Accessibility Tools

Skip to main content

Author: mascara

Michael Farrell

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Michael Farrell’s most recent books are a raiders guide (Giramondo), and as coeditor (with Jill Jones) Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets(Puncher and Wattmann). ‘word seen from a bus’ and ‘country from a mans neck’ were written during an Asialink residency in Nagoya.

 

 

 

word seen from a bus

 

Maybe a word i know. But the mountains are covered-in,

different examples-of forest different water reflects. A bittern rises

from the page like a stick &s gone, it was a vision, white

word of childhood myth. Read unread.

 

Its context, framed Perfectly, the single word was there room or time for another?

 

a word in the river.

Or the sky: hawk

 

perhaps. Man woman or sugar

 

Could be anything.

Readers snooze,

Its like the midwest,

Or eden-monaro,

At home id-know,

 

Feels like glass,

A name,

Lifted by a crane,

Word post-card,

With without wings-amen,

country in a mans neck

 

Happiness in the night, last.

I know where im supposed to take you,

on stage, for a moment.

 

the tiny venue, the throbbing figures

 

nothing i can quote, but i approximate

by writing there were lots of toys,

& Nothing like a jimmy barnes oh.

 

Nothing i can quote, but i approximate,

 

these notions come from reading books by tanizaki,

 

The absent pearl earring draws my attention to his dark white neck.

 

Ive taken off my coat & my popover & remain inactive cool.

 

halfway home between one & another like an oyster…

 

a less observant guy than youd miss my thirsty shoe…

 

(not a better metonym than ass)

‘alluring aspect’ –

 

(unknown to the uncolonised as scrub)

‘or greenitude’ –

 

no sun Fell Hard

on my mental verandah

or the mushroom underneath.

The product of short days

 

 

Mark O’Flynn

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Mark O’Flynn has had eight plays professionally produced with such companies as Q Theatre Co, La Mama, MRPG, The Mill Theatre Co and Riverina Theatre Co. His play Paterson’s Curse was published by Currency Press in 1988. He has also published a novel, Grass Dogs, which was one of the short listed manuscripts in the Harper Collins Varuna Awards program. He has also published two collections of poetry, reviews and short stories. His new collection of poetry, published by Interactive Press, was published at the end of 2007. Mark was awarded a residency at Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Ireland by the Australia Council in 2007 to work on a new novel.
 

The Great Slime Kings

 

After much rain

the congress of frogs

summoning each other

sounds like frying bacon.

 

The creeks and puddles

shrinking to their usual drains

pulse and sizzle

with the electricity of frogs.

 

From the foetid mud they hatch,

on the prowl,

as grateful as I to snatch

a break in the weather.

Calligraphy of Moss

The wayward letters my son scrawled with his finger

in wet cement all those years ago have every day

reminded me of his name.

 

Not that I would have forgotten.

Silly observation

Their presence is like the presence of air.

 

After the rain and the opportunistic streak

of living things; (the mosquitoes, the leeches),

the misshaped letters have filled with a calligraphy

 

of moss. The green is startling,

adapting to the concrete vagaries of the host.

Moss too has a toehold in our lives.

 

It is like the presence of air,

the presence of earth. The green

footprint of his name existing beyond the odds.

 

Groper

Wallowing like a dog in gravy

the great blue groper, king

of Clovelly Bay, rolls on his back

for his tummy to be rubbed.

Floating over sand like a dirigible

with fins he eyes the snorkellers above,

silhouettes against the bright sky.

One of them, he knows, will dive down

soon to scarify the sand, loosening worms,

or else dismember for him a tasty sea urchin.

All the vivid little fish dart in like hyenas

or frenzied gulls, but it’s the big blue

groper, neon as a burglar alarm

that we have come to see

to measure, in the breathless safety

of the bay, how far out of our

element we are.

 

 

Mani Rao

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Mani Rao is the author of Bhagavad Gita – A Translation of the Poem (Autumn Hill Books, 2010), and eight books of poetry including Ghostmasters (Chameleon Press, 2010). She has essays and poems in journals including Cordite, Meanjin, Wasafiri, JAAM, Printout, Takahe, Iowa Review, Fulcrum, Zoland Poetry and anthologies by WW Norton, Penguin and Blood Axe. www.manirao.com has updates.

 

 

 

Ding Dong Bell

The jetty’s out
Who’s at bay
War-mongrels Hera Athena

Stout Menelaus
Slender Paris
Homer leads the charge

Imperfection haunts beauty
So imagination can rule
Helen haunts imagination

In the center of her forehead
Bloodthirsty star of the sea


Iliad Blues

I like battles out at sea
Hot spur
Cold water
Blood swimming both ways
Salty meetings
Sharks due
At the end
Level blue

 

Peace Treaty

What if Helen died

Cuckold crows
Husband recalls
Body  face  rites

Once broad Trojan devils
Now cower in the shadows of walls
Fearing skywitnesses
Quaking at birdshit

Our boy came back
From overseas with a
Souvenir egg that ticked

A runaway wife’s a rotten prize
Unwanted alive
And dead

 

Anne Elvey

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Anne Elvey’s poems have appeared in journals, including most recently Blue Dog, Cordite, Island and Westerly and in The Best Australian Poems 2009 (Black Inc.). Her first chapbook Stolen Heath was published by Melbourne Poets Union in 2009. Her research and writing is supported by the Centre for Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies, Monash University, and Melbourne College of Divinity.

lacing and unlacing her song

The ear is a window where she transfers

a blue wren. Her song

is a cat’s tail curved

round the air when her fingers

bend to the strings. And her bow

is an oar, striding a river.

 

She ties up to a she-oak, shakes

its raindrop chandelier. The rest

becomes a body, composed

to chocolate and wine. Bread.

A magpie. Weeds trodden into

loam. A stump

 

where insects trace their graffiti.

The perfume of fennel. Wild.

Her touch says wood and gut.

 

***

 

At home the frame bends.

With use a string frays.

All night she will play

shadow puppets on a wall.

They disappear when the day awakens

beside her score.

 

And unlacing her song, she laces

her song with the remembered scale

of her years.

memento: the manuscript under may hand is/not written

The verse etched on a tree selects

a variety of media to represent itself.

 

On the smooth trunk where the bark has peeled—

such a robust street tree, thick

 

and rugged, not that I’d lean into it—

is the kind of word this land leaves

 

on things, neither exodus nor crucifixion,

but a slow tapping into soil, a writing outward

 

of time that was rock and clay and an everywhere

sky. With its dense foliage this is not a tree

 

for a clearing. Cars’ fumes create their own

mass and insects travel woody

 

roads eeking through age, so that I wonder

do they hear the tree as it makes itself?

 

 

Claire Potter

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Claire Potter was a Poets Union Fellow in 2006. She is author of two chapbooks, In Front of a Comma (Poets Union, 2006) and N’ombre (Vagabond, 2007). Her first full-length collection, Swallow, will be published this October (Five Islands Press). She lives and works in London.

 

 

 

Our Lady Of The Cave

From the ancient tale,
the miniature cries come to me
and I see what the monk saw
in the folds of the woman’s cape:
hundreds of young birds
in a maze of warm silence
and her arms stretching out
into the blue timbre of morning
The woman softly
ushered the birds away, said they were
no longer sleeping, promised the anxious monk
that the swallows would return and fill his hallowed
parish with the credence of vagrancy––
for what is unsettling in nymphs
is celebrated in tiny birds


Genet Lesson

Three metres apart   It’s snowing & tiny fronds of ice zigzag
between us    I reach across to you      but knock a mirror––   
realise you are on my other side        turn
right––   you are not there    left and you are blue,
 
from out of the
 
hand from the mirror takes mine & you reappear  
this time dressed in Chaplin   frill of dark mist edges you
nicely   & I’d like to take a picture   but have only an umbrella
 
decaying flowers, violets of which the bouquet, lest we forget, becomes
an umbrella, and vice-versa: the umbrellas are like bouquets,
and the bouquets are like umbrellas…
 
Suddenly, loss of order   & receding    Is, is
as is whatever    really right?
 
Three metres apart    but never so well expressed
of open air
 
O my rose    you whisper
          tap-dancing to curtain fall         
 
encore? 

 

                                                                          The Tea Leaf Party 

My fretting friend & I
we’ll go slow tomorrow morning
not wasting any time––
 
We’ll trampoline trivial love
off the city pitches, spit
sugarplums and
heckle daisies with
ears pressed firmly to the ground
 
We’ll girdle all bleached
histories, skip
outside the radiation hoops
 
and below bad-mannered moustaches,
bray in raspy voices
to scare birds who open fire
from diamonds cut from sky
 
––Francis, come let me cradle
the qualms of your rocking suns
darn your memory pockets
with skeins of tightrope pulled
from a far-off star
 
and to the banksias who raise their
fiery brushes, the thurifers
will resurrect light
across our barren ground
 
to a clearing of the Sound
where ribaldry and tea
are taken not instinctively
but to catch leaves before they brown
 
 

 

Katharine Gillett reviews Dog Boy by Eva Hornung

Written by mascara on . Posted in Reviews/Essays.

Dog Boy

by Eva Hornung

Text Publishing, 2009

ISBN 9781921520099

Reviewed by KATHARINE GILLETT

 

 

What is it that makes us human? In Dog Boy, Eva Hornung examines the instinct to nurture and protect, not as an inherently human trait, but as one belonging to the invisibly marked territory of a pack of stray dogs.

 

Four-year-old Romochka is abandoned by his mother at the onset of a Russian winter. As the chill begins to creep under his blankets and the sky loses its light for the season, he is driven by hunger to take to the streets.  When he follows a dog to her home under an old church on the outskirts of Moscow, it is the beginning of a new life for Romochka and suckling alongside the dog’s pups he feels the safety and warmth denied him by his human mother. Almost immediately, the themes of loyalty and love take hold and as the next few winters unfold, we see Romochka’s education extend beyond the primal need for survival.  

 

Perhaps in order to understand what it is like to begin again, Hornung—who previously wrote as Eva Sallis and is the author of journey-themed Hiam and The City of Sealions among other works—travelled to Russia to research the book, which is based on the true story of a boy living with dogs in Moscow. Her cultural immersion extends in the novel to a linguistic one, resonating Romochka’s loss of his human language, which is, of course, useless in his new surrounds:

 

There was so much in the new world to be learned that he quickly forgot anything that didn’t touch him. This new world had immutable laws. It was divided into realms of danger and safety; it had clear enemies and its own demons. (p. 38)

 

In a book largely without dialogue, Romochka must learn to rely on his senses: ‘Day was a brief visitation of many greys. Romochka could see the dogs’ eyes and shapes inside the lair only at midday. Otherwise he could see nothing, but could hear and feel where each of them was’ (p. 67). Exiled at the edge of the city, straining to see in the dark or attempting to smell the threat of a stranger, Romochka’s intuitivism takes over, as if he has been reborn.

 

While the story of the wild boy is not new, Dog Boy explores another aspect of this age-old tale through Romochka’s knowledge of what it means to be human. There is no need for the question raised in Malouf’s An Imaginary Life: ‘What species does [the wild boy] think he might belong to? Does he recognise his own?’ (p. 52). Romochka knows he was once a boy and his contact with humans is frequent and, ultimately, essential. Indeed his reflections on his past life are fundamental to his character:


Romochka could remember this place, but it seemed utterly changed. He savoured the memory, curious. He had been a boy then, with a missing mother and uncle, following a strange dog. He remembered how cold and hungry he was. How unknown the trail ahead. (p. 40)

 

Romochka quickly adapts to his new life and Hornung convincingly describes what it might be like to live in a wild world. She shows Romochka and ‘black sister’ sharing a slippery rat, each inclination of a paw as loaded as language; Mamochka, his dog mother, licking Romochka’s sores as his clothes tighten or lie wet on his skin; and Romochka’s developing understanding of the territory as marked out by the scent of his brother, ‘black dog’. Romochka becomes so immersed in his dog-world, boundaries begin to blur and the story not only becomes plausible, but realistic and entirely believable.

 

The language is terse and tight, perhaps reflecting the fact that Romochka has little time to meander; he must quickly move between the hunt for food and the hunt for warmth. In brief moments of abandon he connects with his dog brothers and sisters, tumbling and biting in play, but the frivolity is always short-lived and we are soon drawn back into his isolated life. Given Hornung’s background as a human rights activist, the isolation and exile Romochka experiences could be suggestive of asylum and other states of displacement where the absence of language becomes, like detention, a barrier to inhabiting place.  Similarly, although Romochka is accustomed to the harsh Moscow winters, the cold weather, at its extreme in the concrete bunker of the dogs’ den, does little to ease his transition to his new life.  Romochka spends long stretches of time unable to face the outdoors, to fend for himself, instead relying on the dogs to bring him food, a practice he finds demeaning, even in his vulnerable state.

 

Although there is scope for action and tension in Romochka’s situation, little seems to infiltrate the dogs’ world.  Any sense of danger is quickly resolved, and, as a mother would reassure a child, the support of Romochka’s dog family is quick to materialise. Because Romochka lives in an in-between world, he is accepted on the periphery of existence: tolerated and feared by humans and dogs alike.  The nearby residents who scavenge on the rubbish mountain and the population in town largely ignore them. When a threat finally comes, it is not in any physical sense, but in an emotional sense, when Momochka brings another human baby back to their home.  Here, emotions that have no place in a dog’s world start to surface and our concerns begin to shift away from the present—where the family have proven their resilience time and time again—to each boy’s future.  That it takes the introduction of another human to bring about the crisis is an inevitable consequence of such a new and complex emotional world; in dealing with his boy brother, Romochka is forced to confront himself.

 

There comes a moment in the second half of the novel when Romochka sees himself in a mirror for the first time. When he sees a boy—a boy with wild black ropes and tendrils for hair instead of fur—he is shocked: ‘He wasn’t what he thought he was … His calloused paw and scarred forearm were stringy, bald, filthy, long. Wrong’ (p. 161). It is almost a relief to see Romochka in this way, shocked into his own existence. It’s a timely reminder that he is a boy and a life beyond the lair beckons. As he stares at his reflection, all he has come to believe starts to unravel and it’s hard to imagine what the future holds for him and his brother. Can they survive in a human world? We do know that whatever happens, it won’t be an easy journey. After all, the question of how to bridge the indefatigable space between worlds is a question not even humans can answer.

 

KATHARINE GILLETT has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Newcastle and a background in community publishing and cultural development. She is the coordinator of the Newcastle Poetry Prize. 

Yvette Holt

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Yvette Holt heralds from the Bidjara Nation of Queensland, born and raised in Brisbane, Yvette is a multi-award winning poet, academic and feminist. She has lectured on Aboriginal Women Studies and Australian History in an Indigenous Context at the University of Queensland and the Australian Catholic University respectively. Her research has been in Indigenous Australian literature with a particular focus on Aboriginal womens’ poetry, Yvette is also a passionate advocate for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women and their leadership on a state and national level.

Her prizes include the Scanlon Prize, the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Indigenous Writing for her collection, Anonymous Premonition, and the 2010 Kate Challis Award.

 

 

Always My Lover

  
my lover the colour of candescent brandy seducing an Indian summer/
my lover the reason I leave diamond kisses scattered across an auburn, morning waist/
my lover, skin sweeter then Belgian chocolate dusted with perfumed spices/
my lover amethyst fingers endlessly melting every breath behind my sigh/
my lover the reason I read poetry to our unsuspecting goldfish/
always my love, forever my lover/

Motherhood

(Dedicated to Cheyenne Holt)
I love my suburban backyard and sharing it with you
lying on the trampoline just mother and daughter
and making funny animal shapes out of the soft marshmallow clouds
 
then when night falls we begin to count the twinkling stars on our hands and feet laughing at the passing
red kangaroos flying high above our mango tree
I love watching you transplant a leaf from our garden as you impatiently wait for it to grow
 
sometimes I squint while trying on new clothes in front of her though because no matter what I buy or choose to wear I always seem to
end up looking like a six foot-tall full-figured Barbie doll or maybe even a Ken
 
I like playing big sissy with you and rolling around on my bed, begging you to stop tickling me until I fall hard
onto the floor then I get all too serious and fed up but you just laugh hysterically and say ‘C’mon mummy that was
fun let’s do it again’
 
I look forward to dancing with you every Sunday morning and singing ‘I am woman hear me roar’ karaoke style
with my tired and worn-out hair brush
I love calling you from interstate and telling you I’ll be home tomorrow
 
there are so many things I love about motherhood but we keep it real and have our fair share of difficult moments
too like homework time, always radioactive in our neck of the woods, or asking her to clean out her bedroom for
the umpteenth time because I’m unable to see the carpet
 
and yes I know I totally freaked out when you told your school friends that Mr. Bean was really your father
because at the next P & C meeting I felt like the black adder
 
but through it all if motherhood were a mountain then you’ve taken me to the highest peak and if daughters were
flowers growing in the garden
you would always be me one and only sweet                     

Trippin’Over Your Tongue


The littering of literature fills my living space
I break and enter like a thief in the night
Selling my words on the black market page
Pawning my thoughts for a night on the town
Then peeling the label from a bus shelter wall
Trading my soul for a leather bound classic
Collecting collectibles
Like a crazed butterfly
Embracing your tongue
Before you have spoken
Recycling your dreams
Triggering my pen
Before I commence
Exchanging your whisper
For a reloaded quill
Sifting through texture on
The black poet’s corner
Moulding your ideas
Into something more or less
Bringing to boil
A melting pot of languages
Simmering over time
Sprinkling through the ages
To be or not to be
Obesity of our words
Gathering up the pounds
Charring the midnight ink
“Motherhood” and “Tirppin’ Over Your Tongue” first appeared in Anonymous Premonition, (University of Queensland Press, 2008)

 

Sally Fitzpatrick reviews The English Class by Ouyang Yu

Written by mascara on . Posted in Reviews/Essays.

The English Class 

by Ouyang Yu

Transit Lounge, 2010

ISBN 9780980571783

Reviewed by SALLY FITZPATRICK 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Having resisted colonial forays for millennia, China is ironically westernizing itself, a cultural revolution with arguably as much impact as that of the Great Proletarian Revolution.  Even the poorest Chinese peasant, willing to dismiss the intense beauty embodied in the Chinese language, may believe the English language has the power to transform their life. This belief in the transformative power of English is the driving ambition, and perhaps the flaw, in the heart of Jing, the hapless, truck-driver protagonist of Ouyang Yu’s  recent novel, The English Class.   

Although Jing’s aspiration leads to his downfall, his character provides an ingenious vehicle for Yu’s endless curiosity with both the Chinese and English languages.  Yu’s prolific output, to the order of an average of two books per year for the last twenty years, speaks of a man whose fascination with language acts like adrenalin in his blood.  In The English Class, as he explores the idiosyncrasies of language, Yu ploughs the cultural wealth hidden within the fields of the two languages, fertilizing, cross-pollinating and producing a delightful linguistic hybrid.

 

The effervescent energy of this novel, and the charm of its innocent protagonist, compel interest throughout the entire four hundred pages. Reminiscent of the picaresque hero Don Quixote, the hapless truck-driver, Jing, tilts at the windmill of the English language as he bounds around in the Unique, his rattling, truck-without- breaks. More aptly perhaps, Jing resembles Sun Wu Kong, the famous Monkey King, hero of the Chinese classic, Journey to the West, who lampoons the phantasmagorical world of Chinese Buddhist and Taoist belief.

 

Like Sun Wu Kong, Jing also takes a journey to the West, albeit a West that is now located south, in Australia, where he believes he can rise above the material world, if only he can master the English language. “I can read and speak some English, whereas they can only read and speak Chinese,” Jing thinks about his workmates at the truck depot.  “All I ever wanted to do is move away from people, from them, from a life bound by materialism into a life of metaphysics. Truck driving is all about moving goods from one place to another. I want to do something like thought driving, moving thoughts from one place to another.”  (115)

 

Yu brings the flavour of the truck depot to life in precisely rendered characters, such as the fastidious Canton, who “just sits there, his left leg thrown over his right while his right knee constantly jerks up and down as he makes a sucking noise through his big-holed nostrils.” (15)  The dialogue makes for effortless reading, humouring the reader as it seamlessly segues the two languages. Gu, the story-teller workmate,scoffs at the aloof Jing:  “You think people who go to universities are smart? Goupi! Dog fart nonsense. The xiao bailian, small white face, doesn’t even know how to change a tyre properly and he’s learning ying ge la xi, Englishit!”  Mundane English expressions permeate with new meanings and with comedy as Jing attempts to memorize one hundred English words every day at the wheel of his truck.  “He knew what egg stood for but what was egg on?  . . . he could hardly make any sense of it.” (22)

 

When he enters University in Wuhan, Jing obsessively unpicks phrases and expressions, as if at a sub-syllabic level, some kind of power will be released, like splitting the atom, which will finally provide the desired transcendence.  Investigating the many ways the ideas of yin and yang pervade the Chinese language, for instance, Jing notices that yin, female, is both more prolific than yang, and always bad:

 

. . . yin wind, yin shadows, yin cold, yin darkness, yin privacy, yin conspiracy, yin danger, yin soul, yin clouds, yin thief, yin world . . . Are there other cultures out there that are only concerned with the yang as opposed to the yin? Is English as bad? Jing could only remember an English word, history, which seemed to suggest that it was a man’s story, not a woman’s. His memory became blurred as sleep pervaded his senses. He thought he fell off a cliff into the pond behind the hill. (155)

 

Yu balances dark consequences, the barest foreshadowing of the blurring to come, with whimsical touches that keep the text light and delightful.

 

While Jing idolizes English, a realistic undercurrent flows through the text. This tension between the ideal and the real is the source of the humour that pervades the novel.  Yu satirizes Australian society, holding up a mirror that reflects an undeniable cultural poverty in the suburbs. The new English teacher at Wuhan University, the Australian Dr Wagner, muses to himself:

 

Already he was faced with a class of young people whose aspirations travelled far beyond the borders of China, whose motivation was like nothing he had ever seen in a comparatively dreary Australian suburb, and whose learning skills were amazingly intuitive, coupled with a respect for their teacher that few of his peers could experience in Australia. (240)

 

Yu’s prose is vibrant with his original and creative English, which he tints with the colours of Chinese literary tradition:

 

The falling sun would set the lake waters ablaze with fire throwing down a long wide shaft of myriad colours and hues. The air was scented with wild flowers mixed with the smell of raw fish, and memories of the recently dead . . . in the distance was the university hidden among dense foliage with the roofs of its buildings half visible, most conspicuously a column of black smoke twisting every other way above the old library at the top of Luojia Hill. It took Jing quite some time to work out that the smoke was formed by millions of mosquitoes flying together towards the sky. (159)

 

Here we see the classic antithesis that enlivens Chinese language and poetry, with its surprising juxtaposition of fish and flowers, smoke and mosquitoes. The writer’s prose style resonates at the same time, with alliterative English. Yu revives and rejuvenates language, with his use of archaic expressions, perhaps unearthed as a result of the Chinese government’s exclusive use of romantic era texts for its English curriculum:

“A penny for your thoughts, E Jing, you are in a brown study again!”

 

“No,” Jing said. “I’m actually in a green study.”  He said this as his hand swept the air in an arc that included the tree-lined bank encircling the lake and greenish hills beyond. (236)

 

Even Yu’s use of words, such as ‘greenish’, maybe considered vague by a native English writer, provide subtlety and charm, while contextualising the received language of the protagonist and the narrator.

 

The third and final part of the text leaps forward twenty years to a suburban garden in Melbourne where Jing struggles to align his dreams with reality.  Here, the narrative also becomes blurred and sometimes hard to follow, as the voice changes between characters, locations and time frames.  Even so, Yu maintains humour in the bleakest of situations. As Jing becomes unhinged, he is diagnosed as suffering from:

 

. . . cultural disorientation and bilinguistic confusion  . . .  exhibiting such symptoms as a difficulty in switching back into a ‘foreign’ culture after living in his ‘mother’ culture for a brief time; a constant need to assert the superiority of his former culture over the present culture in public while unreasonably denouncing his former culture in private; and a perennial sense of  victimization that he did not enjoy full rights as his other fellow citizens did because of his ‘wrong’ skin colour, his wrong shape of eyes and his wrong gait. (365)

 

Crash landing in the wasteland of the West, the windmill is destroyed and Jing’s identity disintegrates under the impact.  Instead of the hoped for transcendence, Jing finds alienation in the face of cringing racism. Ultimately, however, there is a strange surrender to ockerism and the ordinary, which suggests Jing may yet revive himself.

 

While the Chinese and much of the Asian block scramble to learn English, Australia remains aloof, providing the merest tokens of Asian language education to their young, and failing to provide the means for a meaningful cultural exchange.  The English Class is a work that shows the rich cultural potential of language contained within Australia’s immigrant population, a potential for which our previous Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, aka Lù Kèwén or 陸克文, was openly aware. Australia could embrace its place in the East, become better acquainted with its neighbours, and even learn from their ancient philosophies and languages. ‘Easternization’ is a foreign concept, and as yet, an uncoined word.  Ironically, spell-check corrects it to ‘westernization’.  Let the easternization of Australia begin!  Meanwhile, we can look forward to more from the writer of the adventures of Jing.

 

SALLY FITZPATRICK is completing a Masters Degree in Creative Writing at the University of Newcastle. She is currently writing a memoir about her time following the footsteps of her daughter in China.

Cyril Wong

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Cyril Wong is the author of eight collections of poetry and a short story collection. His work appears in journals around the world, including Atlanta Review, Fulcrum, Poetry International, Cimarron Review, Wascana Review, Dimsum, and Asia Literary Review. They have also been featured in the 2008  WW Norton Anthology, Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia & Beyond, and Chinese Erotic Poems by Everyman’s Library. TIME magazine has written that “his work expands beyond simple sexuality…to embrace themes of love, alienation and human relationships of all kinds.”

 


School Bus

I am on a bus full of school kids smelling of sweat
and hope. I still hope, don’t I? I get off at a stop
and my grandparents are standing beside the road.
Grandma holds a bag of fruits. Grandpa is
smiling, waiting to hold my arm. They are gone
when I look down at the phone ringing in my hand.
No one is on the other line. Two girls I used
to play with stroll past. One glances over,
tells the other, “The way he stares suggests
he has no direction.” A little boy runs on the street
as I am ready to cross. He yells my name or
a word I can no longer recognise.
I try my best to respond and he runs towards me,
his hands flying up as if caught in a breeze, circling
the air like mad birds. I catch him in my arms. He smiles
and tells me to put him down, saying, “You have to
let me go. I don’t ever want to be picked up
like that again. When I am running towards you,
turn and walk very quickly in the opposite direction.”
I put him down. He sprints off, laughing wildly.
I am already starting to miss him. I board
another bus and you are waiting in the backseat;
unlike me, your eyes seem to bear all the answers.
I sit beside you and you hold my hand, not caring
what anyone thinks. Then it is just me on the bus now,
since you and I were always one and the same.
Someone in front presses the bell, the present
calling me to rise from my seat, to step off this bus
and into a future for which I am unprepared,
where my name makes sense even when I no longer do.

 

 

Buffet

I am about to have a buffet. But
when I try to get up, I am stuck
to my seat. An empty plate
in front of me grows brighter
and brighter. I could eat
the table cloth. I am so hungry
I forget I am here alone, so old
that no one outlived me. My belly
clenches like a fist but my body will
not rise to its feet. The other customers
finished eating, rising to leave.
As they squeeze past my table,
I lean back in my chair, sighing
loudly with contentment. Suddenly,
I am standing on my feet,
but I have to follow everyone out—
lunchtime is over. Those already outside,
talking among themselves beside the street,
are exclaiming about how full they are.
A fat couple smiles widely at me.
The husband tells me, “Today’s selection
was quite spectacular, wasn’t it?”
Nobody ate anything. They were sitting
before empty plates. I watch as they
hug and leave in pairs or groups.
I try to remember if I have always
lied about my hunger. With a heart-stopping
screech, a car brakes in the middle
of the road. A homeless, dirty-faced
man has collapsed in front of the vehicle,
clutching his stomach as he yells,
“Somebody help me, please! Somebody
feed me—I’m starving!” To which
none of us does nothing. Instead,
we slip back into walking fast,
barking into our phones. The driver
who stopped his car restarts his engine,
followed by the others behind him.
In an unremitting stream, they
run over the poor fool again and
again, until he may no longer make
a sound that anybody might hear
above the symphony of all that traffic.

 

 

Bear

After Aesop

 

We saw a bear, and my friend flew up a tree. I fell to the ground and played dead. Like in a dream, the bear bent down to sniff my chest, my neck, and whispered in my ear, “Trust no one who abandons you in your moment of need.” When I opened my eyes, the bear was gone, and my friend was beside me, asking what the bear had said. I drew out a gun and shot him in the head; not knowing why I did it, only that it felt good to do it. And dragged his body into the forest for god knows how long and for no particular reason. Perhaps I wanted to thank the bear for his warning. Perhaps I was searching for myself. The body was getting heavy. When I looked down upon it, I saw that I was lugging my own body behind me, while I had turned into a bear. Like in a dream, I did not seem to care. Instead I hauled my former self deeper into the woods. Hungry, I rested and chewed on it for food. Some birds passing overhead called out a word that could have been my name. When I was full, I went to sleep. When I awoke, I had no eyes left to open, for I had become part of the stillness floating like a web between the trees, catching a few leaves, that long syllable of the wind, running daylight through its delicate grasp, then letting it all go again.

 

 

 

Gabriela Mistral: translation by Stuart Cooke

Written by mascara on . Posted in Translations.

Gabriela Mistral (1889-1957) was born in the small northern-Chilean town of Vicuña. She rose from near-poverty to acheive a significant international reputation not only as a poet, but also as an educator, a diplomat and a journalist. In 1945 she became the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

 

La Bailarina

La bailarina ahora está danzando
la danza del perder cuanto tenía.
Deja caer todo lo que ella había,
padres y hermanos, huertos y campiñas,
el rumor de su río, los caminos,
el cuento de su hogar, su propio rostro
y su nombre, y los juegos de su infancia
como quien deja todo lo que tuvo
caer de cuello, de seno y de alma.

En el filo del día y el solsticio
baila riendo su cabal despojo.
Lo que avientan sus brazos es el mundo
que ama y detesta, que sonríe y mata,
la tierra puesta a vendimia de sangre
la noche de los hartos que no duermen
y la dentera del que no ha posada.

Sin nombre, raza ni credo, desnuda
de todo y de sí misma, da su entrega,
hermosa y pura, de pies voladores.
Sacudida como árbol y en el centro
de la tornada, vuelta testimonio.

No está danzando el vuelo de albatroses
salpicados de sal y juegos de olas;
tampoco el alzamiento y la derrota
de los cañaverales fustigados.
Tampoco el viento agitador de velas,
ni la sonrisa de las altas hierbas.

El nombre no le den de su bautismo.
Se soltò de su casta y de su carne
sumiò la canturía de su sangre
y la balada de su adolescencia.

Sin saberlo le echamos nuestras vidas
como una roja veste envenenada
y baila así mordida de serpientes
que alácritas y libres la repechan,
y la dejan caer en estandarte
vencido o en guirnalda hecha pedazos.

Sonámbula, mudada en lo que odia,
sigue danzando sin saberse ajena
sus muecas aventando y recogiendo
jadeadora de nuestro jadeo,
cortando el aire que no la refresca
única y torbellino, vil y pura.

Somos nosotros su jadeado pecho,
su palidez exangüe, el loco grito
tirado hacia el poniente y el levante
la roja calentura de sus venas,
el olvido del Dios de sus infancias.

 The Dancer

Now the dancer is dancing
the dance of losing what she was.
Now the dancer lets it all fall away,
parents, siblings, orchards and idylls,
her river’s murmur, the pathways,
the story of her home, her own face
and her name, and her childhood dreams,
as if letting everything that she was
fall from her neck, her breast, her being.

On the edge of the day the solstice curls
around what remains dancing in a delirious swirl.
Her pale arms are winnowing away the world
that loves and detests, that kills and jests,
the earth crushed into a bloody wine,
the night of the multitudes who don’t sleep,
the pain of those without homes in which to rest.

Without name, race or creed, without relation
to anything nor to her herself, she shows her devotion,
beautiful and pure, with flying feet.
Shaken like a young tree in the tornado’s eye,
the proof emerges and cannot lie.

She isn’t dancing the albatrosses’ flight,
birds covered with playful waves’ salty bites,
nor the uprising and the defeat
of reeds pummelled by the wind,
nor the candles that the wind perturbs,
nor the smiles of the tallest herbs.

They didn’t baptise her with this name.
She broke free of her caste and her flesh;
she buried the soft song of her blood
and the ballad of her adolescence.

Without knowing it we throw our lives
over her like a poisoned red bodice
and she dances like this, snake-bitten,
the vipers swarming over her freely,
leaving her to fall as a forgotten
symbol, or as a garland smashed to pieces.

Sleepwalker, becoming what she despises,
she keeps dancing without thought of the changes,
her expressions and myriad contortions,
exhausted by our own exhaustion,
blocking off the breeze because it doesn’t cool her,
unique and electric, vile and pure.

We ourselves are her panting chest,
her bloodless pallor, the crazy scream
thrown to the east and the west,
the red fever of her arteries,
she has forgotten the God of her infancies.

 

Stuart Cooke’s translations have also appeared in HEAT, Southerly and Overland. His translation of Juan Garrido-Salgado’s Once Poemas, Septiembre 1973 was published by Picaro Press in 2007. A chapbook of his own poetry, Corrosions, is forthcoming from Vagabond Press.
 
 
 

Deepika Arwind

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Deepika Arwind, 23, is a poet, writer and journalist based out of Bangalore, India. Her poems have appeared in Indian poetry anthologies and poetry journals. She has also read poetry at festivals like the Poetry with Prakriti Festival in Chennai, and won several poetry prizes. She is currently working on short fiction.

 

 

The heart is a child

sings the man with the voice of

a sinking boat. Hear, how water

ruptures him.

On the lake-fringe, between us,I am bored –

even with my foot on your crotch and your

lips syncing lullabies of romance. 

Our hearts are expanses, not organs

like the Indian railways are an experience,

not a network of trains? you say.

But I’d rather eat up the city’s old charms – than your

clever metaphor –its barrage of baraats, the sound

of tomorrow’s kites in the wind. I’m so bored.

And you, between stomach and thigh are limp.

You begin: But to love is to be –

I listen (as if) unaware of the mild

 

backlash of our love.

 

 

(baraat: marriage procession)

 

The Studio (I)

 

Where the riot began

 

The man I will remember –

 

dull turban, pleated eyebrows,

black spectacle frames, the eyes that spit 

the Bhagat Singh variety of courage, that look – 

he ousted the topper of the class

the look that says: I will be alive at 69, because

I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, and I will only cry when 

Saira Banu dies. 

Scanty beard of pubescent modesty

with it – the fear of being reckless

the heart through the thin polyester shirt

and pocket-tucked ink pen

the heart through the polyester

shirt, narrow chest, its inevitable broadness

the heart through the shirt

the boyish arm, slim kada,

the heart that knows these are the 60s,

his belly burning with fireflies –

that taut heart ablaze in his eyes.

 

The man I will remember is agog in 

a clear day’s monochrome.   

 

But the man will remember the studio, 

much later a cycle garage.

 

(kada: a religious bangle worn by Sikhs, Saira Banu: a famous Hindi film actress of the 1960s, 70s, 80s.)

 

 

II) 

 

It may be Bilaspur. But we may never know.

 

She sits before a flattened tin of odd things –

safety pins and bottle lids –

in which chocolates were brought to her from Denmark.

(from a member of her feudal family, now dissolving into 

the modern-moneyed world.)

 

Behind her, the ornate wallpaper, 

from which she can dress a thousand dolls.

 

It must be early evening.

Before the jalebis are fried outside the studio.

Before she moves her darting eyes lined with kohl,

     she lights up the street for Amma, with the

     light of every mosque and sweet shop in this small town,

before she says to Amma,  I want to go, but you can’t see,

      she is told to run along

      she lifts her ferozy frock to avoid

      soiling its frayed crocheted piping,

Before Amma screams a murder of crows in high-pitched chorus:

“Firdaus, bhaaaag!”

 

Before the mob sweeps her in a swift moment

leaving behind a small round of ochre and the flies around it.

 

But we may never know.

 

(Amma: mother, Jalebis: An fried fried sweet, ferozy: turquoise, “bhaaag!: ruuun!”)

 

 

After the torso

 

comes longing. The odd rocket of desire

that picks up and loses orbit, but not at will.

Do you remember –

how aroused you were when you brought your feet

home, bleeding from hanging too long on bus footboards?

Then we pressed like jigsaw.

(After that we would never be pre-torso.)

 

is a gentle road. The universe of

the lower limb, the use in desperation to leave to run to come

back fill full circles stretch in love and sun to sweep with slippers

on filth to snake through sand and water.

 

There must always be afternoon after the torso and the creak

of a bone, sighing, like a novel at its end.

 

is a deluge of carnivals in the sea, swaying to the

sound of a slow fuck. A tireless hole of cum, its drip,

enunciated by your hips.

After the torso is defiance, a very brief

critique of authority.

 

Oscar Jr Serquina

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Oscar Tantoco Serquina, Jr. currently serves as an instructor in the University of the Philippines-Diliman, where he finished his BA degree major in Speech Communication. He was a fellow for poetry in the 10th UST National Writers Workshop and the 49th Siliman National Writers Workshop. His works have been published in several online journals, like Writers’ Bloc, The Houston Literary Review, and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. He maintains a blog, http://lettersinthedark.wordpress.com

 

One Can Be So Sure

The feel of our bodies locking
on each other—that is everything
 
we know about ourselves, as these days
are scaled down to their ultimate
 
sensation. We are snug with such relief,
such release, having shared all this
 
in numerous places: in malls and cafes,
in bars and cheap inns, in the accommodating
 
rooms of our parentless houses. And how,
in the endless hours of mourning over
 
our losses, romance rescues our beaten
lives, like a common alibi. Nothing
 
is gravely given—not our careless actions,
nor the labels in which we are nastily
 
forced into, nor the acerbic arguments
we have the mornings after. And if only
 
we could avoid the appetite of a touch,
the appeal of a private hour, the startling
 
slipping into showers. But there, at the end,
is our full surrender, arranging itself
 
like a tempting foreplay. We have known
better, of course. That when we talk
 
about these matters, with crassness
or caress, they end up as casualties
 
of our brazen indifference. If this becomes
our one and all, the huge wall that separates us
 
from the rest—so be it. Let the real
and the fake be blurred and blundered,
 
let the rumors stale in the grimy sink,
let the stink of our week-
 
old clothes concretize inside the hamper,
the unanswered calls summarize what we
 
shamelessly mean. Unfazed, we are left with this
sincerity: you, assured, me, assuring.

 


It Has To Be Done

Trying to make sense of things, he remains
With her in a park, under a gunmetal sky,
In a terrain that collects and collapses itself
Like a heap of debris. He is attempting to be one
With her, to position himself in the boundary
Of owning and letting go. I’m having a good time,
She says to him, expectations chaining together
In every syllable she makes, as if unready to accept
A pending sorrow. But what does it mean
When he finds no vigor to unlock her
Understatements, always furtive, always adrift in air?
He stares at the bunch of roses being sold
At the corner, their redness saying something
To him—a ridicule perhaps, or a conscience
That needs to be welcomed. At sundown,
The obligatory strolling down around the area, the fingers hinting
On intimacy. After a while everything recedes
From the view: the gush of delight, the urgency.
And all at once the conclusion dawns on him,
Cause after cause, effect after effect.
He is no longer lying to himself.

 

 

Stuart Barnes

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

In 2009 Stuart Barnes’s unpublished memoir, A Cold Decade was shortlisted for the Olvar Wood Fellowship Award; and his poem “Solomon” was shortlisted for the Newcastle Poetry Prize. He lives in Melbourne.

 

Blood Taken

God’s grey waiting room

eyes like stray cats’
stench
of rotting compost

patients spin between doctors
like coloured tops between children

a transaction:
questions,
answers

tests specified on paper
in puzzling Latin

roll call: the nurse
hums a golden
oldie like a vampire

blackout

 

 

Observations

The men are perfect:

Sargasso Sea eyes,
shoulders square as Spanish villas,
chests like polished bronze breastplates.

They dance, they do not speak.

Perfection is a crime:
like incest,
it cannot be forgiven.

The men are too perfect:

they are strange untouchables,
they slide over mortals
like oil over water.

Perfection is an anchor.

The men are imperfect:
they dance, but they do not dare,
and they do not think.

Yusa Zhuang

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Zhuang Yusa lives in Singapore. His poetry has been published in Sargasso (Puerto Rico), ditch, (Canada), The Toronto Quarterly, Ganymede, The Los Angeles Review, nth position and elsewhere. His poetry has also been anthologized in Ganymede Poets Vol. One (Ganymede Books, 2009) and Smoke (Poets Wear Prada, 2009).
 

 

Thoughts In An Easier Time

Isn’t torture

at heart a refusal

to get used to

a compromised life?

 

The acceptance is not

the pardon:

 

the flesh is weak; the tormentors

hold the proof

by the joints of its limbs

and a hammer – 

 

The mind is weak; the flesh

poisons with its blood

in easier times.

 

The spirit flees the body

with a scream

that isn’t heard.

 

The spirit enters the body

without pity

when it is broken enough.

 

You are dead to me, the beloved says

at the final parting,

for in my heart you live –

 

When my aunt chewed bark in China

to kill the hunger

of exile, who did she turn to

 

and did the memory

sustain her enough

to let it go?

 

A Suicide

 

Meanwhile:

 

Coffee is brewing.

The neighbour’s car engine.

Jason’s cat

steals back from the hunt, tripping past the shoes.

 

Somewhere a door. Somewhere else

another door – 

 

The clean-swept pavements outside

once again

astonished by leaves, some still falling. 

 

Off Day

 

A world without heroes, says the action hero

on TV, is a world without suffering.

 

Yes, it is tiring, I say to a friend

who bothered, but it brings in the money.

 

The past is a mirror

shattered: in pieces, like the heart.

We remain mysteries to each other,

even so.

 

In love, the heart

ticks

like a bomb –

 

And mother,

placing the autobiography back onto the shelf, says –

no one served time longer than he did,

for political reasons – as if refusing to say more.

 

 

Stephanie Ye: Cardiff

Written by mascara on . Posted in Fiction.

Stephanie Ye (1982) is a Singaporean writer. A graduate of the University of Chicago, she currently works as a journalist. Her poetry and fiction have been published in the Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore (qlrs.com).

 

 

 

Cardiff

You change out of your school uniform into street clothes in the Bishan station washroom, then take the MRT to Lavender. Ten stops, one transfer. The east-bound train is packed, people’s folded umbrellas dripping water onto the floor, the seats, other passengers. This train is sponsored by an international bank, advertising the new savings programme it has cooked up for the Singapore market. On the windows are pasted large thought bubbles positioned to seem like they are emanating from the heads of the people seated on the benches that line the walls. “Will we be able to afford a holiday in Europe?” worries an Ah Soh wearing a quixotic amount of makeup on her wilting visage. She has long green fingernails and toenails, like the spikes of some exotic and poisonous creature. “Can I afford to take care of Mum?” ponders a sleeping Bangladeshi worker, whose bulging FairPrice plastic bag swings ponderously between his knees as the train jerks to a halt.
She is already waiting in the open-air carpark next to the Immigration and Checkpoints Authority building, reading a paperback. You pull your foldable umbrella from your backpack, but it turns inside-out in the wind and you’re soaked anyway as you wade across the asphalt, your track shoes going squish, squish, squish. You can see the cover of the book, distorted through the rivulets running down the windscreen, as she lays it on the dashboard. It is one of those chick lit novels done up in violent pink with a large photograph of the author on the back. For a literature teacher, she has terrible taste in novels.
“You’re late,” she greets you as you open the car door and quickly shove yourself in, though not quickly enough to prevent large raindrops from spattering the fake leather upholstery. She twists to rummage through the backseat and tosses you a scratchy scarf-looking thing. You actually have a sports towel in your bag, but you use it anyway. It smells like her.
“If you would pick me up from school, I wouldn’t be late,” you reply. The windscreen wipers thrash to life with a thudding sound. You watch her profile as she puts the car into drive and navigates out of the lot, the way her pupil seems to float in a green lake when viewed from the side. You love to watch her drive. You feel so safe in the warm submarine stillness of the car, a tank against the raging monsoon.
“You know very well that’s out of the question.” She fumbles with the radio, the static crackling into the pushy voice of a DJ, exhorting listeners to call now, call now and you could win… “Did you take a shower?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s not very considerate of you.”
“Sorry. But the guys’ showers are like damn gross lah. There’s gunk and everything. I’m better off not going in there.”
She glances at you, you think to show some interest, then you realise she is checking her blind spot. “Anyway, isn’t it time you stopped playing so much football and started studying?”
“Excuse me, are you trying to tell me I’m a lousy student?” Of course, you know you are not; you are by no means the best, but you’re certainly not the worst either. If anything, you are solidly, consistently OK, which sounds pretty mediocre except that you’re in reputedly the best school in the city-state, meaning you’re at least the average of the best in Singapore. For what that’s worth.
“Of course you’re not lousy.” She slows as the car goes through a huge puddle with a mournful whoosh, blurring the windscreen with fans of water. “But if you’re serious about wanting to go to the UK for uni, you’ll have to do well for your As.”
“Not really. I really only want to go to Cardiff. It’s not that picky.”
“Oh, thank you for holding my alma mater in such high regard.”
“Don’t be so touchy lah.” You can tell she’s not really offended. “I just mean, it’s not, like, Cambridge or something. Anyway, I don’t know anyone else who wants to go there, so I’m sure they’d be happy to take me, the token Singaporean.”
“It’s not just about getting in — you’ll need one of those government scholarships — unless your parents have stumbled upon loads of cash they’d forgotten about? Have you thought about your applications for those? You have to be the cream of the crop to get one, right?”
Of course she’s right and you know she knows and so you don’t answer. You gaze out the window at the dark green rain trees by the roadside, sliding past, their branches like frozen bolts of lightning. It is afternoon, but the storm makes it seem like it is much later, or earlier: a timeless state.
“Then again, you have to ask if it’s really worth it,” she continues. “They pay for four years of uni, but you have to spend six years in the civil service – there’s obviously an imbalance built into that. I’ve always thought that was rather sneaky of them, wooing starry-eyed 18-year-olds with promises of a posh education, then turning them into indentured cubicle monkeys.”
“Better than not getting to study overseas at all.”
“That’s what exchange programmes are for. Besides, half the professors at the local Us are from abroad anyway.” She shrugs. “Even lowly A-level lit teachers like me.” She’s being self-deprecating; they only import ang mohs like her for the top junior colleges, and only for the humanities subjects, the theory being that white people can teach subjects that involve a lot of words better than the locals. Talk about a colonial hangover. But you have to admit, your favourite teachers are white. You find them more interesting to talk to.
Even then, there’s a lot of things she just doesn’t get. Like the whole wanting to go abroad to study thing. An expat like her should understand the need to live someplace else for a while, to just get the hell out of the place you were born. Or maybe that’s not even a consideration for her; maybe she’s just getting paid more to be here. You can’t really blame her like that. But how to explain? You can’t find the words to unravel the knot of emotions suddenly swelling in your chest. This feeling of cosmic and cruel injustice, that of all the random places in all the world to be from, you had to be from here. This place so tiny. Insignificant. Unsophisticated. Hot. Except when it rains.
“I’m just sick of Singapore, I guess,” you finally say. The car has stopped at a red light, and for a while the two of you sit in the burble of an ‘80s power ballad as you watch some unlucky pedestrians pirouette across the road, swaying under umbrellas and open newspapers like high-wire acrobats.
“Cardiff’s not going to be all that different, my dear. I don’t know what romantic notions you’ve got in your head, but it’s very much like Singapore. It’s a city. All cities are essentially alike.”
“Cardiff’s not the same as Singapore,” you say firmly. “It gets seasons.”
“True,” she admits. “I suppose if there’s anything I miss about Cardiff, it’s the change of season. An eternal summer can get quite tedious.”
Summer. You slowly drag a finger across the windowpane, as if you could brush away the raindrops on the other side. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. Otherworldly markers for the passage of time, in a city on the edge of the equator.
***
She books the room for three hours, saying she has to be home for dinner by eight. Back when this all first began, you were a little depressed by the bare-bones efficiency of these rooms – just a bed, a TV, a lamp, an electric kettle, two Boh teabags. The curtains are thick enough to shut out the murky sunlight, but crashes of thunder, the tapping of rain and the blare of horns on Bencoolen Street filter through the glass. It is not a space to stay in for long. But over time you’ve come to see that it is elegant in its economy. All a man needs and nothing more. You kick off your track shoes and take off your wet clothes and hang them to dry on the back of the door, then take a quick shower. When you get out she is watching Channel NewsAsia, the weather report. Rain is general all over South-east Asia.
You are always surprised by how fair she is. It isn’t that pallid fairness that Chinese girls are, a pale yellowness like tea-stained teeth. Her skin is luminous, almost bluish, and completely without any scars or blemishes, as if her girlhood in Cardiff had been free of sports, vaccinations and other mishaps. As you make love, every inch of her body turns from blue to pink, and her green eyes take on a faded, watercolour quality. Even the rain must be softer in Cardiff.
Afterwards, she lies on a towel and continues reading her book while you try to take a nap. Rain usually makes you sleepy, but the drumming on the windowpane seems exceptionally loud, and you end up watching her instead. It still amazes you, being so close to her. You remember that first day when she walked into class, she was wearing a light blue blouse made of some kind of satin and a black form-fitting skirt with heels, not the slutty kind but rather geometric and eye-catching, like high-tech gadgets. Her dark hair was twisted up in a knot and she was wearing a brownish-pink lipstick. Your whole class, both guys and girls, fell dead silent. She is that beautiful.
“For a literature teacher, you have terrible taste in novels,” you say.
She harrumphs, not taking her eyes off the page. “Shut up. Wait till you’ve spent all night marking essays on the Mill on the bloody Floss.”
“Are we that bad, Mrs. Williams?” you ask, reaching out to stroke the back of her thigh.
You feel the impact even before you register that about 400 pages of pulp romance and fashion swaddled in pink have just descended on your head. It hurts, but you know you deserved it and so you don’t move, don’t say anything.
“I told you not to call me that when we’re here,” she says evenly.
Your head throbs to the beating of your heart. You put your hand back on her skin, still warm and slick. You close your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say. You are, really. But you don’t open your eyes to see if the apology is accepted. Instead, behind your eyelids you fly over the sea and through the sky, punching the turbulent thunderclouds and shrugging off the raindrops, heading for Cardiff.

Michael Sala: Free Style

Written by mascara on . Posted in Fiction.

Michael Sala was born in Holland in 1975, in the town of Bergen Op Zoom, and he grew up moving between Europe and Australia.  His autobiographical work, Memory Vertigo, was short-listed for the Vogel/Australian Literary Award in 2007.  His work has since then been published in HEAT, Best Australian Stories 2009, Charlotte Wood’s Brothers and Sisters, and Harvest.  He is currently working on a novel and short story collection while living and teaching in Newcastle.

Free Style

Richard was busy turning his daughter into a mermaid when he saw two former students walk onto the sand.  They’d been a couple for as long as he’d known them, a pair that had latched together early in high school to become a sort of romantic entity.  Maybe fixture was a better word.  They weren’t holding hands today.  He supposed that they were nineteen or twenty by now, yet they seemed older.  The boy in particular looked older.  It was the way that he carried himself, his gaze locked in heavy glasses, head sagging, as if his chest were collapsing beneath its own weight.  His pale upper body looked like something hefted from a shell.

            The girl peeled off her dress with both hands to reveal a blue full-piece swimsuit with a white racing stripe down the side, the kind that Richard’s mother might have worn.  She dropped the dress and stood there clutching her elbows without even a glance at her companion.  Neither of them spoke.  Richard couldn’t figure it out.  There was no joy in them.  What did they have to feel tired about?  He had to admit this though; seeing them like that gave him a quiet sense of self-satisfaction.  Perhaps it was relief. 

Richard was probably no more than ten years older than they were and yet he thought about death often, as if it were just around the corner, as if he were an old man with nothing better to do than wait for its arrival.  He didn’t talk about it.  But whenever he allowed his mind to stray, the thought of it pulled him down.  For all that, right now he felt much younger and healthier than the way these two looked and acted, and you had to be happy about that.  You had to take your satisfaction where you could find it. 

The couple walked to the edge of the water.  Richard hadn’t seen them touch yet.  He told himself that as soon as they touched, he would look away.  They were hugging their own bodies, standing arm’s length apart, facing the wideness of the sea.  The young man was shivering.  It was mid-spring, but an icy wind sheared across the cool water.  There was no one else at the beach.  A reef further out broke the waves so that the swell was gentle as it washed back and forth around their knees. 

            ‘Do I look pretty?’ May said suddenly.

            ‘I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,’ he replied, glancing back at his daughter.

            ‘Oh you have,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you have.’

            May pressed her lips together and looked down to her hands.  Sometimes his daughter would say things like that and it wasn’t her speaking at all, but someone else, and her tone, the look in her eyes, was a stranger’s, although it would shift away almost immediately into her own expressions – or maybe they were his.  Maybe the parts that he thought really belonged to her were simply those that came from him.  Maybe that was why he kept all of this up.

May had his tanned skin, and the same distant, slightly amused look in her eye that had passed down from Richard’s grandfather to his mother and through him to her.  And perhaps she had the same way of thinking?  You’re always somewhere else.  That was something his wife had used to say to him.  Sometimes he wondered if his daughter would eventually come to that conclusion about him too.  Maybe she already had.  It was hard to tell with a five-year-old.  But he tried to bring himself back as often as possible, when he was with her, to be as attentive as a father should be.  Not that he ever felt that it was enough.

The wind kicked up, autumn in it already.  He looked back out at the water.  The young couple were in past their waists.  They stood there, staring out to sea, not speaking, hugging themselves.  It was as if they stood before a precipice.  Richard wanted to see something playful happen between them, a push, laughter, a shivering embrace.  Instead, the young man stiffened – Richard wondered if it was at a remark – and began wading out of the water.  When the sea had slid away from everything but his ankles and feet, he put his hands on his hips, dropped them again and turned to watch his girlfriend. 

She was swimming away from him, freestyle, long, lazy strokes, as if she might go on forever.  When she reached the edge of the reef, she found her feet and stood up.  Only her head and shoulders and upper arms lifted from the water, but a straightness came into her, or perhaps it was just the angle Richard saw her from, the way the light struck upon the sea.  They stood like this for a long time.  Richard couldn’t look away.  He could see the side of the man’s face, the perplexed, expectant shape of his expression, its nakedness without the glasses.  Despite his shivering, the young man did not move out of the water or go deeper into it.  His girlfriend dipped her head into the soft debris of waves folding over the edge of the reef and stared at the horizon, her hair dark and slick against her neck.

            ‘I need some wet sand,’ May said.

            Richard looked at her.  She was watching him, her upturned palms arranged either side of her body.  The tail of the mermaid, sculpted from damp sand, curved away from her narrow, tanned waist.  

            ‘Why?’ he said.

            ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I can’t get it.  I don’t want to ruin my tail.’

            ‘But why do you need wet sand?’

            She pointed at the join between her waist and the tail.  ‘For the pattern.’

            Richard looked at her for a moment longer. 

‘You know,’ he said softly, ‘we came to this beach not long after we found out that you were on the way.’

‘I know, daddy.’  

            There was something oddly grown-up in her tone.  Richard turned back to the sea.  The woman was finally wading towards the man who stood there waiting, hands dangling by his hips.  The man didn’t break into motion until they were side by side.  They exited the water together, but still without touching.  He watched them resort silently to their towels.

            ‘The sand, Daddy.’

            ‘Wait a second.’

As they drew near, Richard hesitated against the tension in his arms, and held his body low against the sand.  He didn’t want to talk to them.  He couldn’t remember their names.  He didn’t want to feel that weight of high school, the role it demanded, the self-consciousness that came bearing down whenever he spoke to students.  No matter how friendly they were, there was always this sense that they had him at a disadvantage, that they knew more about him than he did about them.  He tended to feel that way about the whole world. 

Once the couple had left the beach, however, he jumped to his feet and ran down to the edge of the water – he wanted to revel in his body all of a sudden, prove its vitality – scooped up a handful of dripping sand, and ran back again.  He dropped it into May’s waiting hands, and turned back for more. 

            ‘I don’t need any more,’ she called after him.

            Richard nodded, washed his hands and glanced across at a solitary barnacle-covered rock, taller than he was, that rose just where the waves foamed and dissolved into the sand.  On an impulse, he ran towards it, leaped up onto a ledge halfway along and then stepped up onto the top.  He stared at the wildness of the landscape, the sheer sandstone cliffs, the stretch of the coast that had hardly changed in many thousands of years, the sea.  Shading his eyes with one hand, he pictured himself suddenly as someone else, a figure from the far-off past. 

Pre-history. 

Back then he might have been one of the wise hunting elders of some sort of tribe.  That would have been him.  He could run fifteen kilometres and swim forever, through summer, through winter.  Despite his obsessions over death, he was in the prime of his life.  He stood on the rock, flexing his legs and imagined running down a mammoth in some lost, distant epoch, leading a stone-age group of hunters from one success to another, with no long, painful memory to burden him, just the vitality of surviving each day, the pared back immediacy of that sort of life.  Yes, it would have suited him. 

May was waving to him.  He waved back at her and rather than climbing down, jumped from the rock.  The place where he jumped looked shallow, but that was an illusion created by the movement of sand through a wave dissolving back into the ocean.  Instead of landing on something solid and predictable, he fell into a perplexing space, toppled backwards and hit his head against the rock from which he had jumped.

The blow cracked through his body and a spasm of nausea rolled along his insides.  He floated backwards in the water, took a breath, coughed and flailed his arms, but he felt so dazed that he couldn’t find purchase in the sand beneath him and his head went under.  Something brushed against his face.  It was gentle and feathery and then exploded into a searing agony.

The softness kept moving, ahead of that pain by a fraction, clinging to his mouth and cheeks, fixing to his neck.  He knew what it was; a Portuguese man o war, a bluebottle.  Richard had seen them stranded in clusters along the edge of the sand.  Most of them were so withered and dry that they crackled underfoot.  The wind had been blowing them onshore for days. 

 

Discover one of those delicate structures, shrivelled on the beach, and you might mistake it for a jellyfish, but it isn’t.  It isn’t even one animal, rather four colonies of creatures locked in a deep, communal embrace.  One kind of creature makes up the inflatable sail that deflates to dive from danger or tilts to stay wet, another makes up the digestive organs, another the sexual organs, and the last creature is spread through the dark blue, wandering coils that trail up to fifty metres and cling so tentatively to the skin before releasing their poison.

If Richard had had a choice in that arrangement, he’d have been the sexual organs, without a doubt.  Just producing and producing, in the constant buzz of pleasure and creation, lost in the heady state of beginnings, not having to worry about when to submerge or when to dip from side to side.  Ah, the sexual organs.  He thought of the last time a woman’s vagina had settled across his face and how much he had enjoyed it – little had he known how long it would be before it happened again – and then his fingers found the sandy bottom beneath him and he pushed.  His feet came under him and he rose into the air, shirt plastered to his body, pain clamouring inside his skull.  He unpeeled the blue cord patterned across his face. 

A woman had come to sit on the beach, not far from where his daughter played.  She glanced at Richard, and he smiled back.  As if this was just what you did.  He lurched forward a step, felt heavy in his dripping pants and shirt, picked at the thin thread around his neck, tangled in the bristles of his day old growth, but his fingers were clumsy and his body shivered with the weak, sickly acceptance of the poison feeling its way inside.  Flames leaping from his neck, the thread tight on his skin at the throat each time he swallowed. 

His wife had been like this, a year past, rope around her neck, something playful in the tangle of the knot, as if you could unravel it with a single pull, her face slack as if it had been carved out of wax, the eyes so empty, you could never make the mistake of seeing anything alive in them.  She had been hanging from the rafter in the garage, her body turning towards him when he opened the door.  The eyes hadn’t been dead, just empty, like rooms left unfurnished, and it was only then that you realised how much motion there was in a living face, how much tension and complicated push and pull and endless current kept together an expression, even one that hardly moved.

Richard pulled off the last threads, took another step and slumped beside his daughter who was still focused on the intricate lacework that she was scrawling across the firmly packed sand where it cupped her waist.  Her hair fluttered in the breeze.  There was a faint flush to the skin of her left cheek.  She was humming under her breath.  The woman nearby was watching.

His heart felt as if it might spill out onto the sand.  He had a terrible headache.  There was a burn across his mouth.  He had the urge to vomit.  He ran the towel over the raw welts on his neck and forced himself to hold onto each breath for a few seconds.

‘Daddy?’

He heard May say this, but it felt as if he were listening to an answering machine and a voice that had long since lost its demand for a response. 

‘Daddy?’

He ran the towel from one end of his neck to the other, felt the heat, the way it filled his head and chest and made his extremities cold. 

‘What?’ he said.

‘Why are you crying?’

He didn’t look at her.

‘Is it because you didn’t want to get wet?’

‘Yeah,’ he said.  ‘I didn’t want to get wet.’

Her fingers felt cool on his elbow, the tips at the crook of the joint. 

‘Don’t worry,’ she assured him.  ‘You’ll dry up soon.’

             

While his daughter sat on the couch watching cartoons, Richard cooked a soup with vegetables and lentils and sausages.  No matter what went on in your life, a friend had advised him once, you had to eat, stick to the basic routines.  During dinner, May noticed the welts on his face.  Sitting beside him at the table, she touched them.  He found himself mesmerised by her large blue eyes, the intense concentration in them, as if she were trying to read a story in those marks.

            ‘What happened?’ 

‘Bluebottles.’  Richard spoke to May the way he spoke to everyone.  ‘At the beach.  One got me on the face and the neck too.’ 

            ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

            ‘I was upset.  I didn’t want to talk about it.’

            Her hand paused against his mouth.  ‘Just because you’re upset, you can still talk, you know.’

‘I know,’ he said.   

‘Good.  That’s good, Daddy.’

She hadn’t touched the soup yet. 

‘What’s up with dinner?’ he asked.

‘Oh you know.’  She picked up her spoon, stared at the soup for a moment longer, and then stirred it desolately.  ‘There’s only one thing that I like in this soup.  Just one.’

She looked up at him.  Richard looked away.  May sighed.  Her spoon clinked against the bowl.  She made a show of dipping her spoon into the soup, sifted through it as if she were panning for gold, then brought it to her lips and emptied its contents into her mouth. 

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘there are two things in here that I like.’

‘That’s good,’ he said.  ‘That’s good.’

Afterwards they sat together in her bed.  She read some stories to him, and he read some to her.  Then she turned onto her side.  He lay down beside her.  Their faces were separated by the width of a hand.

‘I get lonely sometimes,’ she said.

‘Yeah?  When?’

‘Oh, you know, when I’m in bed.  I get lonely in my bed.’

‘Hey,’ he said.  ‘Me too.’

‘Can I sleep in your bed tonight?’

‘No,’ he said.  ‘There are times in your life when you have to sleep by yourself.  Besides, you’ve got Rainbow.’ 

Rainbow was a bright white, over-stuffed rabbit as big as she was.  Rainbow took up half the bed.

His daughter nodded, as if she’d expected him to say just that.  ‘I’m not tired at all.’

‘Just lie here.  Close your eyes.  You’ll be asleep before you know it.’

Richard stroked her hair.  She began snoring.  The sea sighed through her half-open window and he could sense it expanding from the nearby coast, the way it did when evening came, filling up the air, lapping at the houses and old apartments that sprawled along the coastline, creeping inside in dreamy, floating currents of salt that whispered of loss and indifference and those first long gone sparks of life.   

 

 

Patrick Bryson: Schadenfreude

Written by mascara on . Posted in Fiction.

In 2009 Patrick was awarded his PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Newcastle, Australia, where he also taught CW for three years. His thesis, Chasing the Unwritable Book, explored how identity is shaped by mental illness and the fictional possibilities it presents to the author – with a particular focus on autobiographical fiction. He is a published poet, short story writer and essayist, with his chapter on Peter Kocan ‘The Urge to Write and the Urge to Kill’ featuring in Configuring Madness, an anthology released by Rodopi Press, Oxford, last year. After graduation he relocated to Shillong, India, where he has been working on his first novel, “Slouching Towards Petersham.”

 

Schadenfreude

Back in the mid-nineties – before the plucking of nasal hair became a weekly chore – I shared a short intense friendship with Grant, who was, for a time, one of the Drama Department’s most recognisable actors. Humiliating as it is, I admit that I was the other one –  although I consider myself reasonably fortunate; when undergrad life finished, so did my acting career.

I just couldn’t hack it. Finding an agent, turning up for castings and waiting by the phone; it all left me feeling like a beggar. And the nerves made me come across as arrogant and desperate, an undesirable combination for any potential director keen on hiring me. The last gig I had – actually, the only paying gig of my career – was as an extra in a Telstra commercial. I had to walk across a busy street in a group-shot for four hours, trying to look solemn. Ridiculously, I hoped that the producer would note my seriousness – surely more heartfelt than any of the other extras – and discover me. When the costs of the Salvos suit I purchased especially for the shoot were coupled with my train fare to Town Hall and deducted from my $120 fee, I was left with 80 bucks. Averaged over the nine months that I tried to go professional that equals $8.88 per month, or $2.20 a week. If you take out the money I spent going for the other two auditions that I blew – both of them for roles where they needed a tall guy – then we’re down to about 60 bucks, or $1.60 a week. Between that and the bullshit I got from Centrelink, it was better for everyone if I just got a job.

Ensconced in my role as a night-packer at Coles, I ran into Grant one afternoon at Burwood station when I was on my way home from the TAB. We embraced.

Man, how are ya?

How am I? What about you? You crazy fucker.

By that he meant that the last time he saw me at The Northern Star I’d been on acid. He turned to the girl he was with.

You know, like those people you meet and you think you’ll never see them again? He’s one of those guys.

I was a little embarrassed; my white polo shirt didn’t smell great and I hadn’t shaved in a few days. I was also slightly drunk. The girl Grant was with stepped forward and tried to smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

When I asked Grant what he’d been up to he said that he’d gotten into NIDA.

Awesome, I said – thinking bastard, arsehole and fuck, fuck, fuck, why not me?

I tried to make my exit as soon as possible, citing my non-existent controlling girlfriend, but he was having none of it.

You’re coming back to our place, man.

At Uni we had both advocated the pursuit of fame and we respected each other for being up front about it, as opposed to our acquaintances who would go on protests with the Wilderness Society, deplore the use of deodorant and spurn anything mainstream, but who all formed grunge bands with the unvoiced desire of becoming groupie-shagging, heroin-snorting, rock gods.

            As we walked along I peppered him with questions about the acting course at NIDA, which was painful but preferable to talking about what I was doing, which at the time involved a lot of masturbation about the middle-aged boilers I was working with, the softening of my belly and the little gambling habit that I had acquired.

            She was the one who broke the spell. 

            So, Peter, what do you do?

            With Grant, I could’ve told the truth. But the look on her face – and the fact that she had casually mentioned she was at NIDA with him – made me lie.

            I write, I said.

            What bullshit. The last thing I’d written was a final essay to complete the BA, a 3000 word puff piece on Lee Strasberg and Method Acting.

            Really? she said. Have you had anything published?

            Not yet.

Well, at least that was true.

            I hated her immediately and she didn’t even think enough of me for that. Back at their digs – a standard two room flat with a PULP FICTION poster, a bong, a bean-bag and a PlayStation – I had to struggle with the cup of tea she made. I asked for a strong one with two sugars; she gave me a milky brew with none.

Grant didn’t notice. All he talked was NIDA, NIDA, NIDA. After the right amount of time and one forced cough from the girl – whose name is deliberately and spitefully forgotten – I bailed and forgot him for the next ten years.

 

·         

 

It was Facebook that brought us back together. I’d Googled him a few times, to see if he’d made it, and the results were inconclusive. His name was listed in a few references to the Sydney Theatre Company – as a spear carrier – and one or two co-op productions, but nothing else. The scarcity of information disappointed me. If he’d snagged a regular TV spot, or had made the leap to feature films, I could have revelled in some really serious envy. Conversely, if his name had drawn a complete blank I’d have toasted his failure and patted myself on the back. The longer you keep the dream alive the thinner the ranks of the hopeful become. 

But there he was in his profile pic, lying on a bed with a baby asleep next to him. Now there was some reality. A baby means responsibilities. It means regular hours, a stable home and lots of the filthy lucre. Maybe he’s given up, I thought. No, I wished.

I didn’t send the request immediately. I’d only just gotten back into it, after having deactivated my account, and this time I intended to be more circumspect with my choice of friend.

So I forgot him again and went back to watching ‘Seductive Asian pussy needs it’ on RedTube.

 

·         

 

At Uni we had been involved in a few productions together. In the show I’m thinking of we saw each other daily for weeks. It was a one-acter that I directed, and Grant had volunteered to be my stage manager. Pretty soon the rumour went round that we were both gay. It’s an easy one to pin on people in the theatre; everyone is either queer or in the closet according to the smoko conversations outside the stage door.

This gossip had a bit more sting to it though, as Grant had only just been in a queer piece and played the love interest of a competitive swimmer. The role required him to get in and snog the other dude. Neither tried to dodge it; both of them went hard and gave it some tongue.  It was a tricky situation for me in the audience. My then girlfriend, Max, was sitting next to me and, as well as being friends with Grant – who we were both there to support – I was acquainted with the other actor. I had cheated on Max with his girlfriend, a well known Goth Queen and devourer of cock. 

So I disliked the other dude anyhow. I can’t remember his name but he was in a band that had a minor alternative hit. At the time I feared that he would come up and make a public scene in front of Max because he knew that I had clumsily fucked his girlfriend at the Bogey Hole.

But he was cool. I was the one who had the problem. When they kissed during the middle of the play I noted a distinct twitch of jealousy from my side – though I told myself then that it was the dread of getting caught cheating – and promptly forgot it.

A few months later, at the after-party for my play, we all went along to the house of the guy that had done the lights. I had scored some pot using the money we had collected from the door – even though it was a Uni production and technically all the cash was supposed to go to the Drama Department – and we all sat back and got royally stoned, except for Grant.

He doesn’t do drugs and he never touches alcohol or coffee. Don’t ask me how the motherfucker survives. Anyway, that night he came along for the ride and acted as the designated driver. Towards the end of the bowl, when the conversation had trickled down to nothing and the eyelids of the smokers had closed to half-way, I noticed Grant looking over towards me.

He caught my gaze and mouthed, Let’s go.

 

·         

 

It was our first sleepover. By that stage he was going out with Max’s older sister, Lynnette, so we should have been seeing even more of each other – but the girls hated the idea. They also hated each other and had endured a fucked-up family situation, with their dad introducing them to domestic violence at an early age.

So we got back to my place in the East End, had a quick cup of tea and then went up to bed. We pulled in the single mattress from the veranda and set it up a few feet from my grimy queen-sized, so there was an acceptable buffer zone.

The talk didn’t last for long before I could feel myself dozing off. I put on some music and closed my eyes. I don’t know if it was the good buzz I had or just the routine of taking a girl back and playing some Mazzy Star, but I felt the urge to reach out the hand at that point, and briefly imagined getting it on with Grant. Yes, I’m pretty sure it moved. I’ve got no idea what he was thinking, or even if he was awake.

Then I slept.

 

·         

 

A few months after I first saw him online, I relented and sent off the friend request. He accepted it straight away and posted ‘Dude!!!!’ on my wall. We arranged for him to come around and my wife, Maya, put on a great spread – rice, daal, chicken curry – with strawberries and cream for dessert.

When he turned up I went out to meet him in the hall. From my vantage point on the third floor I could see him below as he climbed the stairs. That’s when my initial suspicions were confirmed. I thought I’d detected a receding hairline in his profile pics and now, as well as that, I noticed that he’d developed a small bald patch at the back of his skull. This made me very happy. I had to start shaving my head a few years ago, and to see that Grant’s floppy brown hair had started to fall filled me with a delightful satisfaction.

We embraced.

Man, I’m so sweaty, he said. Sorry.

He was carrying a skateboard and had evidently ridden it down the hill from the train station, his Bose head phones hanging from his neck.

Grant, this is Maya.

They shook hands and then Maya went back into the bedroom to read, so we could be alone for a few minutes.

He talked about his kids and his wife.

Like, I’m already the bad guy, he said. The first thing Meg does when the kids muck-up is threaten them with Dad coming into the room.

Once you ask people about their children, forget it. He could have kept going for a long time and I had to be blunt to get him onto the topic of his career.

Are you still acting?

I’ve just finished a touring production of the schools, he said.

Yeah?

Yeah, it’s fucked. Basically it means I’m good at talking to kids about Shakespeare.

What do you do otherwise?

Oh man, you’ll never guess.

What?

I sell Christmas trees.

I laughed.

That doesn’t seem weird at all, I said. It suits you.

And it did. The last time I saw him in Newcastle, before I left for Sydney, Grant had been considering running away with the circus.

How much of the year does that take up? I asked.

Like two months, tops. We deliver the tree, set it up and then dispose of it in January.

You must meet some interesting people, said Maya, who sat down next to me.

It was the perfect thing to say, because it gave him an opportunity to do some impersonations.

I frequently hear the word disaster, he said, when I deliver to these women in the eastern suburbs. And I’m like, Love, the tsunami was a disaster, Rwanda was a disaster, your fucking Christmas tree being flat on one side is not a disaster.

He had to break off and answer the phone at that point – to take an order from a woman in the eastern suburbs who would soon be complaining about the flatness of her tree.

I reminded him of the time we’d met in Burwood, back when he’d first started at NIDA.

That’s right, he said.

What was the name of the girl you were with?

His eyes widened.

Vanessa. There’s a story about her.

Yeah?

Unless she had died I wasn’t really that interested.

Yeah. After one year she got kicked out of NIDA and she left town. Then a little while later I hear that she’s in some pilot in LA and now the show has been going for five seasons and she’s a big star.

Seriously?

Full on. Billboards on Hollywood Boulevard, the whole bit.

You should have stayed with her.

I know, man.

Does your wife act?

She used to.

 

·         

 

In the car, as I drove him back home to Lewisham, he made a lot of references to the times when he’d been in Hamlet and Macbeth.

I mean, I was on the roster for two years, he said.

Despite myself, I was actually starting to feel sorry for him. Then, the revelation I’d been waiting for:

Man, he sighed, I just feel like I’m delaying the inevitable. You know? Each new job I get means that I don’t have to think about giving up for a few more months. And now there is another kid on the way, I dunno.

He trailed off.

I made some noises about how I was also finding it tough, but it wasn’t one of my more convincing performances.

He started talking about a project he was thinking of doing with a couple of mates – a TV series. He was meeting them at the pub to discuss it.

I didn’t press him for details. He was already on his way down to the canvas.

When I stopped the car, he shook my hand and smiled.

I probably won’t see you for another ten years, I said.

Fully, I know. But keep in touch, alright?

Yeah, likewise.

And congratulations, man. Your wife is awesome.

Well, she fed him, so he would say that. He didn’t have to put up with the carrot and stick dance – silent treatment and sex – which always ended with me giving in to her demands.

He closed the door, turned away and then stopped as if he’d just remembered something. He leaned back through the window and looked me in the eyes.

Peter, he said. Good luck, man.

 

·         

 

You know what? The bastard meant it. Almost like we were on shore-leave in the middle of a war, and neither expected the other to survive beyond the next few weeks. That whole afternoon he hadn’t asked much about what I’d been doing, but he got enough to know that I hadn’t given up and that I intended to go the distance.

Meanwhile, as I drove away, I realised that he’d have a much better rebirth than me. You see, I was happy that he had kids and no money. I drew strength from the fact that he was a failing actor losing his hair, that he had almost packed it in and that he had to deliver Christmas trees every December. It meant I had won.

Then, as I indicated and took the Neutral Bay Exit, this thought occurred to me: I will never forget him.

 

 

 

Cassandra L Atherton: Neck

Written by mascara on . Posted in Fiction.

Cassandra Atherton is a Melbourne writer and critic.  She lectures in
Creative Writing and Romanticism at The University of Melbourne.  Her book of poetry, After Lolita, was published earlier this year by Ahadada Press and her first novel, The Man Jar, was published in September by Printed Matter Press.  Her short stories and poems have been published in Australian and international journals.  She is currently working on a book, Wise Guys, examining the role and responsibility of the American public intellectual, after interviewing Noam Chomsky, Harold Bloom, Camille Paglia, Stephen Greenblatt and many more.  She is writing her second novel, Cherry Bomb, set in Japan after receiving a fellowship to study the floating world.

 

Neck

She always wore her hair in a chignon. It was one of the first things he noticed about her. Silver-blonde hair swept back with a diamante barrette, always in aqua. He never saw her face then, as he was always running late and entering at the back of the lecture theatre, always sitting behind her. It was the back of her neck that got him through all those Psychology lectures. He began to time the lectures, searching for a pattern. His notebook was filled with useless words, nonsense figures and in the margins were endless sketches of her neck. Once, when he thought he was ready, she wore a strapless dress. He left in disgust.

He watched her strawberry birthmark watch him. Tiny and bulbous, it hid amongst the pale hairs to the right of her neck, a smooth crimson circle. He began taking a red pen into the lectures with him, perfecting the birthmark, positioning it over and over in his folder. Once he even stabbed his finger and let the bright red bead drip onto the page. He smiled, looking at the back of her neck, it was the closest he’d come, but when he shut the folder it smudged.

A guest lecturer was scheduled to speak on visual perception. He opened his notebook and began to think. At lunchtime he bought sixteen backpacks and placed them on a combination of seats in the last six rows. He entered late and searched for the back of her neck. Second last row three seats in from the end. Perfect. He sat behind her in the back row and unzipped his bag. He placed it on the seat next to him and tucked his heavy coat around it. Staring at the back of her neck, he waited. A young woman entered half way through the lecture and tried to sit in the back row. He coughed, a hacking cough he saved for special occasions and sniffed loudly until she moved to the third row. As the lecturer pressed the Play button, he reached for the camera nestling in his overcoat. As the lecturer apologised and pressed the button for the second time, his hand trembled with anticipation. And as the lecturer ducked behind the podium, he aimed at the back of her neck, clicking the shutter as the theatre lights dimmed and the video began. Perfect, he smiled. “Perfect,” said the lecturer from behind the podium.

He hid it in his bag and smuggled it out of the lecture theatre. It throbbed in the darkness beneath the zipper. He kept his eyes downcast, running a sweaty palm through his black hair. She was just ahead of him as he shuffled down the steps. He could hear the staccato beat of her stilettos on the concrete. He drew his coat around him. He started to sweat. Tiny beads of salt water clung to his forehead while he thought of the bright bead on the back of her neck. Two thousand six hundred and forty two more steps and he would be at his car parked in Bouverie Street. She would turn the corner in another one hundred and twenty-four steps at the Baillieu to research her thesis on states of consciousness. Once he sat behind her at a desk in the stacks. He filled four sketchbooks and used two number four Derwents replicating the fine silver hairs creeping down her neck. Bouverie Street. He thought of Emma Bovary. She would have had a fantastic neck. He coaxed the car into action, the bag sat on the passenger seat, its strap looped over the handbrake. He patted it softly, stroking the small hard cylinder in the centre, imagining the image coiled inside. Not too much longer. He locked and unlocked the door six times, each turn of the key in the lock calming him with its familiar rhythm. The loud clicking noises brought Cat to the door. She wound herself in between his legs, shedding her fine silver coat on his trouser cuffs. Her saucer was empty so he poured her some strawberry milk from the carton and reached for his brown mug on the top shelf. It didn’t seem so long ago that his sister had given it to him. A twenty-first present. She made it in pottery, painting his name in a big blue flourish on the side. He traced the letters with his finger as Cat lapped up the milk. The curly capital S was his favourite. Simon. There was a blue ink spot in the shape of a butterfly for a full stop. He pictured it on a large polished wood desk. A couch in the corner. He poured a combination of lemonade and orange juice into his mug and headed for the darkroom. Cat curled into a contented ball on the cushion. He entered his darkroom and sat stiffly on the wooden stool. He took the roll of film out of his bag, stroking the cylinder with his thumb. He looked up at the thousands of sketches of her neck and mentally decided where he would hang the photograph. He pictured it on the wall in his bedroom, the small half-crescent table adorned with mango-scented candles and lilies floating in bowls of peach-coloured water. The gentle flame of the candle would reflect teardrops of gold onto her lily neck. He looked down at the roll of film pressing it to his lips. For the first time he began to wonder what her name was.

  

                                    *                      *                      *

Black and white photograph. Shiny. Tempting. Glistening. Now he could kiss the back of her neck. He teased her tiny mole with his tongue, until a moist mist clung to the glass of the picture frame, obscuring his view. He nuzzled the delicious down at the base of her neck, imagining green apple shampoo foam gliding slowly down her neck. He pictured the crystal beads of water leaping from the shower rose. He shivered, thinking about how that neck would taste, wet. He hung the picture frame on the wall, watching the gentle flame of the mango candle lick at her graceful neck. Cat licked his bare ankle, a raw, rough demand for food. He reached into his pocket for some Go-Cat and sprinkled the tiny biscuits on the carpet. They rained down on Cat’s head, a shower of smoky bacon biscuits. He licked his fingers and picked up his lecture pad from the bedside table. Reddish-brown biscuit crumbs glued themselves to the cracks in his bottom lip. He switched off the lamp, tugging at its long white cord with his toes, urging the plug out of the wall. Cat crunched on her last two treats. He shook his black backpack, making sure his keys were safely tucked in the front pocket, smiling when he heard their familiar jingle. He carefully walked to the kitchen on his tiptoes, twenty-six steps without lowering his heels to the cream carpet. He placed one totally smooth and unbruised Royal Gala apple into a brown paper bag, two Coco Pop Breakfast Bars and a flask of apricot nectar in the back pocket of his backpack. Thirty-two steps to the front door.

He locked the door, checking the door handle six times to make sure it was locked. The cold, hard metal bit into the flesh between his thumb and first finger as he tried the door one last time, his moist palm fogging up the shiny silver of the handle. With the edge of his coat he wiped the moist droplets away, creating a series of sweaty streaks. Cat pawed the left window as he got into his small orange car and drove away.

He drove feverishly, his hot hands sliding around the steering wheel. He turned into Bouverie Street. His car park was empty. He sighed and smiled, pulling into the familiar space. The street was deserted except for the metallic blue Honda Civic down near the pub. He got out and checked the meter. His watch beeped once. Four thirty. Perfect timing. It was a “use twenty cents only” parking meter. He liked this meter much more than all the others. It was clean and none of the stickers were peeling off. With the twenty- cent meter he could always be sure that he was not being ripped off. Too often people slipped a dollar or two dollar coin into the slot of a more recent machine and never used the full four hours. It was such a waste. He rattled the small cylinder in his pocket. He carried his twenty-cent pieces in there now. He even made a label for it with his calligraphy pen. The sweeping number two figure looked much like her neck. The zero, he imagined was the back of her head. If you looked closely you could see the tiny strawberry birthmark he perfectly placed on each figure. He got back into the car. You didn’t have to pay for the meter until eight o’clock. His lecture was at half past one. Only nine more hours.

  

                                    *                      *                      *

She was running late. Very late. It was so unlike her to be late, but he supposed she had a reason to be. She climbed the back steps to the door of the lecture theatre. She unclipped her diamante barrette, smoothed back her hair and reclipped it into place. She pushed open the door and slipped into the nearest empty seat. The envelope was still in her hand. The corners were damp and rounded. “We regret to inform you.” Regret, she thought, “No, non je ne regrette rien.” Edith Piaf. Coffee. The two were inseparable. She decided that if she ever became rich enough she’d set up a scholarship for students who had been screwed by the system. She smiled the first smile for two days. He was wriggling in the seat next to her, bumping into her armrest, causing a mini commotion as he began snapping shut his four lecture pads and a tin of Derwent pencils. People turned around and shushed him. The lecturer glared fiercely. “It’s O.K,” she whispered, “just sit down and you can sneak out in a minute.”

He picked up his books and ran. The back door slammed shut behind him. She sighed and tucked the letter into her breast pocket. One yellow lecture pad lay open on the patterned carpet.

She thought they were just squiggles at first. A bored person’s doodles. Hieroglyphics. Walk Like An Egyptian. She could still remember that dance from high school. She would still argue that Manic Monday was better. The Bangles. Bracelets. She wondered if she’d ever be able to afford a chunky gold bracelet with a padlock. “Not this year,” she though, thinking about the letter. It was only when she picked up the notepad that she realised that the squiggles were actually female necks. Women’s napes or rather one nape repeated over and over. She flicked through the book. No writing, just thousands of squiggly necks. It was not until late that night, just before she was about to switch off her lamp that she realised it was her neck. Her nape. Her strawberry birthmark.

                                   *                      *                      *

 

She returned his lecture pad. He wouldn’t look at her. She figured he was just embarrassed. “You’ll have to find another model,” she told him, “I’m completing my Masters in Tasmania. Leaving next Monday.” Manic Monday, she thought. He looked pale. Black hair, black coat, and black bag. So pale.

“Sorry.” She wondered why she was apologising.

“I missed out on a scholarship by point one of a mark.” She wondered why she was telling him this.

“I’ve got family there, you know. Won’t be so bad.” He still didn’t look up.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

 

                                    *                      *                      *

 

He was a lunatic. He had to be. A total fruit loop. Nut bar. It was taped to the back of the chair in front of her:

Sorscha,
Marry me (with your hair up, of course).
Model for me.
I will make you happy.
Simon.

She looked at the letter. She looked at her plane ticket. Why not? What could be worse than Tasmania?

  

                                    *                      *                      *

He bought her a garnet wedding band. A tiny round stone. Bulbous. Crimson. She didn’t wear a veil. He stood slightly behind her when they said their vows. Vowing to love, honour and cherish her neck. She thought about having a baby.

                                    *                      *                      *

 

She cooed when he stroked her neck. Lying quietly on her stomach while her daddy, perched on the edge of a chair, sketched her for hours. “Perfect, perfect,” Simon muttered to himself. Her baby with the perfect neck. Simon called her Lily.

Darkness with long, cold fingers woke her. An empty bed. Unslept in. Unwrinkled. She thought about the box under the bed. Filled with notes, papers, books, life. Her unfinished Masters. Her letter from Tasmania. Confetti from her wedding. Simon’s mug was gone from the bedside table. His red slippers conspicuously absent. She could have worn her hair down tonight. A butterfly clip munched on her scalp. She loosened its claws and climbed out of bed.

Her bedroom door was ajar. Pink carpet. Pink walls. Pink Strawberry Shortcake quilt cover. Lilies. Six lilies in a crystal vase. Always six. From Simon. Her cot was empty, but the wooden bars were still in place. She pushed open the door and turned on the light as Simon traced a long, flat petal down her neck and along her spine. Lily took out her dummy and kissed him on the mouth. Repeatedly. Huddled in the damp corner. Sharing a secret.

                                   *                      *                      *

 

The pills were half pink and half white. Like gingham. She pulled them apart like she had seen so many times in the movies. The Bad Seed. She poured the powder into her red cordial and stirred it with her finger. She searched under the bed for the blue photo album. It was sandwiched between the brown box and the wedding album. She flicked to the second page, tracing the photo through the plastic. The first photograph he had taken of her neck. She pulled back the plastic sheet, tearing the fragile photo from its sticky bed. Lily drank the cordial. She tucked her into her bed for the last time and then started the car. It was a long drive. The sea was a murky turquoise. Her last thought was of Simon’s manicured nails tracing the velvet nape of Lily’s cold, stiff neck.

Theophilus Kwek

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Theophilus is a literature student in Raffles Institution, where he has the privilege of editing two school publications, and lives in denial that he be in Senior High before he knows it. He escapes by taking long and irrelevant walks; these occasionally translate themselves into photographs or poems, which he captures if he can.

 

 

 

Macpherson

i

I choose the longest path through
the afternoon, count blocks
radiating like stars. Those at the core
of each cluster are stained
a darker shade of sun, almost tooth-
yellow; theirs is not just an impression
of age. Newer sentinels guard each point
naked and imposing
while men slip between them,
scrub their flanks. Surfaces need
to be cleaned, smoothened:
time does the trick, but too slowly.

In the middle of nowhere is a
playground, one that still uses rubber tyres
for swings. They sway, spin gently
in the wind, mimic the somersaults
of children and fallen leaves. From afar
I hear the rattle of a pram, followed only
by a cawing of crows, then silence.
A silver of hair appears at the end of the path,
trundles slowly onwards. The pram is full
of groceries

 

ii

Later I sit to write
the floors above, all storeys
with characters scribbled tiredly
in each square. I picture fathers’ worn slippers
apart on cold doorsteps, mothers’
neatly arranged inside, half-lit marble.
Door-grilles swing open, shut, remain
closed, tessellate sunset, while doors
anchored to rubber door-stops
do not move. Beyond the reach
of evening’s fingers shadows flit
within these abodes, meet and part:
silhouettes miming the night,
except slower, with unhurried grace. Few lights
flicker on; our lamps are sacrilege
to movements so familiar,
and dancers quite blind.

Night falls at the same time
for everyone, two hours
past dinner, before midnight, between
dreams. Shutters tilt, catch moonlight,
close, become moist. There are
mornings where some are dry; unseeing eyes
crinkle and moisten in their wake.

These are not hard to imagine: faint
seasons and stories, they drift
naturally to fill this space
where I sit. It is warm
and spacious, even in the night, this
bed-rock of dreams, this void.

 

Police Report

There were no witnesses;
no knife-threats, gun-

points; only a sharp
burning like she was falling
in love, followed
(gently, hazily) by nothing.

It happened on Sunday morning,
this theft. Couldn’t possibly have been
me, was still abroad. Later when I

checked, there was no wound.
She recalled no face, no
scar, no guttural voice. In fact
none of the details were clear,
or mattered. Only when I returned
Monday night did she recover words
enough to say (gently,
hazily) that she no longer knew
my name.

 

departures

Strange, how we discuss death over dinner.
Nai-nai couches the passing of a loved one
as a walking away, as if someone
meant to join us for a meal
were caught up elsewhere. Aunty Fang
nods to herself; she was at the wake the night before,
and cannot forget how young the body looked.
Uncle Yang is his usual self, reserved,
but slightly quieter.

Father is last to hear the news. I watch him
mix regret with shock under his tongue,
shape a prayer waiting to be uttered.
He swallows a mouthful of rice, asks, how old?
Fifty-eight, nai-nai replies. She had cancer,
but was still active. So young! –
father exclaims; his voice has an edge
that brings new silence. Someone sighs,

can’t be helped. People
come, and quickly go.
Heads bob uncertainly, then in agreement,
as a bowl of fruit is placed amidst the unfinished dishes.
We each take a slice,
but delay clearing our plates. We have all
finished, but cannot bear to leave.

 

 

Geoff Page

Written by mascara on . Posted in Poetry.

Geoff Page is an Australian poet who has published eighteen collections of poetry as well as two novels, four verse novels and several other works including anthologies, translations and a biography of the jazz musician, Bernie McGann. He retired at the end of 2001 from being in charge of the English Department at Narrabundah College in the ACT, a position he had held since 1974. He has won several awards, including the ACT Poetry Award, the Grace Leven Prize, the Christopher Brennan Award, the Queensland Premier’s Prize for Poetry and the 2001 Patrick White Literary Award. Selections from his work have been translated into Chinese, German, Serbian, Slovenian and Greek. He has also read his work and talked on Australian poetry in throughout Europe as well as in India, Singapore, China, Korea, the United States and New Zealand.

 

Classics

A few of them he’s seen already, arriving in the early dawn, staying in a small hotel not too far from the station. He’s walked their boulevards, their backstreets, the pathways of their parks; he’s strolled beside their rivers, those enigmatic swirlings, and sometimes on the esplanades, dressed a little out of season, wondering at their moody seas. He’s probably seen more than most  and yet he’s not well-travelled. 

Arriving all his life as rumours, as traveller’s tales or deft allusions, they line up as a reprimand, these classics that he hasn’t seen. Now, with just these ten years left (or weeks or hours) he knows a visit’s less than likely. He thinks about the schedules, the brochures with their gloss and colour — and thus to inconveniences, the quality of coffee, the noise on the piazzas. The weather, too. Autumn would be best. Spring, for him, ironic — the heat and cold on either side needlessly extreme. Neither is what he’s had in mind. He thinks, too, of the work that made them, fierce obsessions, dreams translated into stone. Or brick. Or glass and steel more recently.  He thinks about those half translations, the ones he’s used so far — the photographs, the moving pictures, the acreage of Baedekers, milky slides in living rooms forty years  forgotten. 

He looks down at his cup; takes some water from a glass. Sometimes the coffee’s brought too hot — though never scalded. He wouldn’t be here if it were. He lets it cool and stares a while at what a blonde barista’s made with just one flourish of a spoon. This, too, is art.  How easily it’s done. He folds his hands around the cup. Time now to begin.  There’ll be a few more yet, he thinks, and sees himself in ticket queues, impatient at a counter or travelling in cramped compartments. He’ll walk the cobblestones and hear the slanting of their consonants, the strangeness of their vowels. How many more? Say three or four, the ones unseen already turning into myth. 

Oblivion is the word he wants. Unique to him at first. And then.