Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Moved on over to http://someprettythings.com/blog. Come on by.

Monday, September 28, 2009

part two of one

Ganry smeared thick fat under his nose, but he could still smell it, the reek of dead flesh in hot sun. The village was filled with bodies, and bits of bodies. Men, women, children, animals; they were all hacked to death, or had their skulls caved in, or had been pierced with spears, or a combination of the three. Even he has retched at getting out of his wagon, though Myst had tapped on his door to warn him ahead of time what the scouts had found. At least he didn't have to touch the carnage - Ameera had charged him with finding anything flammable while the others stacked the bodies on a roughly made pyre and the younger ones collected sticks and straw. The pyre would need to burn quick and hot to consume a whole village.

He had emptied the inn of strong white spirits and only sampled enough wine to take away the headache. He could think of little else that would be of use. There was a chandlery close by the inn. the people in the villages had little need for writing and instead hung signs or clapboards with drawings on them. Ganry ducked below the creaking wooden board and entered the shop. Candles hung from the roof in rows, all shapes and sizes, and he had to tilt his head to avoid them. There was a door to a back room and he was moving towards it when he heard a growling noise coming from below his feet. Pushing aside a woven rug, he found a metal ring built into a groove in the floor and tugged it up.

Two sets of eyes peered out at him. A growling, half-grown pup with a dusty cream coat snapped at him and would have jumped out to bite, but a scrap of rope around his neck restrained him. The rope was held by a boy. He was young and he was dirty and he cowered away from Ganry as if he expected to be hurt. Ganry stared down and the child stared back, blinking at the light. The dog barked.

Myst came in. Ganry wondered if Ameera had sent him to check up on the amount of wine missing from the taproom.
"Gods be praised, a survivor! Come with me boy, I'll take you to Ameera."
The boy, who looked no more than 8 summers, allowed himself to be lifted into the lead hand's strong arms and carried off into the daylight to where the wagons had been pulled up.
Ganry found himself holding the dog's leash. The dog looked at him and growled. He dropped the rope.
"Nice dog?" he said. The pup scratched himself and ambled off, the rope trailing in the dirt behind him. Ganry shrugged and got on with his work.

Later, the flames had roared up to claim the unfortunate villagers and the well stocked inn was emptied. There had not been enough wine to erase the memory of the scorching smell of hair and flesh from the pyre and Ganry was sitting alone, lamenting that he had not secreted away a bottle of the white spirits. Myst approached him.
"Where's the dog?" he said.
"Dog?"
"The pup that the boy had. He wants it. keeps crying for it, and for his mam. Not likely to get her back, so Ameera wants the dog."
"Shit, I let the damn thing go."
"Well, we best go and find it boss, or Ameera wont be happy with either of us."
The big man clasped Ganry's forehand and hauled him up with ease. They left the village square and its circle of firelight uneasily. Who knew what could be there in the dark.

It didn't take a long time to find the yellow dog. It had curled up in a corner of the chandlery. Myst took up its leash and it gambolled around his legs, eager to play. Myst tripped and the dog ran out the rear door of the chandlery into a small plot. As Ganry chased it clumsily, he tripped in the darkness and landed with his nose in mud, inches away from a dark bundle of rags. The dog wandered over and licked at the bundle and then at Ganry.
"Get away, dog!" he yelled as he gathered himself and scraped the dirt from his face. he looked down at the rags and swore.
"It's a baby." Myst said, aghast.
"It's covered in blood" said Ganry, sniffing at the mud on his hands. "Bled out by the looks of it. Who would kill a baby?"
"Bring it," Myst said, sadly and he picked up the dog's rope again. "it will burn with the others."
Ganry shuddered. he wished he had been the one to grab the dogs fraying rope, dirty as it was. He leaned down and gingerly picked up the sodden bundle. It weighed almost nothing and felt damn and cold. A spray of sparks from the fire showed the infant's face was crusted with blood. He turned and started to move back to the square, holding his morbid prize at arms length. Myst walked in front and the dog trotted beside him. As they rounded the corner of the chandlery, the infant opened its eyes.

Ganry promptly dropped it and a loud cry reverberated around the square, breaking the sombre quiet of those still gathered around the fire. Myst jumped as if he had been stung.
"Shit Ganry, it's alive! Pick it up."
Ganry stood, as if frozen. It had been dead. The child was dead. He still had its blood on his hands, on his face. And it had been so very cold. And those eyes.

Myst bent down and scooped up the screaming infant with his free hand. He cradled it to his chest and raced towards Mirryn, the herb woman, who beckoned him into her caravan. As the cries quietened, Ganry became aware that every eye was on him. He dropped his arms down to his sides. Maybe it had been the wine or the firelight or simply the long and dreadful day, but he could have sworn the child had silver eyes.

*******

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Part one of one

I've been holding this at the back of my brain, thinking it would be a good start for NaNoWriMo this year and then I realised that NaNo is still a whole month away and there is no way I'll hold onto it for that long. Very, very rough.

Ganry awoke when the wagon stopped. He could hear voices, without being able to make out the words. Light peeked through the gap around the curtains and lit up a parade of swirling dust motes in the air. He groaned. He hated waking while the sun was still up. And if it was still light they could not have reached anywhere decent enough to stop. Some of the children might tumble for a hot meal at farmsteads, but Ganry didn't venture out of the wagon for more than a privvy stop unless there was a crowd. Along this road there were only a few families, with miles and miles of the flat grazing land of the plains between them. He hated the vast emptiness of the plains, everything was so exposed.

There was a loud knocking on the door.
"Ganry? Boss? I think you'd better see this" It was Myst, the lead hand. Ganry liked that the older ones still called him boss, even though it was no longer him who handed out the coin every fortnight. The newer members of the troupe didn't understand the hardships he had suffered to keep the troupe going, what he had sacrificed; they had no respect.

He stepped haughtily through his doorway, a grand gesture somewhat crippled when he immediately threw up both hands to shade his face from the glittering sun. He was dizzy from the previous nights wine and standing upright increased his pounding headache.

There was something in the road, right where it met a long drive which snaked off into the distance. A few buildings, the same colour as the earth around them, were barely visible. Ganry pushed his way between Herc, the strongman, and some of the acrobats who grudgingly let him through. Lying there was a young man, one eye open and seemingly staring at the sun ahead, the other smashed to an oozing pulp along with half of his skull. His body had been pierced in a dozen or so places by a sword or a spear and a river of congealing blood ran down the slight slope towards the ditch at the side of the road. Ganry felt ill. He had never liked gore, although he had seen death well enough.

A horse, one of theirs, galloped up the drive and came to a sudden halt next to Ameera's wagon. She alone had not disembarked to stare at the body. The rider, Pers, looked pale.
"The same, Ma'am. I mean, all dead, but all butchered, Ma'am. So much blood." he stopped talking and leaned over his mounts neck to retch in the dust. The murmuring of the troupe became distinctly louder and Ganry's headache bloomed a fresh burst of pain.
"Myst, take some of the lads with stronger stomachs and ride back to the house," Ameera said softly; "Burn the bodies. They shouldn't be left for the animals. The rest of you, back on the road. There naught we can do here and the village waits ahead."

As the crowd dispersed Ganry knelt and drew a blessing rune on the mans undamaged cheek. He took no comfort in the gesture, the runes had long ceased to hold any meaning for him, but Myst saw as he came to hoist the body onto a spare buggy.
"Poor sod, I think he needs more than a blessing to help him on his way" said Myst.
"Poor us that's left to clean up" replied Ganry. He took out a damp cloth and wiped his finger and then spat. His spittle landed in the ooze of blood and fluids left by the corpse with a wet noise. Ganry shuddered as he turned back towards his wagon.

"Ganry? A moment?" Ameera was kind to make it a question. He hated to admit it, but she owned this troupe more wholly than he ever had and she let him remain more from pity than for any respect of his dried up talents. Her own personal mystic, too drunk to work often than not and too old to believe in it all anyway.
He climbed up beside her and she clucked to her horse. He was a prancing, showy thing; all glossy dark hair and rippling muscles. His own Velda was a solid and predictable beast. It had been a long time since he had given her any instruction - she plodded along with the troupe without need for his directions, stopping when the wagon in front of her stopped and never wandering far when she was unhitched. It meant he could sleep while the others were forced to drive, but he often wondered if her compliance showed loyalty or just meant she was stupid.

He sat at Ameera's side in silence. they rode a good distance before she spoke.
"A bad end that, for a lad."
Ganry didn't answer. He was sulky now at being forced to stay out in this sun and his headache meant his eyes couldn't focus properly.
"And that's the third along this road."
Ganry wondered what she meant, but still didn't speak.
"The third homestead found massacred," Ameera continued in a low voice, "Pers rode out ahead to each, to see if they had supplies to sell." Ganry nodded - farms were often cheaper to buy from than the village markets.
"I kept it quiet because i'll not have a panic, but that lad on the road could not be cleaned up quick enough. Pers is a good scout, but he can't handle blood. I am wondering who and why and whether it was a good idea to come out this far."
Ganry nodded and finally found his voice. "You know I hate it out here. Plains farmers are all crazy and they hoard their coin anyway."
"It made for a change, Ganry. Whether you admit it or not, change is sometimes a good thing. No one could have forseen this, not even you."
"Ha, no, certainly not me. Ganry the useless. Ganry the washed up." He started back down the side of the wagon, but Ameera caught his arm.
"I didn't call you here to gloat. I called you to ask if you had any idea who. Or what, perhaps."
Ganry considered. Although murder wasn't heard of in these parts, he couldn't imagine anyone he'd seen in the district in the eightweek they'd been circling these parts butchering whole families like this. Ameera seemed to genuinely want his opinion though, a circumstance that was becoming more and more rare.
"I don't know," he said, "I don't know and I think that makes it even more frightening."

*******

Monday, September 21, 2009

Thursday, September 17, 2009

There are
whispers
snatches of conversation.
Rustlings.

Clocks move backwards. Inanimate objects switch places. I can move things with my brain.
Its as though all the cliches are coming true.


Everything is crooked and broken and dirty, so very unclean, and there is only so much I can do about it. I keep my hands still and my feet still and my blood continues to pump and my bones don't disintegrate. I am always surprised when I remember to breathe.

Everything has a reason, has a message and everything is trying to get through, but my head is too foggy and too clouded to understand, I am drowning, I am drowning.

I am coming undone.

I can feel the muscles and the tendon separating; I can feel the skin peeling back and the joints coming loose; I can feel my eyeballs leaking fluid and my cheeks wearing away; I can feel my hair falling out and my cilia burning off and my intestines dissolving.

I can feel nothing. If i am nothing, they wont want me anymore.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Beachcombing.

At the beginning, my feet are cold. And the back of my neck where the wind has lifted my hair. The sand is gritty, but quiet under my feet. The entire beach is quiet; the usually raucous gulls are huddled together tightly in a depression in the sand, their backs to the wind. The waves are a dull slate colour, perforated with white foam caps and tiny bursts of spray where the waves hit the reef and the wind carries the droplets along in its heady rush to shore.

I walk. I lose myself in the rhythm of my steps. The wind is strong, but playful, wraping itself around me and teasing under the thick shetland isles knit I'm wearing especially to keep warm. My feet are numb now, the sand is merely pressure instead of tiny icy rocks. It's no longer winter, but the ocean doesn't know that yet.

Along the tideline a riff raff of jetsam awaits me. I slow, meandering up and down the sand bent double. There are blue snail shells with froth oozing from them, the snail's death throws as it drowns in the air. There are blue bottles with bright tentacles trailing along the sand behind them - they are the balloons and the tentacles the streamers - a poisoned birthday party. Sponges, partially drained of colour and pieces of broken bleached shell. Tendrils of seaweed slowly drying.

It surprises me when I round the point and find more beach. I know the bay is only a small part of a long chain of beachfront, but when I am approaching it seems as if the point marks the end of the world. I have stones in my bag, all smooth and polished by the salt water and the rough trip across the reef to the sand, and a few tiny shells with even smaller patterns decorating them. I have jars and jars of such treasures at home. It seems sacrilegious to leave them on the beach once they have caught my eye. I have done this all my life - combed the beach for the pretty or the unusual. When I was young, people would tell me that you always come back to the beach. I never believed them, but here I am, walking the same scalloped trail I toddled along as a baby and moped along as a teen.

When I clamber onto the reef I can feel the sharp rocks jabbing into the soft underneath of my feet. Eventually, my soles will toughen and callous. Until then I am glad the cold sand, the cold water and the icy wind have numbed them. They will bruise, but not badly. A man walks along the beach. The tide doesn't scare me, or the blue bottles or the poisonous reef dwellers or the endless stretch of grey sea, but I realise how vunerable I am, alone on the stretch beyond the point where no one goes. I wonder how loudly I can scream, and if my voice will be lost in the wind and the surf.

The man doesn't wander as far as I have. He stares out at the waves and startles an old cormorant. I resent his presence - I walked into the dunes around the bird, who was trying to catch what tiny rays of sun slipped through the cloud cover, his webbed feet shuffling along under him as the wind pushed his outstretched wings and floated him up the beach. Now the cormorant is skimming along the dunes, clearly as offended by the stranger as I am.

I am still on the reef, far enough out to have rolled up the bottoms of my jeans to avoid the swells of water which make it this far. I can run if I need to, on this reef. My feet will bleed, but I would not feel it. The man walks back from where he came and disappears out of sight. I find a baleen shell, battered and broken and enormous. I don't pick it up. Suddenly the light changes. The waves turn black and the roar of the surf grows a little louder. The wind is suddenly frigid and no longer playful - it whips my hair into my eyes and makes my nose sniffle.

When I look up, the sky is close and dark. I have ambled too long and too far. I walk back along the water line, briskly. The tideline ephemera beckons, but I don't look. The beach is suddenly menacing. What is in the dunes, hidden from sight? What warning noises are tossed beyond hearing by the wind? I stop to snatch up a piece of rare white sea glass - all this is worth this one tiny piece. It slips into my bag with a satisfying clink, knocking gently against the coloured shells, the holy stones and the iridescent abalone shell already there.

I round the point. There are houses in view now, other people on the beach, but still I feel unsafe. I start across the dry sand to the carpark and a sprinkling of rain patters down, leaving drops on my eyelashes. It is a freezing rain and I run, ignoring the burn in my calves, the shock of freezing air as it's sucked into my chest. I run, as my bag jingles and my jeans slip back down and the rain begins in earnest. I run as if the dark cloud following me up the beach was sentient and vengeful and I had stolen it's treasure. I run as if it could actually hurt me, as if I was in danger.

The car is warm when I fall in and slam the door, not bothering to wipe my feet. I smell like salt and sea weed and my hair is snarled. The storm envelopes my car, raining furiously for a moment before giving up the chase and retreating, spent. I have my bag of treasures and the blood is returning to my battered feet, the tip of my nose. I am warm and the ocean is a friend again.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

a poem by Ava

gghihrrt h mmmmmhhmmmmbvcx n hhhh
]
hnjgbhyuyic
v / /////////?
7h m u //
vvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvv
v
vvvb
m

Saturday, September 12, 2009

tiny poem #4

If you were here
I would feed you white chocolate covered strawberries
and twirl your hair

Sunday, September 6, 2009

missing Bethany.

Like a broken record, the child whines.
"No. Mine. No. Mine. No. Mine. No. Mine. EW! Ava spewed."

"I'm not cleaning it up. No. Mine. No. Mine. No."

If I listened to the caffeine which fills my veins instead of blood, I would probably be screaming threats. Empty ones, but still.
"If I hear the word No just one more time....."

News drones. I fake a headache, even to myself. It seems to suit the mood - the weather is grey. The floor is damp and smells like bleach. The cat shat in front of the oven. There is three quarters of a bottle of white wine on the counter and a sink full of dishes. I wonder which will be emptied sooner.

I need to take my meds.

It was a whirlwind of leaving, this morning. Things were unsaid, left behind and waiting; there is half a pot of coffee on the warmer. My house is a temple of sampled beverages, from the wine to the coffee, from the large bottle of cola that is never far from me, to the jug of tap water sitting on the bench, right next to the tap. Apparently it tastes better if you leave it sitting for a while.

A whirlwind, a cyclone of leaving which left (in its turn) concealer and undiscovered grey shoes, Tolstoy and sunsilk. She didn't hang her towel up this morning and, although I notice (as always), I don't care. There are a million tiny things that I long to get used to - a gentle melding of quirks and habits into a coherent whole. I do feel halved. I hadn't expected that.

The child bounces on the couch. I watch him for a minute before he notices and he still denies it. The faux headache because a very real aching in my damaged wrist. I want to bury myself, like a seed; I want to lay dormant in the soil for a while before sending out feeder roots to gather water (so far, this is a very wet spring; it's as if the sky was crying, if you'll give me permission for a terribly overused metaphor); eventually stretching out limbs and twigs and buds to meet the summer sun.

It suddenly feels like winter in my bones.
realising I missed all of August. It's all a dream and the reality is stark and cold and grey.

my pillow smells of my shampoo, but in blonde hair. You may not be able to tell the difference.

I can.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

mesexual

the gentle hum and purr of the machine
the teeth chewing the lower lip
the arching of the back
the opening of the knees
the breathing turned coarse and ragged
the shudder of warmth
the sudden dampness
the curling of toes which wakens delicious cramps
the blanket worked up around the hips
the half concealed whimpers
the nails grasping bunched up sheets
the wicked kick and pull of over stimulation
the staggered sigh of utter abandon
the impish grin
the rush of satisfaction
the sleepy yawn and stretch
the final spasm
and then smiles and then sleep.

tiny poem number three (in which I over use ellipses terribly)

sometimes.....
you make me have no words.

and sometimes I have to cover my mouth
for fear of what might spill out. ..

Monday, July 20, 2009

sleepy stories part 3

once upon a time
there was a place
and it was quiet and small and generally unnoticed by people
although sometimes cats nosed their way into it through the tangled web of ivy that grew through the gate where the palings had fallen down
and sat on the stones in the sunlit
and licked themselves
and dozed
It was the kind of place where you could hear bird song even when you couldn't see any birds
and where the daylight highlighted dust motes, but no one would ever sneeze
and where, at night time, there was faint fairy music and twinkling lights and no mosquitoes*
*no mosquitos is even more romantic than fairy music and twinkling lights. It's more romantic that most things, because it's completely impossible to HAVE romance if there is even the tiniest hint of a mosquito in the vicinity


Shannon says:
Anyway, in the evening, the stones were still warm from the sun
And two girls crept through the gap in the gate (even though they were a bit more squeezed than the cats were)
holding hands and ready to explore the world
and when they saw the twinkling lights
and the sleepy cats
and the ivy
and the small trail of ants that never bit, but helpfully carried off any cake crumbs
and the birds nest where two tiny blue speckled eggs lay waiting
and the tiny iron couch with soft pillows that magically never mouldered
they thought "this is our place"
And so one sat down and the other
lay in her lap and closed her eyes (it had been a long journey across the sea and across the land)
and they listened to crickets chirp
and to the music the sun makes
when it slips down below the horizon
the the wind through the ivy leaves
which was warm, even though it was dark.
And the older one sang small lullabies which she only half remembered
and played with the sleepy ones hair.
and all was well
and soft
and beautiful
and never ending
and they re still there
where there are no mosquitoes and the cats purr and the ivy curls through the rusted gate and everything is perfect.
the end but not end


Shannon says:
are you asleep?
Beth says:
I liked that story
no
entranced

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Waiting

I remember rolling over and arching my back a little, staring at the ceiling, and feeling my bones dig through the duvet to the hard floor. I remember wishing that I didn't have to roll over. Ceilings are much nicer to stare at than screens. I thought that maybe if I tried really hard, there would suddenly be a real girl sitting with me by the fire, talking. Maybe if I listened really hard, I would hear her voice, or her breath instead of the steady fizz and crackle of the computer. But at some point, when there was no voice and no breath, it was time to breathe out and roll over.
And she was there, but not there.

Given the promise of wide open spaces, my tiny house is suddenly claustrophobic. If there were robbers or murderers, there would be no running away to hide – it is only a few steps from one end to the other, a few turns of corners from front to back. There are screens on the windows and the roof is too close to the floor. The fire burns too hot. If four time zones is crossed in a fibre optic instant, how chokingly tiny is my shoebox house?

The new house waits for carefully packed boxes and essentials separated from the dross. I have so much crap – a collector, a hoarder. The new house will be clean and simple. There will be spaces – a space for coffee and conversation, a cozy nook for reading, a place for sitting and sharing secrets. There will be overly romantic things, like fairy lights and tea candles. Soft things with cats sitting on them. And I will set it all up with a sad smile and a dream of sharing.

It is a possible idea. Uprooting, migrating, leaving and finding. Hard, but do-able. Spontaneous and beautiful, but not very practical. Instead, I will plot and plan and dream and save. And wait.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

bits of dreams

I am walking in falcon and at a house down an embankment is a party, a fashion or movie launch? Joan Rivers is announcing the red carpet. I have a specially made hat. Tamika is there and she is the only one who messages me to say she likes it. I keep walking and I'm walking into D's street with D who is pushing a pram. She goes into labour and has the baby on the street. A neighbour comes to help and all the kids are wailing. I run into the house to get a towel. When I come out the baby is born (I looked away during the labour bit. No way I'm watching that!) It is all covered in gunk and wrapped in E's blanket. E is screaming, so I wrap her up in the towel and cuddle her. D walks inside with the baby, but she bleeds all over the floor. I think she is hemorrhaging, (omg, I spelled that right first try!) but she says it's normal. I want to call an ambulance. She has gotten slimy stuff and blood all over her carpet. I. comes and takes her and the baby to the hospital, even though she insists she doesn't have to go. The neighbour and I stay home with the kids, who are all screaming – C and E are hysterical because their mum is not there. The neighbour begins to clean up the carpet with a rag and a wine glass of water. I throw up and retch a lot because it's so disgusting. I cough up phlegm into the sink and feel bad for throwing up in front of the children. When I wake up I'm still retching.

In a shed. There is a growling dog at the door. I approach it and tell it to be nice. It starts wagging it's tail and bouncing around. I suggest we call it loopy. Everyone else in the shed, K and a few other people are angry that I have made the dog crazy and jumpy.

A courtroom. I am sitting in the middle, trying to hide from the judge. I am a bad lawyer, a prankster. I am sitting with two friends, also in disgrace. The head judge acknowledges we are there with some caustic comments, but I refuse to show my face. The judge feeds a mint to his beagle, who chokes on it slowly and dies. The judge refuses to get it out of it's mouth and everyone is horrified – it was HIS beagle. I don't watch. Later on, I hear a voice over in my head that the judge didn't mean to kill his dog. The dog was meant to swallow the mint or spit it out, but he could hardly stuff his hand down a dogs throat in the middle of court and he is really upset that the dog is dead and thinks it was a stupid thing for him to do. A black man apologises to the judge, sincerely. He is an underling, taking a message or something. The judge is in a garden, where pinky flowers on a vine are rapidly choking everything else.

Someone in the shed is suicidal and Jason from True Blood laughs them off. When we go inside, I see out the window that they have tried to hang themselves from a tree in the front yard, but have become tangled in the rope really high up. I scream at Jason and tell him to go and help him, but Jason is of the opinion that if he's stupid enough to try and hang himself he deserves to die. I force him outside to help, but he starts yelling at the guy (who is Russell Brand now) and telling him he's stupid. I yell out the window at him and he comes to the window and yells back, calls me a whore. Other people are trying to find branches long enough to reach russell so they can climb up. It's a stupid plan. I go outside with a pair of scissors and tell Russell that I'll put them in the tail of the rope and he can pull them up and cut through the rope above him. I warn him that because he is so far up, it will hurt when he lands. I walk off before he says anything, but I've shoved the scissors in between the weaves of the rope. I cover my ears, but I still here him cry out when he hits the ground. I am mad at everyone, I keep walking and refuse to listen. I go back inside – it's the wet area of my Year 7 class. I pause before going into the classroom. I can see Russell lying on the ground and I rest my head against the door and think how glad I am he's alive and seems mainly unharmed. I think I love him a bit. Then a girl comes over and starts kissing him and he kisses her back and announces they should get married. This just pisses me off and I go inside thinking “I didn't save him to marry HER”. Inside I lie on the dirty carpet and just want to weep or sleep. I ask a fat black woman and her assistant to make me hot for the ball, but I can't find the right balance between slutty and sexy. I try on a cream tail coat with black piping and the split in the tails comes right up to show a ruffled skirt underneath. It's nice, but not perfect. Then I wake up.

Monday, July 13, 2009

The cafe is crowded. So many people living lives. Not like the dome, these people are regulars, You can tell by the fact that the menus are discarded without a glance and people smile in recognition at the waiters and at each other. Regular coffee orders are brought out without being asked for. It is a monday, but no one displays the usual monday blues. It is a nice place to be. Four 40 something women in a corner move from coffee to white wine, winking at the waiter and ordering sugary carb loaden deserts they would never purchase by themselves. The wine pours neatly into 4 glasses. The neighbouring mother and daughter table sneak glances at the empty bottle and muse over getting one themselves. Maybe not. It's less acceptable when there are only two to share it.

I wait for my lemon, lime and bitters. The baby chews on the straps of her stroller and whinges – she is tired and there is not much of interest at her eye level. I undoubtedly could write a novel here, in only she didn't insist on playing with my fingers. I am wearing a black dress and above the knee creamy patterned socks and I have a lap top; I look the part.

Just as I decide they have forgotten me, another waiter brings the drink. He is smiley and attentive, but there is something that doesn't quite fit. The cafe is certainly hip enough to have male waiters, out of uniform and with oiled back hair. I prefer more homestyle places, I think. Starched white-shirted waitresses with paper pads who call you honey. Where the specials aren't written mostly in foreign languages. I would suit county America well. Or far flung australian roadhouses.

The mother and daughter who forewent the wine swap their plates half way through their meal in an smoothly orchestrated movement which shows they do it regularly. The baby sings. I type. I wait for something to happen. I eavesdrop on the man across from me, who has 4 earrings in his left lobe, a shaved to pretend he's not balding head and a tight black shirt open enough to let a thick silver chain peek out. He has a goatee, of course. I'm hoping that he'll do something spectacularly noteworthy. Superfluous adjective and all.

A friend! Mel. Who I met at the doctors surgery. She goes once or twice a week to talk to a psych. I am a bit jealous that her problems can be worked at by just a clinic psychologist. Her daughter is here, Eva. She's tiny and cute and was pigtailed, but Mel's mother pulls out the elastics and smooths down her curls.


Monday, July 6, 2009

untitled

There is an idle, wandering flame
Which has become trapped inside my stove.
Twisting, it taps the glass,
Begging to be set free.
But I see its truth
How it devours the log on which it dances;
How greedily it consumes;
How seductively it shimmers.
And I know the flame must die.
Starved from fuel and air
Confined in its iron cage.
Dancing ever more frantic
Until it succumbs to ash and smoke.
And a pale scorch
On the glass is all that marks
Its brief and brilliant life.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

undreaming.

I haven't written anything.
Because I am not sure if I am really awake.
And there is no point in writing anything, when there is a chance I could wake up and discover I have not written it at all.
Just like I did not drive in a red truck and I did not ring Beth and make plans for running away.

But maybe I did.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Tiny Poem #2

you should write wispy bits
on napkins
and keep them in a box with pretty ribbons

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

The tutor wouldn't accept this essay, because it was too long..

Applying Anthropology

The Personal, Professional and Global Spheres.

By Shannon Gillespie 13877569

The Oxford Universal Dictionary tells us the definition of anthropology is “the science of man” (1959). With this definition it can be safely asserted that all anthropology can be applied anthropology, used in real world applications instead of simply studied (Moore 2009). The field of social anthropology is particularly useful to the real world application of the discipline. In this essay, I will outline the various ways anthropological awareness has impacted my personal life and how it will prove useful to my professional life in the future. Anthropological learning can be applied to my life in order to discover how I construct my own identity and my sense of place and self within both the immediate society surrounding me, and the wider global stage. As an academic, anthropological awareness allows me to realize and deconstruct personal bias and opinion in research, allowing for a more impartial viewpoint where possible and a realization of my own subjectivity where not. In my chosen profession of teaching, anthropology studies are extremely useful, as they will help me to understand the social forces affecting both my students and myself in a classroom situation, to be more tolerant of difference whether cultural, biological or social and also to assess the reliability of teaching materials available to me. In these ways, I consider anthropological awareness and the application of the discipline to real world situations to be a necessary part of my own life.


When I grow up I would like to be a high school teacher. I find that while anthropology as a subject is not taught in a high school setting, it’s practical application remains entirely relevant and indeed necessary in order for teachers to better understand their students, themselves and the social forces acting on both. In her article Academic Achievement in an Age of Irresponsibility, Anne Dichele points out that “poverty, a broken home, a dangerous neighborhood [sic], a non-English speaking background…” are all social situations used by educators in order to “make excuses for students lack of responsibility and persistence” (2006:31). Anthropological awareness will allow me to recognize these social constraints and allow me to not excuse students lack of learning, but encourage them to overcome these seemingly negative situations. At the same time, the study of anthropology will allow me to recognize the diversity of student’s backgrounds and “see the voices of their [the minority group’s] ancestors as being valuable” (Diaz Soto 2006:114). Recognition of different cultural backgrounds and social forces, and using this to enrich instead of stifle my students educational experience is one way I will use my anthropological knowledge in a practical sense.


One of the most important ways applied anthropology can be used in an education setting is the recognition of bias and subjectivity in the curriculum. I find that accuracy of information is not so much in question here, instead the source of the information and whether the personal bias of the author is acknowledged (Diaz Soto 2006:113). This has relevance to both my future profession and my life in academia. Hendry addresses the effect of personal background in research by admitting that “background, age, gender and theoretical approach… might affect the results of their work” (2008:27). She refers here to ethnographical research, but the idea can be applied to all research and results across many fields. An example of the recognition of personal bias comes in Cynthia Werner’s article Bride Abduction In Post Soviet Central Asia where she explains the influence of her cultural background on both her interpretation of the information available and the responses of the people she studied (2009:327). It is important for both students and educators to not simply ingest information without questioning its validity, the context in which it was produced and the social and ethical concerns of who it was produced by (Moore 2009). This recognition that all information is subjective is important to both my learning ability and my future teaching ability.


Understanding the social forces behind my own decisions regarding what I research in my own academic life is also a way I can apply anthropological awareness in my professional life. In an example that extends Hendry’s examination of personal social factors affecting research (2008:27), Ifi Amadiume’s article in Gendered Fields demonstrates the difficulty in reaching a “common understanding” (1993:182) between anthropologists, people on a certain social group and the world at large. Amadiume tells of the “conflicts relating to the issues of the self and other, or in my own case, the multiple selves; as social subject, a member of an extended family, a daughter and mother and a woman with independent political views” (ibid). It must be recognized that the information available to researchers in the field is also subjective, as the subjects of research may withhold information or give misleading or false information in an effort to please the researcher, hide secrets or give a specific image of their society (Conaway 1989:55-56, Wiliksen 2009:116, Werner 2009:327). Just as academics must realize the subjectivity of the information they access, they must also recognize their own subjectivity in relation to their chosen field of research and the subjectivity of the people they are researching.


The examination of how social factors have constructed the ideas of self for each individual is an aspect of applied anthropology. Lourdes Diaz Soto says “to be able to critically analyse our experiences, our lives, our communities and the political decisions of our leaders in crucial” (2009:116) and I believe studying anthropology allows me recognize the affects of social factors on my own identity and on the way I see the world (Moore 2009). At a micro level, I enjoy discovering why I see the world from a particular viewpoint, how my race, religion, gender, age, experience and other factors (Hendry 2008, Moore 2009) have determined that viewpoint and examining “the socially determined dimension of [my] human behaviour” (Nettle 2009:225). A good example of this is my studies into social vs genetic determinism as discussed in the Nettle article (2009:224), into the nature vs nurture argument in regard to intelligence and consciousness (Buzan 2003, Kiverstein 2009:59-74) and my personal examination of the construction of internal forces that drive me. Without studying anthropology, I would fail to see how each aspect of my identity is socially constructed and be unable to deconstruct immoral or inaccurate aspects of my personality and celebrate the tolerant, creative and endlessly curious aspects.


The most important application of anthropological awareness is, to me, the application of ideas of acceptance, open mindedness and tolerance of other cultures both past and present in my own personal life. Globalisation, ‘the constant movement of people, things, ideas and encoded messages around the globe” (Hendry 2008:284), is rapidly increasing the individual’s exposure to many different types of societies and cultural traditions as well as creating new rituals (Christensen 2008:Lecture Notes, Hendry 2008:284, Knight 1994:2). Applied anthropology allows us to view culturally foreign ideas without judgment. An example of this is Hendry’s examination of taboo, where she speaks of ideas regarding pollution and how in one society what it considered clean may be prohibited in another social setting (Hendry 2008:40). Daniel Nettle sums up the argument for broad open mindedness and the call for tolerance in his article Beyond Nature Versus Culture

A central feature of human beings is that they are not the same everywhere. Their ideas, expressed motivations, behaviours and social groupings are strikingly different from society to society and changeable over historical time (Nettle 2009:223).

The acceptance of this cacophony of different social and cultural ideas, habits, taboos, rituals and motivations and the reorganization of the validity of cultural aspects of humanity involves applying anthropological awareness in it’s most necessary form.


By using my own personal experience as an example I hope this essay proves that all anthropology can and should be applied to real world situations. The quest for knowledge, when tempered with an understanding of social expectations and cultural traditions, allows for humanity to develop a bank of knowledge that is infinite, tolerant of difference and accepting of it’s own shortcomings. Although anthropologists and those conducting research contributing to “the study of human beings” (Hendry 2008:1) may be “widely tarred with the idea that they have no morals…that anything goes if it is ‘custom’” (Anderson 2009:1), it is my opinion that the examination of our own culture and society, the examination of foreign cultures and societies, and the examination of the intermingling of the two through globalisation can, if engineered in a positive way, only bring good. Whether on a personal level, an academic level or a professional level, the application of anthropological research and method to real world situations is certainly necessary in order to gain a deeper understanding of the way culture, and mankind, works.


References and Bibliography

Amadiume, I. The Mouth that spoke a falsehood will late speak the truth: going home to the field in Eastern Nigeria in Bell, D, Caplan, P. and Jahan Karim, W. (eds) Gendered Fields : women, men and ethnography. 1993. Routledge; London. P 182 – 198

Anderson, E. N. On Michael Brown: “Cultural Relativism 2.0” in Current Anthropology. 2009 (Volume 50, Issue 2). Online; http://www.journals.uchicago.edu. P 251.

Buzan, T. Brain Child. 2003. Harper Collins; London.

Christensen, W. Lecture Notes – Anthropology in a Globalising World 112. 2008. Curtin University; Perth

Conaway, M.E. The Pretence of the Neutral Observer in McCurdy, D.W. and Spradly, J.P. (eds) Conformity and Conflict : readings in cultural anthropology (7th ed). 1991. Harper Collins; New York. P 48 - 59

Diaz Soto, L. Border Crossing Identities in Taboo : the journal of culture and education. Spring Summer 2006 (Volume 10 Issue 1). Caddo Gap Press; New York. P 111 – 119. Viewed online June 2009.

Dichele, A. Academic Achievement in an Age of Irresponsibility in Taboo : the journal of culture and education. Spring Summer 2006 (Volume 10 Issue 1). Caddo Gap Press; New York. P 29 – 33. Viewed online June 2009.

Galley, A. City of Plague?: Toronto, SARS, and the Anxieties of Globalisation in vis-à-vis Exploration in Anthropology. 2009 (Volume 9, issue 1). Online; http://vav.library.utoronto.ca. P 133 – 142. Viewed June 2009

Hendry, J An introduction to social anthropology : sharing our worlds (2nd ed). 2008. Palgrave Macmillan; Hampshire.

Hirsch, E. Colony, Connection, Nationalism in Focus Anthropology. 2009 (Volume VIII). Online; http://www.focusanthro.org. Viewed June 2009

Kiverstein, J. Minimal sense of self, temporality and the brain in Psyche 2009 (Volume 15 Issue 1). Online; http://journalpsyche.org. P 59 - 74. Viewed June 2009

Knight, C. Why Ritual? in Knight, C. and Power, C. (eds) Ritual and the Origins of Symbolism. 1994. University of East London Sociology Department; London.

Moore, P. Lecture Notes – Introduction to Anthropology 111. 2009. Curtin University; Perth.

Nettle, D. Beyond Nature versus Culture : cultural variation as an evolved characteristic in Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute. 2009 (Volume 15, Issue 2). Wiley-Blackwell; Online. P 223 – 240. Viewed online June 2009.

Onions, C.T. (ed.) Oxford Universal Dictionary Illustrated A – M (rev.) 1959. Oxford University Press; London.

Werner, C. Bride Abduction In Post Soviet Central Asia : marking a shift towards patriarchy through local discourses of shame and tradition in Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute. June 2009 (Volume 15 Issue 2). Wiley – Blackwell; Online. P 314 – 331. Viewed online June 2009.

Wiliksen, S. Moods behind the Silences in Ethnography : Tales from the field. 2009 (Volume 10, Issue 1). Online; http://www.sagepub.com. P 115 – 127. Viewed online April 2009.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Morphia

A Child's Nightmare by Robert Frost

Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land,
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

Morphia drowsed, again I lay
In a crater by High Wood:
He was there with straddling legs,
Staring eyes as big as eggs,
Purring as he lapped my blood,
His black bulk darkening the day,
With a voice cruel and flat,
"Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..." he said, "Cat! ... Cat!..."

When I'm shot through heart and head,
And there's no choice but to die,
The last word I'll hear, no doubt,
Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!"
Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry,
"Let that body be, he's dead!"
But a voice cruel and flat
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!"

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

My heart still belongs to you;

I found this. Near the library. It had sauce on the top half, so I ripped it off before I stuck it in my pocket.*

I think this is a draft copy. I wish I had a boy (?) who had writing this neat, drafted love letters before he sent them and who includes sentences like "I've spend every minute of everyday at the caff replaying the images of our first encounter over and over" even if he (?) did get 'spend' wrong.

By the by, the caff is at the local junior college, so Link and Louise (or Gale?), whoever they are, are between 15 and 18.

Found outside the public Library.

*Yes, gross enough to pick up someone's trash because it had writing on it, but not THAT gross.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Small Children


"Well Mum, she is a part of me and I love her and all, but sometimes she's really annoying."

Tiny Poems #1

I like the word whore
I like to pronounce the w
Like a whisper.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Proseity


"...The leader of the cult, like most religious figures, had a sense of self importance and proseity about him. His followers hung on his every word, glassy eyed and hopeful, while outsiders muttered about the selfishness of his doctrine and the extensive tax evasion he so openly carried out. When the first body was found, he went to the police station within hours of the media release, professing condolences to the family and promising hell fire and brimstone for those responsible..."

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Testing, testing.

I think i have used this title for every blog I've ever started.

A little about this blog

This is a blog to share with the wonderful world of the web some pretty words that I find in my travels. I think words are the prettiest things - better than music or waterfront views or even red headed girls with bangs and black glasses.

If you have a word you like, feel free to email it to me. writing_backwards@hotmail.com I collect old dictionaries and archaic words, modern and foreign and colloquial words, translating dictionaries, thesauruses (thesauri??) and words, words, words.

My friend Beth describes it as a love affair with language.

I think in words, not pictures. I literally 'see' lines of text scrolling across the tv screen located on the inside of my forehead. If I drink too much coffee, instead of scrolling neatly from right to left, the text fizzes and pops and appears and disappears and sometimes comes up upside down or in reverse. Occasionally, I find myself writing words backwards.

I think everyone, no matter what their occupation or their passion or their anything, should work on increasing their vocabulary. Expand your brain! It's good for you. And stay away from excessive amounts of coffee!

A little about me

My name is Shannon and I'm 25 years old. I have two cats and I'm right handed. I have a daughter named Ava who is just a baby and a son named Kaidin who is 7. I am studying a bachelor of social science through correspondence and trying not to spend the grocery money on second hand books. I am interested in words, books, reading, the brain, human genetics, prehistoric humans and humanoids, aerial dance, herbs and photography. I am a rather strange individual, but generally harmless.

I don't have a very strict schedule, so while I'll try and update this blog about 5 times a weekm it may be 5 times on a tuesday and nothing until the next saturday. I am also a blatant comment whore, so feel free to comment, email me, stalk me, send me pretty things (like books) and generally stick your hand in the air and yell 'love me love me'. This is how i meet my friends.