All entries for February 2009
February 08, 2009
The piece based on the flash fiction "the girl" on what advice we have been given. Based on what my mum says to me, though these moments don't happen very often at all and have all been condensed to form this piece; my mum isn't a nag.
What have I said about this room of yours? What have I told you about how you should clean the bathroom? You use a quitip on the tiles, the cilit bang is in the airing cupboard, and polish all the chrome. When are you going to listen to me? Don't put that there, take it upstairs. Look at that bedroom of yours, its a tip, a pigsty! Do you know what my father used to say? "Everything in its place and a place for everything." Now will you nip down the shops for me? Take the car or if not walk Bronny there, she could do with some exercise. If you don't tidy that room of yours soon you and I will be having words. Have you done the bathroom yet? Good, thanks love it looks much better. What about that bedroom? But I like it that way. No you don't you're just lazy! Nobody likes a messy room, it shows a lack of care for yourself and your things, it shows a messy mind. Sorry, I don't mean to nag, it's just that bedroom stresses me out so much. But why? it's not like its your room. Sorry Mum, I'll clean it tomorrow. Thanks love. Isn't it time you went to bed? You'll be tired in the morning or won't get up til midday. Feeling unwell? Take a paracetamol, I'll bring you up a cup of tea. How's the job hunt going? Keep trying, don't give up, I used to go everyday and say "Give us a job. Give us a job" That's what you need to do. I went everyday and asked until they gave me a job. You need to show interest and dedication, that's what you have to do. What have I told you about that bedroom of yours!
This is my creative non-fiction of the interview which had to take place in another "world" that was inspired either by the house or the copse around it near the Capital Centre. I have modified it a bit though now for dramatic effect lol.
I sit in the dark kitchen on a tiled floor with glass shards sprawled out across its surface. I can feel them beneath my legs but I am safely cushioned by my coat, though understandably I am put on edge and a nervousness permeates my line of questioning.
I face the cupboard, the memory vault of his mind; its dark and scarred; and I'm enveloped by the scents of a thousand badly smoked cigarettes and spilled drinks. A light glows dimly from the broken cupboard; a memory glinting on the slanted shelf.
"Where have you been?" I asked, off-hand.
"What do you mean? Like, on holiday?"
"Yeah, I mean have you ever been overseas, been to the continent, or Africa or something?"
The memory glimmers brighter, shining with greater intensity and gleaming off the glass pieces. "Ah, yes, the last time I went on holiday was probs to Amsterdam. Few years ago now though."
"Amsterdam? Cool, I've been there, city of freedom," I shift my body and feel the shards slide and hear a crunch as the move against the tiles "What did you get up to?"
The light flickers, struggling, then splutters out in a disjointed stutter of words "Um...to be honest...I can't really remember."
I sit in the suddenly pitch black kitchen, lost as to where to go or what to say, and unsure of what to ask except for the obvious "Why?"
The light shines again, this time behind the glass paned kitchen door; its a deeper darker glow, yet it penetrates the gloom and catches my eye. A harder memory to access, perhaps, but still possible to catch. Its only half remembered and hidden half in shame. "All I can remember, if I think hard, is that I went into a coffee shop when I first got there...the next two days are kinda a blur."
"You were stoned for two whole days!"
"Yeah," he gives a laugh "Crazy times."
"And you truly don't remember anything?"
The light at the door flickers out and I'm left in pitch blackness again. Suddenly it burns again in the cupboard, right before my eyes, as he illuminates a further detail, a piece he thought was forgotten. I watch the light flicker, his struggle to decide what to reveal, and patiently sit in the cold kitchen world surrounded by glass and polite barriers. "Well I don't remember it as such," he pulls up his sleeve "All I knowis that at some point during those two days I got this done," he shows me a swirling tatoo "though to this day I don't know where or when." He gave a grin.
"Pretty crazy times indeed."
"Two of the best days of my life most probably," he adds "Just wish I could remember them!"
The light dies down and I stumble to my feet, careful not to get injured or rip my clothes on the glass. "Thanks for the chat."
"Anytime." he replies with a smile, and once again his mind is dark, littered with scars of time; littered with glass and full of broken cupboards where on the shelves his memories glitter dimly; faint beautiful lights in a forgotten landscape brutally destroyed by misbehaviour and abuse.
February 07, 2009
These are the three different ways of writing about a mundane experience, not too sure if they work or not but thought I'd put them up anyway.
The last thing I did before going to bed - well not exactly the last thing I did there were a few things in between such as brushing my teeth, getting a glass of water...getting changed for that matter and having a read - was to wash up my dishes - well actually I soaked them first and scraped them, oh, and there were glasses and cutlery too - which my flat mates had been asking - maybe "requesting is a better word - me to do for a few days - more like two - and I finally caved in to their demands - requests - and did it.
The fourth to last thing I did before going to bed, at 11:31pm, was to wash up my dishes, which consisted of two plates, a cup, a glass and a set of cutlery. My flat mates had been asking me to do at three separate occasions in the last 48 hours and 51 minutes. I used two table spoons of washing up liquid in the process and scrubbed them with a 0.2 sponge of the scourer quality.
God I am so put on by my flat mates, I mean, they made me wash up my dishes last night, I mean, come on they're my dishes, surely its my choice whether I not? I mean, some people are just so insensitive and demanding.
February 05, 2009
This is my first blog entry, still not really that sure if I like the idea of blogging or not (i'm a private person and sharing my work doesn't come easily but it'll probs get easier as I go along) hmmm well, I thought I'd put up a story from this week's writing group to start off with and see where it goes from there. I apologise in advance for the grammar and style; it may be a little crooked. It's the urban legend thing, though I put my own spin on it because I couldn't think of an urban legend lol.
A Warning to Children on this Special Night:
You may hear it tonight, for tonight is it's special night, when it walks the Old Ways in a rage, remembering the past but not the reason why. You may be lying awake, thinking of it and the tales you have heard of times long gone, or you may be sleeping and wake confused and muddled, wondering what has disturbed you. In the silence you might hear the creak of wicker and a sound like someone walking on your lawn, their feet gently crushing the grass. But I warn you do not look, I beg you do not look!
Though if you choose not to heed this advice and cannot help yourselves, for I do know that curiosity is a powerful force, you may decide to peer out into the night; to satisfy your curious spirit. You might push your covers quietly back and creep ever so quietly to your window, pulling back the curtain only a crack, only a crack mind you, and stare out into the night.
If the sky is clouded but the moon is bright you may see something, an apparition with what appears to be two long blades or pillars rising from it's head, which twitch and sway as though alive, moving with no regard for the wind's direction. You may see a flash of silver in the shadows or a slight liquid gleam that the darkness seems to run across like oil. If the moon is full though you may see a great figure, wild and furred, standing on your lawn, or lingering in the bushes, or poised among your flower beds. If you see it you might just see the gleam of silver in it's clawed hand or the long trailing bow, which is blue supposedly in the daylight, around its neck. The creak of wicker might come again and you will realise, perhaps, that it carries a wicker basket on its arm, the kind old ladies might use to carry their shopping. However if the night is stormy or the moon is new you may see nothing at all, and so you'll probably let the fabric fall and crawl wearily back to bed and fall asleep, if you saw something it will have vanished in an instant and so you might believe it was a dream, a remnant of the tales you heard in the day.
If you looked at it, it will have seen you, or sensed you. You are safe though, you are inside and it will not cross the threshold. It will have been angered by your insolence, by your presence because it stirs memories it cannot truly understand, disturbs old feelings that it finds it cannot comprehend any longer even though it knows it should. But it cannot reach you...if you were outside it would be a different matter entirely...
Tomorrow you might go out and search the lawn, or the bushes, or the flower beds, looking for indentations or tracks in the soil and grass. You may find something, a print of a paw, or a scattering of tiny golden eggs, though your mind may refuse to believe it, or you may find nothing and so laugh or shake your head at your foolishness, at your fear, and even at this warning. But I tell you now, dismiss this at your peril.