Thursday, April 23, 2009

Random Ramblings - dont take too much notice of the second one, i was feeling particularly down and had eaten way too much muesli, can send one a little loopy.

23/4/09 – Byron Bay

Bits of string to small for anything.

I was born and then it came.
An overwhelming urge to collect as if I was half human, half magpie.
Old keys, toy soldiers mangled from too many wars, feathers, shells too stinky to ever be kept inside, beads of all shapes, sizes, colours and flavours, coins from faraway lands, old watches that had frozen at a certain time never to tick again. Freyed pieces of fabric collected merely for their soft strokeable pelt, or their rough unforgiving weave, ribbons that shone like shiny lollyies in their cellophane wrappers.
A small habit it begins my friends, but then ‘oh how it takes over.
Every second spent out of doors, eyes peeled for the telltale glint of sunlight upon the corner of something too good to leave behind.
The sun bleached, mud covered, bobble from a childs winter woolly that has been imbedded into the sandy, soily road surface, a treat to behold.
The strap from a fellow yoginis dress, that she had cast aside ready for the bin, swept up by moi and quickly turned around, into a fine foot decoration paraded around for the admiration of others.
Reincarnation of the Rank and Rebuffed.
A small but honest title that fits my flurries of fruitfulness, sprouted from the predicament of poverty, that has also lead to a whimsical and witty writing obsession that haunts my brain daily.
As I sit and contemplate the things I find and create from them, and the words I choose to explain myself in my day to day life, I wander what I shall be like in 20 years time. Will I be festooned with feathers, and wrapped in ribbons, spouting rivers of words that only just make sense, strung together like lyrical liquorice, keeping those who can stand to listen firmly on their toes, ears pricked for the next instalment. Or will I fade away into the background, another writer who could have been, another creator of pretty things who never got her moment to shine. Another drawer full of ‘bits of strings too small for anything’.

24/4/09 – Byron Bay.

Today is the day you realise the worst.
The big idea, the big plan that you tried your hardest to keep under wraps, just encase it didn’t materialise, but somehow found yourself spilling the intimate details to those who barely know you, has failed.
Not that this hasn’t happened to you before. Oh no dear reader do not feel sorry for me, for I am the ‘King of the Could Have Beens’, the ‘Queen of the Not Quite Theres’, the ‘Patriarch of It Just Didn’t Feel Right’.
Once again, I perch precariously on the edge of the weather beaten, moss covered fence of options, as I try to rack my brain and think of the next step. My endless chase of, what? I fall over my feet to be the first one to reach it, I set off a day before every one else to get, where? I cast others to the roadside for being to slow, or not commited enough to, what?
Fat, thin, blonde, brunette, single, attached, model, nanny, city, country, alcoholic, t- total. Each one of these weighty over coats has been draped around my shoulders at one time or another, to keep me warm and protect me from the consequences that fall around my ears like fat drops of rain, but still non of them seem to fit quite right. These always an annoying label inside the collar, or the sleeves are a little too long or it just smells like wet dog when ever it gets wet.
And so the search goes on, but my dear reader do not feel pitty for me, as I have learned from each one of these ‘Trenchcoats of Truth’ and so as I trudge forward on my journey, I have chosen to remove my overcoat and simply get wet.


  1. Is there a trenchcoat for talking bollocks?!


  2. Yep I make similar analogies sometimes, although in mine I'm not wearing an trench coat, it's a just pair of speedo's...

    see you in sept Sal.