13 Years Of Big Like

I'm kind of a solitary soul, but the friends who get in there usually turn out to be pretty special, even if they did crash into my life in unexpected ways.

This is Chloe who crashed into my life 13 years ago. We bumped into each other in a nightclub. I'm a little bit in awe of her. I love that we are such good friends after all these years, after such a potentially fleeting encounter.

In The White Room

In The White Room

In the white room
He opens the curtains
Outside, there is a garden.
It's a garden of stories
Stories of growth and dying.
The stories are secret stories
Secret stories of people
To be shared with people
Who will never really know these stories.
There is the story of Sarah.
There is the story of Chloe
There is the story Rachael who would never
Let him call her by her name.
There is the story of Kat
And the story of Christine and
The story of Nadia
And the story of Ann
The long and wonderful story of Ann.
Out there in the garden of growth and dying
Is the story of Them,
Their long history of adventures and quarrels
The story of her strength and his weakness
Their epic story of them.
He closes the curtains in this white room,
This blinding white room
With its electric white roar,
And blindly smiles his lonely smile.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles Part 2

So Spoonwoman - or as I like to call her, Fucking Spoonwoman - comes into the cafe today. She pays for yesterday's coffee, apologises for not paying for it yesterday like she said she was going to, AND she thanks me. Like, WTF? What the hell is she up to? What twisted mind game is she playing? She's supposed to be evil, not civil. Bitch is doing my head in.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles

Fucking Spoonwoman... she ordered coffee and then found she didn't have any cash in her purse. She asked if she could pay for her coffee later when she was on her 3pm break. I snarlingly, grudgingly said yeah sure, Spoonwoman.

Then she didn't show up at 3pm.

Spoonwoman and me, next time we meet, it's going to be apocalyptic.

Loop. The Boy And The Man. A Short Story.

A boy sits in a park away from the other children who are playing a game with a ball. He watches blankly as they run madly about, laughing at their own antics. A man walks by, not old, but old in the eyes of the boy. He stops and also watches the game for a few moments before turning his attention to the boy.

“What’s the matter, boy? Why don’t you play with the other children?”

Boy shrugs.

“You look sad. You’re too young to be sad.”

Boy shrugs again. “I am sad.”

Man sits down next to the boy and together they look on at the children and the ball and the rules they all must follow.

“Why sad? Open up. Find the words. Tell me about your sadness.”

Boy thinks for a long time while the old man waits patiently.

“It’s not sad, really, it’s just not happy. Not right? Something feels not right.”

“You don’t fit in? You’re not like the others.”

“That’s it. And I want to be like the others. I like the way they are. I like how they laugh and how they know things and how they are so good at... um... they’re all so different. It’s like someone told them who to be, and so they know. I think I wasn’t listening when they told me who to be.”

“You daydream.”

“Yes.” Boy squirms a little.

“To escape.”

“I don’t know. It just happens. I get into trouble for it. I get into trouble for a lot of things.”

“I see. What do you daydream about?”

“Don’t know. Different things. Happy things. Sad things. Collecting words that feel the same. I don’t know.”

Old man smiles at this. “You’ve started, you just don’t know it yet.”

Boy looks at the man. “Started what?”

“Your journey.”

Boy shakes his head a little. “But I’m stuck here in this place. Trapped in this house I don’t like with a family that just isn’t right. I’m not going anywhere. At least not to anywhere you’d bother going to.”

“Don’t be so glum. You have a happy heart, you just don’t know it yet.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know things.”

“What things do you know?”

“Oh... I know the kind of things that make a young boy sad. I know about his daydreams and his longing. I know that lost feeling and that sense of not belonging.”

Boy is staring at the man now, seeing things in his eyes. “You look sad, old man, but happy at the same time. How can you be sad and happy at the same time?”

“They go hand in hand. Can’t have one without the other. Let me tell you something, since you weren’t listening when they told you who to be. Are you listening?”

Boy nods.

“You will feel this way for a very long time. You will be confused and quite alone. Your quiet nature will be misinterpreted in a number of ways. Your journey will take you to unexpected places and you will feel at times that if it doesn’t get any better there is simply no point. But at those times you must remember to keep going. Keep going even though you cannot see the resting place you are looking for. Understand?”

“But why? Why keep going if there’s no happiness.”

“Because things will change. Things will happen one by one. Good things. Good people. Love and laughter and music... these three things will come to define you. Not at once, but slowly, slowly. You will collect words that will make people laugh and make them cry. You will drink in the music and be awed by it. You will meet famous musicians and others not so famous who will become friends. You will do things you can’t imagine right now, things that, as an old man, will cause you to smile a sad smile as you look back and see how it all turned out after all.”

Boy thinks about this. His hands are under his thighs and his legs kick back and forth.

“Will there be a person for me. You know...”

Old man tips his head back briefly. “Ah yes. You are blessed that way. You will have love from a truly lovely being. But don’t ever take her for granted. You will take her for granted but try not to. And friends. You will have golden friends.

“Okay. That is a thing to look forward to.”

“Indeed. Indeed it is a thing to look forward to. And don’t hurt her. You will hurt her, but try not to hurt her.”

Boy is silent. He can’t imagine this. He can’t imagine anything so good as his own special person. Someone he loves. Someone who loves him.

A long silence as though nothing more needs to be said. Boy frowns. Old man stands and adjusts his collar. Time to go.

“Old man?”

“Yes, boy?”

“How do you know these things?

Old man turns and winks and climbs onto his zebra. He turns and dips his hat and chuckles to himself as he trots off into the sunset.

"Yeehaw!"

Crack of whip.

*

A man walks through a park. He sees a group of children playing soccer. He smiles and recalls a memory. He sees a boy sitting alone and recognises something about him.

“What’s the matter, boy? Why don’t you play with the other children?”

Flashback - Godless by The Dandy Warhols

Just because I had forgotten just how much I loved their album 13 Tales Of Urban Bohemia. Which was (and is again) a lot. A LOT.

What Happens?

What happens
When the funny stops,
When the happy stops,
When the hoping stops,
When you realise that The Vibe was wrong,
And you can/t evvbe>n use
Your keyborad prpp;ly?

Blerk.

I want to know the answer
To this shitly worded
And quite possibly
poorly constructed
question of the thing:
What happens?

Actually, forget it.
I don't care.
I really don't care.
I truly don't care.
I honestly don't care.

I just don't care.

The Dummy Spit

On the flight home on the weekend I settled in to read my book, Nick Cave's The Death Of Bunny Munro. There was a little kid across the aisle, a squirmer and a squealer. Awesome. At one point he literally spat his dummy across the aisle and it landed in my open book. The kid fell silent and looked impressed and shocked and a little bit frightened. His mother looked horrified and apologised like she thought I was going to get violent. I was just amused. Ain't never had a kid spit its dummy from a distance into the pages of a twisted novel I was reading.