I realised later that I have hurt the Cube Man, I realise that he will go home and tell his Cube Wife and Cube Brothers and Cube Sisters that beyond the Portal is a small half naked young man that speaks in croaks and staggers, a young man that even after extending the olive branch of peace and salutations pointed to what he called his Extra Dimensional Portal and grunted in an unknown tongue for him to leave. At first the Cube man was unsure, maybe it was a question, maybe a jubilation. But even though he did not speak my speech or know my ways, even he; the Cube Man, the explorer, the brave one, even he knew. Even he was hurt, and I realised.
I have hurt some people, whether they be Cube or not. For that I apologise. Sometimes I have said sorry and not meant it or felt begrudged or pressured or forced by guilt or circumstance. But I am sorry. Not for personal redemption or to curry favour. But because I am.
Sorry Cube Man. The day I go to the Cube World I hope you can forgive me.
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