I remember post-it notes on my front door
and a tight black costume
but before then there was nothing
though perhaps some knocking
local kids
the passing of time
unmarked
by pumpkins
or slutty outfits.
I think I'll wear a costume this year
something bold and
perhaps unrecognisable
to most of you
a superhero
or something
active
strong
assertive.
Yeah,
I think I'll go as
myself.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
I'm Not In The Habit Of Making Friends With Ferrets
So, I'm being dragged down Brunswick St by this big eyed beagle X when I'm stopped in my tracks by a familiar face. His name is Allan, and he's a ferret, frozen into an unnatural position and glued to a piece of wood, half snarling at me and staring, glassy eyed through the window of the second hand shop, up near the big intersection with Alexandra parade.
Now let's not get our wires crossed, Allan and I have never met. I'm not in the habit of making friends with ferrets. And yet, I did say familiar, didn't I?
Let me explain. It's not Allan himself who is familiar to me. It's that glassy eyed stare I used to stare back at in those stolen summers I've mentioned before, perhaps you can remember? Perhaps you can't. But that's beside the point. It's that glassy eyed stare, the frozen limbs, once live and quivering now stuffed and mounted. That taxidermists captive, that kept-behind-glass demeanour.
He sat bolt upright, proudly holding an acorn, tail perfectly curled into an S shape, carrying no sense of the violent death that must have befallen him. That always intrigued me. I think my mother told me he'd been shot. I couldn't conceive of just how. Tiny bullets? Expert stitching? Black magic?
This little guy never had a name. I never gave him one. I guess we weren't really that close.
And this summer- I mean, a real summer, in the sense of it being an English summer, not an Australian summer lost translation and timezones, transmogrified into a promise of snow and sledding with days as short as your father's temper- this proper English summer, sun shower soaked bunting and sprawling strawberry plants, he was gone. No one seemed to know where. Just another thing displaced during the chaos of family deaths, relatives rummaging, rash decisions where the past slips past us, disintegrating like old fabric into dust.
I never gave him a name.
But I spent hours, wondering what sort of life he had led, wondering if the little red squirrels that you'd see occasionally on the Heath, rarely now, were descendants. Wondered if they ever peeked in the window from a branch of that old tree (surely you know the one? I suppose you probably don't, but if you paid attention you'd know exactly). I don't suppose they'd give a damn, I doubt squirrels have that much of an interest in genealogy. In family trees? That's a terrible joke, but you know that old tree carries my family's history too. My family, dying out like the red squirrels, that you hardly ever see any more.
I spent hours looking through that glass at the face of extinction, of death. And that's what I see staring back at me from the window of that second hand shop up near Alexandra Parade. Death. Extinction. The past slipping past us.
I want to take his picture- Allan's picture. I don't know why. I mean, other than to run it through instagram, post it on twitter along with my faux-artsy shots of flowers and coffee and pictures where the filter has made me look younger and prettier. I would have done the same for Allan, it's only fair- he'd have come out looking quite dapper- he might have even looked lifelike.
But there's someone cleaning graffiti off the step and the smell of disinfectant is overwhelming and the dog is tugging at his lead and I leave, looking over my shoulder at Allan, who is staring at me from behind the glass, mid snarl- frozen, captive.
And I think that perhaps that's why he seemed so familiar.
Now let's not get our wires crossed, Allan and I have never met. I'm not in the habit of making friends with ferrets. And yet, I did say familiar, didn't I?
Let me explain. It's not Allan himself who is familiar to me. It's that glassy eyed stare I used to stare back at in those stolen summers I've mentioned before, perhaps you can remember? Perhaps you can't. But that's beside the point. It's that glassy eyed stare, the frozen limbs, once live and quivering now stuffed and mounted. That taxidermists captive, that kept-behind-glass demeanour.
He sat bolt upright, proudly holding an acorn, tail perfectly curled into an S shape, carrying no sense of the violent death that must have befallen him. That always intrigued me. I think my mother told me he'd been shot. I couldn't conceive of just how. Tiny bullets? Expert stitching? Black magic?
This little guy never had a name. I never gave him one. I guess we weren't really that close.
And this summer- I mean, a real summer, in the sense of it being an English summer, not an Australian summer lost translation and timezones, transmogrified into a promise of snow and sledding with days as short as your father's temper- this proper English summer, sun shower soaked bunting and sprawling strawberry plants, he was gone. No one seemed to know where. Just another thing displaced during the chaos of family deaths, relatives rummaging, rash decisions where the past slips past us, disintegrating like old fabric into dust.
I never gave him a name.
But I spent hours, wondering what sort of life he had led, wondering if the little red squirrels that you'd see occasionally on the Heath, rarely now, were descendants. Wondered if they ever peeked in the window from a branch of that old tree (surely you know the one? I suppose you probably don't, but if you paid attention you'd know exactly). I don't suppose they'd give a damn, I doubt squirrels have that much of an interest in genealogy. In family trees? That's a terrible joke, but you know that old tree carries my family's history too. My family, dying out like the red squirrels, that you hardly ever see any more.
I spent hours looking through that glass at the face of extinction, of death. And that's what I see staring back at me from the window of that second hand shop up near Alexandra Parade. Death. Extinction. The past slipping past us.
I want to take his picture- Allan's picture. I don't know why. I mean, other than to run it through instagram, post it on twitter along with my faux-artsy shots of flowers and coffee and pictures where the filter has made me look younger and prettier. I would have done the same for Allan, it's only fair- he'd have come out looking quite dapper- he might have even looked lifelike.
But there's someone cleaning graffiti off the step and the smell of disinfectant is overwhelming and the dog is tugging at his lead and I leave, looking over my shoulder at Allan, who is staring at me from behind the glass, mid snarl- frozen, captive.
And I think that perhaps that's why he seemed so familiar.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
The Letter 'B'
Berlin comes back
to bite me
two days running
as I wake up with words
and pictures
channels of former worlds.
She's coming back
with her own inverted image
reflected in a man
I've never met
and even my face
seems
unfamilliar.
There, there
are moments captured
silk scarves and night time gathering
history remade, repeated
defeated
or so we thought.
The letter 'B' strings
me along
purse my lips to speak these things
like I'm kissing
the possibilities
and I'm missing
those silver earrings
as unreplacable
as the feelings
that are gone
gone
gone.
to bite me
two days running
as I wake up with words
and pictures
channels of former worlds.
She's coming back
with her own inverted image
reflected in a man
I've never met
and even my face
seems
unfamilliar.
There, there
are moments captured
silk scarves and night time gathering
history remade, repeated
defeated
or so we thought.
The letter 'B' strings
me along
purse my lips to speak these things
like I'm kissing
the possibilities
and I'm missing
those silver earrings
as unreplacable
as the feelings
that are gone
gone
gone.
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