Quick Post to Stay Motivated

I have been so flat out at work for the last month or so that I haven't had time to post. I keep most of my action to Twitter. I thought I'd quickly put a post up before bed to make up for the lack of posts. All I could think to use was the opening page of my abandoned novel - The Strip.

The Strip was my attempt at the early 90s grunge fiction genre - think Praise, think Trainspotting, think Bongwater. It was loosely based on my own life (of course) and set in my home town Kwinana. I didn't try to hide the setting in any other way, but I called the town Woodley after a street in Orelia. There are several characters all connected, all with their own story and the book takes place over a single weekend (a la Pulp Fiction, except mine came first!).

This is a character called Catherine. The leading lady and resident smart chick. She is in her first year of teaching at a remote country school and things haven't been going well. This passage opens the novel.

Catherine

Cathy is drowning, choking for air. The anger that wells from within the pit of her stomach is a suffocation - like clambering for the surface after too long under water. She draws her first gasping breath of release as the empty bottle she has hurled across the room connects with the television. The screen cracks at a diagonal and the bottle shatters. Dust, the product of broken glass, floats up from the point of impact. The anger chokes her still. She kicks over the stereo with a deep gutteral scream that is not her own. Her foot planted firmly into its bulk, the stereo cabinet lets loose vinyls and casssettes. She stomps on several tapes, shattering plastic trampled underfoot. Randomly clutching at a record she throws it at the wall. It connects and cracks, splitting into three pieces. Throwing the coffee table on its side with her right hand, she kicks at its surface. Her heavy boots smash the glass. Her foot goes completely through. Her jeans are torn, and a dim feeling of pain sees a stream of blood traverse her leg. She removes a leg from the upturned coffee with a kick to its base and sets about destroying the china cabinet. Its contents - champagne flutes, crystal vases, gravy boats, butter dishes - all shattered. Glass and china fragments fly all around. Several pieces whip at her pale, angered face drawing shallow, bleeding lines on its surface. Feet flailing at wooden furniture; The sound of cracking timber; Nails removed rudely from hinges with forceful blows. Fingers tearing the black vinyl loungesuite, exposing white cotton padding inside; Pot plants uprooted, soil flung wildly across the carpet; Empty terracotta pots broken against everything solid.

Not yet close to calming down, Cathy picks up a pot which has remained somehow intact and throws it at the window. The brown clay bowl speeds towards its target turning end over end. Contact brings the sound of smashing glass. The sound brings on the hysterically high pitched screaming. Cathy stands at the rooms centre clutching her hair. Pulling hard. The pain is distant - as if this were not her breakdown. The screaming is shrill and unearthly. Exhaustion sets in and she falls to her knees. She bends at the waist and buries her head in the carpet.

Finally there is air, release. The surface of her angers water is broken. She raises her head and tentatively surveys the damage.

It wouldn’t be so bad if any of this stuff was hers. It isn’t. Except for the empty bourbon bottle that she’d thrown at the television, it all belonged to the Ministry. Fully furnished houses were a perk of working in down-south hell holes. Thinking a little clearer now Cathy realises she is in trouble. She is in the kind of trouble that she isn’t fit to deal with right now. Deciding her next course of action is not difficult. Leaving behind the destructive scene of the lounge she enters the kitchen. On the breakfast bar the broken telephone that had started it all. She finds her keys on top of the fridge and goes to her room. She begins throwing random items of clothing into a large leather suitcase, and zips it closed. Exhausted, sitting on the end of her bed she is assaulted by flashes of the days events. Events that had, finally, made her snap.

Take Two

Not much to say on this one. It's a song and it has a melody, though no real chords as yet. It's a movie metaphor - I'm a film nerd. The verbose lyrics were probably inspired by Andrew Hansen of Chaser fame when he starred in the documentary Uni. He was playing the traps around Melbourne and I really dug the way he strung as many words in a phrase as he could cram. Hansen and Dylan.

Take Two

You say I’m living my life,
Like I was in some kind of movie.
And you don’t think I’d say anything at all,
If it didn’t sound a little groovy.
And you wonder if it’ll ever take anything less,
Than some romantic film cliché to move me.
I’m rendered speechless by this brand new knack,
You seem to’ve found to see straight through me.
Well you’re walking out now, but you say,
“We can be friends”.
I’ll let you in on a secret about this film -
This ain’t how it ends.

Well it might be just a film I’m living,
But at least it’s mine.
And I ‘ve been working on this script right here,
For what seems to me to be the longest time.
So I know, there ain’t supposed to be any conflict,
Just redemption in Act Nine.
And a true love confession from you,
Maybe one or two witty lines,
You say “Shouldn’t every film be a little tragic?”
I say, “That depends.”
You see, this particular script starring you and I,
This ain’t how it ends.

You were supposed to be the leading lady,
But you’ve gone and got it all wrong.
It’s like you’ve thrown the script out now,
And you’re making this all up as you go along.
I thought by now we’d have had the steamy love scene,
Maybe even thrown in a song,
Yes, there’s tragedy in this world,
But in this film of mine is not where it belongs.
Feel I’m drowning like a diver in a sea of sorrow,
With a bad case of the bends.
Well this just can’t be right,
I’ll tell you now, this ain’t how it ends.

Well dim the mood lights now,
I want this film to be black and white,
And I can stay here and rehearse this scene,
If it takes me all god damn night,
You come running to my front door,
Tell me you were wrong and I was right,
And throw your arms around me as the violins swell,
Even though that’s kind of trite.
You see I need the kind of mood,
You only get from a soft focus lens,
Because this harsh light falling down on me now,
This ain’t how it ends.

Last night I had the strangest dream,
You came to my house, I said “Hello”.
You said “Take me back please,"
And somehow I managed to say “No.”
You said “I missed you so much honey.”
I replied, “Didn’t I tell you say.”
That’s when you leaned in close to me and said,
“Now, give me one more kiss before I go.”
Then you walked away with a tear,
And my heart began to mend.
That’s when I woke up happy in my empty bed,
And thought, "Yeah, that's how it ends."

Leaving (Song for an Artist)

Amongst all that paper I went through tonight, I found a poem I told a friend today that I'd written her. When we were 18, she left our sleepy little home town to go to Uni in Tasmania. With the big circle of tightly knit friends we all get after high school for a while, losing one of your own is devastating. I remember I wrote something when she first left, but it really was atrocious... more so than this one.

This one was written 3 years later when I first heard from my absent friend again after my Mum died. She called me up to offer her condolences, which I thought was really nice of her and I never forgot it. We did lose touch though until Schoolfriends.com and MSN let us catch up. Now she annoys the crap out of me any time she feels like it (:P Dags).

Leaving (Song For An Artist)

Portrait of you in black & white,
Your hair is short, your face is grey.
Are you sad? Or is it just the light?
I guess you took it yourself,
I suppose you meant it that way.

It's three years on and I miss you like crazy,
It's been so long since I heard your voice.
I'd write you a letter but I guess I'm too lazy,
I'd have you here if I had my choice.

Saw you walk through that customs gate
And it really brought me down,
Should have know you were gone forever,
You were always too good for this town.
When you told us all that day,
That you were leaving for the Strait,
I don't think I beleived until,
I couldn't see you through that gate.

Friends for life or so they say,
But sometimes things don't work out right,
Time goes on, people change,
The days can turn to the longest night.
You can't keep things that were never yours,
Don't complain, that's just the way things are,
You can't go opening closing doors,
There's no way to catch a falling star.

So now I'm here and you're still in Hobart,
That reality's final, you made your choice,
I'll give you a call just as oon as I'm sober,
Just don't expect that same old voice,
My throat these days, it croaks with sadness,
I've had some pain in these last few years.
Living a lie through out all this madness,
I find it hard to hide my tears.

Watched you discovering just who you are,
And it really made me smile.
You, me and our friends would ride in my car,
That made me happy for a while.
Now you're gone and I don't think you'll return,
But somehow that's okay.
We al had our time and we chose to burn,
Rather than just fade away,

New Material and a Winter Dirge

I've just been "digging through the crates" so to speak, and rifling through all the cardboard boxes I have in storage. Apart from a bad case of hayfever from teh dust, I found a whole new pile of crap to post :)

This one is another love song to Winter. I really had a thing for Winter. I guess I still do. This poem is about how I didn't get what I wanted one Winter and when Spring came around, I couldn't understand where it'd all gone wrong.

September Too Soon

This early arrival of Spring.
The cold grey days washed sublime with warmer blue,
The misery of the sky completed,
Is harrowing.

I had no idea that your endurance would be,
Strong enough to bear, the liquid air,
The numbness in your limbs.

You were safe through the colder days,
In your isolated and warm flat.
Crouched down by the fire place,
With an episode of Melrose Place.

Gathering up wood from the miriad suitors,
Who were only passing through.
I'd placed too much faith,
In the warmth I could provide you.

My life as a blanket is over,
The sun is out, the sheets are gone,
The sweat will embrace you soon.
You'll have no further need,
Of my enveloping worship of you,
See you next June.

Betrayal (Acoustic Grunge)

This is a song I wrote in the early 90s as a failed attempt at emulating Dinosaur Jr's fantastic acoustic version of Quest (check it out if you don't know it - J Mascis makes his Martin weep).

I'm not sure what it's really about because it was just an attempt at sounding like J. I did have a crush on a girl who binge drank, but I wasn't thinking of her when I wrote it... honest.

Betrayal

This is gonna seem, like I'm betraying everything,
That it ever meant to be me.
I'm running away, I just can't stay.
It's a price I swore that I would never pay.

You say you love me, that's wearing thin,
As thin and bitter as your bottle of gin,
The one you say you need to keep you sane,
The one I tell you only changes your name.

This is madness. Why you drinking?
Why you drinking? Put that bottle down.
(awesome little palm mute sequence here that I can't quite remember now)
(It was Am Am chicka C, C C chick Am or something)

Put down that bottle, drown your pain in me,
I've been here so long baby, why don't you see,
A promise made in a vodka tone,
Is not a promise that is written in stone.(this line sucks so much arse)

I love you darling, there ain't no doubt.
I would rather you hated me than threw me out,
And sat here drinking, wasting your life,
Does it take you dying, to prove I was right?

This is madness. Why you drinking?
Why you drinking? Put that bottle down.
(again with the palm mutes)

Valentine's Day

It doesn't get sadder than this. I don't mean Oprah Winfrey, Movie of the Week, boohoo sad; I mean 45 yr old, comb over, ferrari, gold chain sad.

I was in a relationship that was well and truly over. And like most of us when relationships are over, I wanted to be the one who called it off first. But I wasn't. I wasn't because she did it on Valentine's Day. And who could see that coming?! So I wrote her this song. I recorded it to tape and I played her that tape. She loved the song, and left anyway :)

I'm glad, because I met my true soul mate the next year. I'm also glad I still have this song; because I kind of like it. One day, if I ever get brave, I will mp3 that tape and upload it here. That's a threat, not a promise.

Valentine

Friday night, February 14th,
Just another day to you.
I'd bet everything, that you're not even,
Thinking about me right now.
As if to say, as if to say to me,
Hey babe, you're so right.
You're just so right babe,
You come to me and say,
You say you're leaving me.
What am I supposed to say?

High school sweethearts,
Soul mates, friends for life,
Call it what you will.
But it must have been something,
And it must have meant something,
You know it must have meant something to you.
Now you say you're leaving,
You say you're leaving,
You want to walk away.
What am I supposed to say?

Not enough to give you,
Not enough to tell you,
Not enough to make you change your mind,
Enough to stay.
What am I supposed to say?

I hope you change your mind.
I hope you change your mind.
I hope you change your mind and stay,
Happy Valentine's Day.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Happy Valentine's
Happy Valentine's Day

If there're any guitarists out there, this is just a simple 2 chord progression between G9 and C9 over and over. Hey, I had limited time to come up with the melody alright? :)

Circles Of You

History dictates that we’ll meet again you and I,

When one of us is brave enough to swallow their pride.

Will you still be who you were before you left me,

Still have that smile that smacks of devilish naivite?

Don’t you ever get frightened that the circles might end,

That one day we’ll be so far apart there’ll be no getting back?

Me, I’m more afraid that you’ll change beyond recognition,

So that even if you do make your way home again, I won’t know you,

And I’ll walk right by you, wondering what you’re doing with yourself these days.