A Meditation on An Unsuitable Adjective

Today I was watching the Olympics on my NEW SOFA (wonderful, thanks for asking, like sitting in beige suede clouds). Anyway, the men’s downhill skiing was on- you know, flailing wildly around poles as flexible as my sexually adventurous friend- anyway, the commentator, clearly a little randy, remarked that one of the skiers was ‘on scintillating form’.

‘Scintillating.’

The only thing remotely scintillating about downhill skiing/ers are the rather fetching lycra outfits. I can think of many scintillating things (sultry Cypriot gentlemen, for example, or the Young Liberals) and even many scintillating things about the winter Olympics (the women’s risqué ice skating outfits, adorably cheesy snowboarders.) The ‘form’ of a lycra clad skier barrelling between flimsy poles is not on my top twenty of either list.

Furthermore, since when could form be described as scintillating? Perhaps when referring to a sex worker, yes- or a Victoria’s Secret model (I’m not above being scintillated by Alessandra, myself). But regarding the form of an athlete, and particularly in the sport so decidedly unsexy as skiing- sorry, Alyssa Camplin, you too- ‘scintillating’ has never been my adjective of choice.

Until now! I resolve to henceforth apply this excellent word whenever form causes my nether regions tingle and on a few select occasions when they don’t. And that is what the men’s downhill skiing commentary has brought to my life.

Maybe the commentator was on crack, maybe he really does get a hard-on watching skiing. I’ll never know. I do know that I’m always up for a bit of homoeroticism in the commentary. ‘Homoeroticism’ is my favourite ‘homo’, above ‘homogenised’, or ‘hommos’.

Theme for English B

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---

Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Tragedy at the NRMA

Today at work I got a flat tyre. I think I may have caused said flat tyre by driving over a curb- but this is a mere irrelevance. I called the NRMA. The nice lady said they'd be an hour. I mentioned that it was very hot and I had four disabled people with me, all of whom needed to be places. I didn't mention that we were parked outside their air conditioned home and all could have very easily returned to the leather sofas upon which they were formerly positioned. Again, irrelevancies. Anyway, having dropped this seemingly minor detail, I hung up, sent a text ('you wish. You're not nearly flexible nor well-endowed enough') to a friend and the NRMA man pulled up. It was that quick. From now on I'm ALWAYS going with the 'four disabled people, heat, etc' line. To think they've had me waiting for hours, like a chump! Chumps.
Gary the NRMA man was utterly unspectacular, however he did make one rather interesting statement, which stays with me. I was telling him how I drove a bit on the tyre before I realised it was flat and how I hoped it didn't damage anything important and he told me that it was fine to drive for a little bit to get to a safe place. He sagely finished with (and I quote (no, seriously (this is word for word))) "I've seen too many people die for the sake of a flat tyre".

"Die for the sake of a flat tyre"

"Die for... flat tyre".

You understand that I was suitably impressed and more than a little curious. I didn't want to seem to be questioning Gary's incredibley unlikely statement so I instead maintained an awed silence and failed to hand him the correct tool. Disappointingly, he did not elaborate on even one tale of how a flat tyre eventuated into tragedy.
This is where the story ends. All I took with me is the hope that somewhere, someday, Gary and I meet again, and I learn every sorry tale of death resulting from a flat tyre that he has witnessed.

A Winner Idea

Curd should be called cream. Or Mousse. Or something. Curd is such a filthy word that it makes my Dirty Vego recipe hunt mightily disheartening. 'Bean curd burgers" sound like burgers make out of camel spit. Bean cream burgers sound like eating clouds.
One day in.
I really miss you, meat.
I'm ready to be friends again.
Ha! I got you. Seriously, you should go, it's getting kind of awkward. You're making curd here embarrassed.

Why I am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.

Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

Today: A Review.

Today comprised two major incidences, one major decision, one minor decision and a couple of themes.

The incidences were going to work and uni. I went to uni so I could find out where all my classes are ahead of time instead of spending the first week being hopelessly lost like a sap. Anyway, I went to all my classrooms. I still have nary an idea of how to get to them though. I hope that the routes imprinted subconsciously on my mind. This is unlikely.
At work I took a couple of clients to the gym. I always volunteer to do this for a reason I wouldn't like people in my real life to know. As follows:
1) There are always rather attractive men at the gym, 'working' 'out'.
2) Accompanying two disabled people makes me seem saintly.
3) Therefore attractive men see me as saintly and smile upon me and my good deeds.
4) I enjoy this.
I know this is somewhat unseemly, but whatever.
My major decision was to become a vegetarian. I have been dallying with the idea for some weeks now after reading a review of a book by the ever-luscious Jonathan Safran Foer (I'd eat him instead of meat AMIRIGHT). I actually decided to go vego last night at about midnight and when I woke up did not remember. I didn't remember until about 5pm when my man-candy interrupted my description of the satay chicken I was planning with "aren't you vegetarian now?". I am.
My minor decision was to join Young Labor at uni. As well as my actual and enthusiastic support for ALP (I did work for Labor, or something), I wanted to piss off the Young Liberals (who all looked amusingly exactly how I pictured young Liberals) who had set up camp directly opposite.
The themes were Friendship as I hung out with my deeply gloomy and cutting friend Jordan, and Food as becoming a Dirty Vego has made me incredibly hungy. RIP steak. And cow. Oh, the irony.

Onwards and Upwards

Tonight is chilly.
This may seem like small news. A chilly night? Wear a cardigan. Chump.
However, I do have a penchant for assigning symbolic significance to events that aren't really significant at all (though the SMH also seemed to find tonight's chill newsworthy, if only in comparatively), so humour me, readers.
Why am I feeling inordinately sentimental about a cold snap? (If my English grandma heard me say that she'd have my head- it's about 23 degrees still). Only because to me, the first cold night means the End of Summer.
This was the summer where I got into the university course of my dreams. Saying an awkward goodbye to all my friends who are satisfied with my old uni. Starting all over- new friends, new classes, new TERRIBLE student card (I look more like Dennis Fergusen the pedophile than ever) and so on.
This was the summer where I went to Fiji, went snorkelling, got the worst sunburn of my life, slow danced with a Fijian man to Take That and discovered that I need to travel.
The summer where I went to Falls Festival with old friends and new, got high at eight in the morning, showered under the stars, danced on the shoulders of some tripper to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and rediscovered an old passion for Cheese-O's.
The summer where I went to Forster and climbed an absurdly large sandbank for no good reason but all-american clean fun. Where I discovered my distaste for all-american clean fun and spent the rest of the week on a lilo drinking my body weight in beer.
The summer of playing trivia at the RSL and coming last by a dramatic margin every week.
The summer of Homebake and Big Day Out. Of Tropfest. Of a misjudged night at Soho in Kings Cross and many misjudged nights in Manly.
So EXCUSE ME for getting a little sentimental. However, as Lena, Bridget, Carmen and Tibby- and indeed, I- learn, there's always another summer ahead and always more adventures to share with three wonderful friends and a pair of magical pants. Except that I think the series ended at book three. BUT NOT ME. NOT MY SERIES. ME AND MY MAGICAL PANTS WILL TRAVEL EVERY SUMMER.

Upon reflection, I think I took that analogy a little too far.

Your Rocky Spine

I was lost in the lakes
And the shapes that your body makes
That your body makes, that your body makes
That your body makes.

The mountains said I could find you here
They whispered the snow and the leaves in my ear
I traced my finger along your trails
Your body was the map, I was lost in it.

Floating over your rocky spine
The glaciers made you and now you’re mine
Floating over your rocky spine
The glaciers made you, and now you’re mine.

I was moving across your frozen veneer
The sky was dark but you were clear
Could you feel my footsteps
And would you shatter, would you shatter, would you

And with your soft fingers between my claws
Like purity against resolve
I could tell, then and there, that we were formed from the clay
And came from the rocks for the earth to display

They told me to be careful up there
Where the wind blows a venomous rage through your hair
They told me to be careful up there
Where the wind rages through your hair