domestic bliss

fruit on the road

A few days ago, in the morning, I was driving to uni. As I was coming up Cleveland street, crossing Chalmers I saw something going on up ahead a the next intersection. All the cars were stopped and there were people running around in the middle of the road.
At first I thought it was road works. But there was no one in reflector jackets or people holding Stop-lolli-pop signs. Then I thought it was a performance, maybe a student film.
Pulling up behind a car I saw the fruit. And the vegetables. Most were sitting in the middle of the road, but some were rolling down the hill towards the traffic. There was a delivery truck pulled over near the pub on the corner and the people were passers by, who jumped to action to help the fruit man collect his lost goods.
The traffic started to edge toward the people on the road and cars bullied them out of the way. The intersection was covered mostly with crushed Kiwi-fruit that didn’t make it.
A pumpkin rolled into the gutter and down towards my car. A boy, dressed in kitchen whites, ran after it. I’d seen him pick up armfuls of potatoes and apples already, and run them back to the fruit man. Now he chased the pumpkin, scooped it up and dived through an open door into the courtyard of the café where he worked. I watched him, bent over double, catching his breath. Looking at his pumpkin. Waiting for the commotion to pass. And dreaming probably of pumpkin soups, or ravioli, or risotto.

Canada Day

Alanaisgettingmarried.

Pimpa

I went to dinner tonight with my Nan and my uncle. Nan told me about my grandpa. She tells me about him sometimes when we are out to dinner. My uncle said I used to call him ‘Pimpa’. Nan said that’s what all kids call their Grandfathers. She told me that when I was little, he was in hospital. She said I couldn’t have been more than about 4. He was sick and I used to climb up into the hospital bed and snuggle in. He wasn't well but he used lift his arm and let me sleep for a bit, up there. I don't remember. I always, for a second or two, imagine I do when she tells me, but I really don't. I just remember him being really tall. Granpa Pat died in 1991.

abracaZebra

at the canal the driver shared his sandwich

these probably aren't all the things i know. that title is misleading. sorry.

i'll talk to you later, i am in the porn loo

old man paris

Lovers In The Kitchen

More love.

tvstar

imissyou

this is my friend Georgina

she is really fun.

heres looking at you

this is an island off to the south

home but not home

hospital lights

this is another one

When I was a little kid mum took me to a fete. There was a stand that sold fairy wings. They were the most amazing things I had ever seen. There was a black pair with emerald sequins on the tips. I loved them. They were made for me. Mum didn’t let me try them on but she let me look at them for ages. She said we should keep going.
There were camels at the fete, and you could pay to take a ride on them and walk them around in a circle. Round and round for five minutes. I’d never been on a camel and mum said I could have a go and I did. I had a birds eye view of the entire fairground. It was scary at first. Then boring. Then I saw mum back at the fairy wing stand.
I saw her buy fairy wings.
I saw her walkrun them back to the car.
I saw her hurry back.

I waited for ages for her to give them too me. I didn’t want her to know that I knew about it but I probably gave it away because after a few weeks I started mentioning them casually in conversation. About as casually as a 6 year old can mention things they really want.

A few years later I found the wings again. Mum and Dad had given them to me for Christmas, months after the fete. By then they were just black stockings over some coat hangers with glued on sparkle. I pulled them apart to see how they were made. Then they were ruined. But it was ok.

this is somewhere i went away to

We visited Scott's parents for easter.
We went to the pub and we drank bears and put some bets on.



Later we went midnight fishing and Scott caught a fish straight away.

badnews

looking like your looking back but looking forward

twobytwo

little corners little places

ghosts of a never ending night

flies eyes in a Parisian shower

remember when we were all together.

Goodbye to all that

a plus saisissante manifestation de l'art des constructions métalliques

You see alot up there, but dont be scared.

There is a girl who lives next door to me who is always sick. I’ve never met or seen her but I hear her all her time. Throwing up.
The first time it was in the morning, and I thought felt for her, I thought she was pregnant and it was morning sickness and that it would pass.
Then I heard it again, another time, in the afternoon. Then not to long after I heard her vomiting in the evening, really hocking it up. Then more and more I’d get up, come home or wake in the night and I’d hear her being sick.
I began to think she was ill. Like it was from chemotherapy or something I didn’t understand or some horribly intense stomach bug. But it kept going and I heard her coughing and coughing till she was sick.
At all different times - coughing and coughing until she was sick.
Sometimes I’d go to the window and look out onto the wall of her building, working out which rooms were bathrooms from their always closed frosted window glass. I’d try and see movement through the shadows and the light. I’d try and see if she was in that building, and if I couldn’t see movement work out she must be in mine, and the echoes travel up the walls and into my apartment, into my room where I’m trying to study under the harsh lamp.
Sometimes I’d feel sick with her when she was vomiting so loudly. I feel each wet lump that rushed up her throat and out her mouth.
Sometimes, not that often, I’d get annoyed at her, interrupting my breakfast with her sickly noise and ruining the quiet that I liked while I read my paper. But mostly I was sad for her, sick of her sickness for her, sick and sad for her.
And now the coughing has stopped.
I never hear her anymore.
Now when I read my paper, eat my breakfast or study and study in the stifled heat of my room, I listen out, I’ll hear a cough from somewhere and wait, bracing for what follows, but nothing does, and I’m without a reason to stop reading, or eating to wonder what’s going on.