Object Writing Poetry & Prose Blog

admin November 25th, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
The colours are gathered on the palette, a collection of Van Gogh yellows, blues and greens, each swirling in its own universe. The paint smells of oil and turpentine and the artitst’s brushes lie nearby each one carrying a reminder a of a journey through the paint. Small flecks of past colours embedded in the bristles. The spatula slices into the paint which is applied to the taught canvass. The paint glides over the surface, smoothed like icing on a cake, formed and shaped with love and delicacy- a delicacy for the eye.

Water-colour palette. Small plastic tray . Pale colours that come alive with the addition of water. The paper thick as a kitchen towel is ready to absorb the paint and reveal the picture. The whites are reserved by application of the clear skin then when it is ready it is peeled off like a sticking plaster to reveal the whites underneath. Each colour is applied with the precision of a guided bomb, you have to plan ahead with water colour. The water jar, gradually attains a cloudy dark hue, a signal that the water needs changing. The water hisses out of the faucet and the jar is replenished, ready for another round.

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admin November 25th, 2007

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Sawdust is dropping down like sleepy dust motes as the saw rasps its way through the soft pine. It’s making an angry noise, it’s a wild safari cat, a lion, a cheetah, roaring through the wood chasing the next bit of lumber to devour. On the floor a small mountain begins to grow, perfect and conical as the trails of sawdust float to the ground on fairy wings. The wood did not want to co-operate at first. The pencil in hand shining with a precoated paint surface was sharpened for the job . The pencil sharpener a small stubby block of aluminium metal, a rasping noise as the pencil circulated and shavings of wood peeled from it.

On the wood the marker made its own light trench in the wood, with minute specks of lead smudging the sides. The saw brought to bear, the teeth jumping at first, jumping and grappling over the first few slivers of wood waiting for the flow for the steady movement. raaaaassp backwards, baaaaaart forward. Jumping and uncertain, but after a few strokes rasp, bart, rasp, bart……that’s how it sounds to me anyway.

The construction is elaborate and the work of the master builder. His nostrils revel in the smell of new wood, the fresh cuts seep a forest of newness into the air, a healthy smell. It is mixed with the odour of a hundred oil polishes, wood stains and lacquers, molecules laid to rest somewhere in the workshop over time. The cigarette constantly burning in the ashtray is something he almost eats - he doesn’t seem to notice the cough that is getting worse over time. At the end of the day he picks up a broom with bristles in need of replacement and begins to sweep up the collected sawdust of the day. The floorboards shine with a dullness after he has finished and he says good night to the wood.

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admin November 25th, 2007

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Subway - the notes of the forlorn singer and his guitar are on the breeze like cigarette smoke - mildly annoying. I have to give him credit for trying though, doing it. The sound of a hundred hooves echo and mix in with the notes as people go about their business of leaving and arriving. The smell of vomit where somebody threw up last night mingles and tingles my nose. It mingles with a thousand armpits and deodorants and perfumes hastily thrown on after emerging from warm welcoming showers into soft cuddly towels, just left long enough with the fabric softener and the dryer. Aerosol cans hissing contents like a death ray from a science fiction movie - are they really safe?They protect us from the rudeness of built up perspiration and others too.

I grab a bacon and egg from a corner shop and, biting down, the slimey egg mixes with the almost crisp bacon. The salty cured flavour mixes together with a bit of yolk that has not been made hard and the taste becomes the smell - sort of like the way something tastes the way it smells sometimes, they must be linked in some way? Gin is something I think of regarding that idea - it smells like flowers and tastes like flowers to me - almost like drinking perfume.

Other passengers are racing by. It’s like I am moving in slow motion, observing, taking it in, the colours the sights the sounds. Echoey announcements about platform changes cause a flurry of feet down ramp eight to ramp thirteen, a gaggle of commuters are set free from the barrier and canter along to the next platform - hopefully there will be no fall. I just hear a hundred thousand voices mixed in with footsteps , mixing together in the cathedral sky roof of the railway station. Going into the subway is like becoming a worm moving underground, a rabbit in a burrow, then you explode onto the platform again and the sound is SO BIG - mixed in with the open air sounds of trains tooting as they leave, the smell of brakes that are overworked and are probably emitting toxic dust and fumes.

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admin November 24th, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
A dusty trench dug before ancient crumbling ruins was the pathway to the treasured relic. Small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, but a Rosetta stone to another culture.

It was found by the junior archeologist. With gentle teasing strokes she was pushing away the dirt with a paintbrush, a deviation occured in the soil and she knew she was on to something. Only later would it become apparent how important a find this was.

The hot dry air was momentarily cooled by the excitement of the find, and she teased the stagnant soil with gentle breaths from the brush. A head and then torso appeared. Almost like a mother giving birth, the artifact was being released from the womb of the soil to the expectant young archaeologist. She had called out to other coleauges to share in the excitement of the find and they now stood around like an expectant football crowd, hoping that this was the goal that would take them to the final.

A thousand lemmings ran around her stomach as she liberated the last clod of soil from the relic and placed it carefully on a stark white sheet of paper. The desert sun was a scorpion in the sky spitting venom as the team moved to the command post in a trance. She was the high priestess leading them to the altar were they would worship the newly found idol. The relic was powdery to touch and they all donned gloves to avoid any contamination. It s mottled surface was a jade green colour, probably brilliant and shining when first made, but now dull. But the important thing was the two faced head, indicating the meeting of two tribes , two cultures, where the archeologists and anthropologists could finally agree.

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admin November 23rd, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
Beep beep beep. That intrusive annoying sound that vans and trucks make when reversing. It s deliberately designed to make you grind your teeth and take notice. This is useful as several tons of metal come your way, with the intent to crush, maim or cause serious injury. Trucks and delivery vans come into our loading bay often, it s a bit of a cathedral space really, there s a huge roller door that makes a sound like an army tank as it rolls itself up, I don t know how the neighbours stand it, surely they ve complained. When a 3 ton truck reverses its way in, the sound echoes and bounces around the space like a rubber ball. The air is filled with deisel fumes which take several minutes to dissipate. I wonder how toxic the atmosphere is?

The boys from Kent removals are all keenly dressed in company uniform. Tight shorts like the footballers used to wear and brown sleeveless tank tops with the Kent Logo over the left breast pocket. They dart, graceful as hummingbirds, on their various tasks.

They have each area of the lorry carefully compartmentalised for the military manouver of moving the orchestra. Tympanies and Harps go in first. The harps are in regular rectangular boxes , each as tall as a footballer. The tympanies are in square boxes with wooden panelling and are easily moved on wheels. The double basses always present a problem. It s almost like having to pick up a person. The shoulders and waist of the double bass case just don t allow any easy purchase. All of these things are wheeled to their normal storage position across from the rehearsal hall. The store room is lit with a hundred fluorescent lights so it feels like you re in a convenience store. Why are those lights so bright? Is it to discourage robberies. It s so bright in here everyone can see what s going on. Nobody will be stealing stuff from the orchestral store. You need security plus to get in there. Front door, then another set of doors, carefully opened by the magnetic security pass, all logged with your name.

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admin November 23rd, 2007

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I scrabble to open the small box, there’s a piece of sticky tape covering the end and I jimmy it with a screw driver. The blade of the driver is stuffed between the cardboard and jerks along roughly until the job is done. Inside is a plastic package containing the parts. The plastic has a muted shine and detonates as I liberate it from the box. Over a hundred grey plastic parts are inside the plastic bag - each waiting to be torn from the grey mother of the superstructure before being glued and slotted into place.

The instructions are at the bottom of the box, a rough off white paper with clear black and white diagrams. There’s a smell of newness in it and this is mixing with the fresh plastic of the bag. I am also smelling the ‘just made’ cup of coffee sitting on the bench, marvelling with me at all the components . Small ghosts of vapor are hanging over the lip of the cup and the milky sugared liquid beckons to my taste buds, but I can wait.

I get scissors and snip along the top of the bag. As a child it would be a mad scramble to open it up , biting into neutral tasting plastic and shredding enough of the bag to get out the components, but now - oh so conservative and neat. Gone the days of the childhood egg and spoon race, the run to the line, now more the graceful giraffe in achieving tasks - though I wish I were as tall as one!

Now with wire cutters - similar to nail clippers - in hand, instructions clearly displayed, I move the smooth aluminum toward the plastic spigot and snap off the first part. The plastic makes a clicking sound while the jaws of the cutters make a high metallic sound as the teeth meet. I cut several more, checking the numbered piece against the instructions each time- I don’t want this to wind up like the first model I ever made - a few wheels and pieces left over at the end.

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admin November 22nd, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
Misfit. I saw a poster on the way to work yesterday, black and white and half the size of the building it was plastered on. A Guy in a James Dean pose, with that wavy sort of hair and a half bent , half smoking a cigarette stance. I can t even think what they were advertising, but, it struck me that this was playing on some sort of I can be cool and be a part of society and wear brand x of clothing, yet still be a rebel, a misfit .

Conformity is not the only way to get things done, but it sure helps us know where to draw the line. The misfit usually is operating outside of the boundaries, sometimes with the blessing of the crowd like comedians, sometimes at the ire of the mob. Graffiti on the side of trains and billboards is an unacceptable artform to most of us, but, to the misfit its a form of expression, it is art. The paint is projected from the spray can like the stream of light at a movie theater, and, contained in each molecule of paint is the genesis of a picture, a small speck of what can become something beautiful, or ugly, depending who sees the end result. There s something about the smell of the paint, the toulene or whatever chemical solvent it is that dissolves into the air at a rapid rate, or in some cases dissolves the synapses of somebody s brain and they become addicted to paint sniffing!. Graffiti is usually a swirling mass of colours, carefully planned to form a rich garden of a picture at the end, Taggers are just opportunists, a blank wall is a homing beacon for them to derive a moments satisfaction and recognition. I imagine that as well as recognition it s about boredom and daring. Sort of an extreme sports of the inner urban culture. Can we get away with it?

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admin November 22nd, 2007

The first video I recall seeing was in 1978 - it must have been during the VHS / Beta wars! The unit was about the size of a small Sherman tank - more like a washing machine- no truly about twice the size of a common audio amplifier - It would have taken a small muscle man from the circus to lift I imagine. I can see the doorway mechanism  poking up from the surface of burnished steel, a periscope searching for a video tape. As the door whirs open all manner of mechanical sounds emanate from the machine, and then with the crackling of the video being inserted into its willing sleeve, another round of mechanical twirling and snarling from inside.

Inside the celluloid is wrapped around a shiny cylinder; the scanning head, which is revolving at hundreds of times per minute, one of the good old principles we are familiar with; 30 Frames per second - any slower and we’d perceive it as slow motion, we’d see the flicker,  like those old Charlie Chaplain movies or Keystone cops. Some poor sod had to keep a handle turning on the camera to move the film past the eye of the lens. Just like the cylinder is the eye of the video machine many years later.

The buttons on the front are long and rectangular with rounded edges. A sort of statement to the era. The video tapes themselves are a fragile looking black thin plastic, eggshell plastic. I don’t want to drop that on a kitchen floor made of rosy terracotta tiles. This is a strange house - we’re visiting my brother - who’s older than Me- I am 12 or 13. The thing I notice more than the video recorder is the 1/24th scale model of a Harrier jump jet - for years afterward I would fantasise about building a 24th scale model- and now I have one ready to go, but it has sat in the box for nearly 2 years while other stuff happened. The box now has a light covering of dust and the corners have frayed and torn from being moved from one location to another -  I hope it’s not feeling too neglected and will build ‘OK’ when I finally get around to it!

I found some videos of the aircraft I am going to build on Various sights - it’s a world war 2 classic fighter and people are now either restoring them or building them from the ground up - quite a liberating thing to see something you have anally researched taking to the skies again.

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admin November 21st, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
The case is full of money, green folding stuff, in small bills, $10000. I ve had enough of this guy hassling me, the debt collectors on the door like hungry wolves, no more. I have come into some good fortune and have been to the bank, a great cavernous affair with a galaxy of space between customer service desks where people call you sir . Not my kind of thing. So I made my request while eyebrows hovered like seagulls waiting to pounce on food scraps, but they complied.

I m on the bed counting it it out, still in this run down little one bedroom apartment with cracked walls and paint peeling from the corners, but soon, I ll be in a new one with a view over the park to the sea. Sort of never believed it would happen , really.

Each plastic five dollar note has a virginal newness, an innocence, never been traded for anything, straight from the treasury I d say. I pick one up to smell, but there s only a vaguely chemical odour, almost like bleach. They look so nice sorted into $500 dollar piles, like ironed and folded washing. That ll shut them up.

As I walk down the street with my brief case full of money, a strange sense of danger fills me. Anyone could jump me at any moment and the money would be theirs, but, wait a moment how would they know? I rationalise it this way as the tension runs around me like a searchlight. Nearly there. I walk into the office and up to the guy who s been harassing me for the last nine months.
what are you doing here he says,
I ve got your money I say , and I open the suitcase and dump the cash on his desk Count it . The look on his face is worth all the harassment, a cross between horror and panic as he looks side to side for some sort of reassurance from his colleagues and henchmen I turn and leave.

Somehow, the air is sweeter, even though a polluted morning mist has settled on the city.. It sure smells sweet today.

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admin November 20th, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
Another roll of the dice, hands are cupped , fingers clasped tightly. The dice make a hollow vibration in the cavern you ve created. Let go, see the white dots staring out at you like a thousand suns containing all your hopes, transluscent red squares are sailing through the air like a VTOL aircraft, hovering, holding.

Holding your breath, waiting for the numbers to be revealed. Hitting the felt like a car in a crash test, slow motion, see those bodies propulsing forward, the dice pushing the felt further and further into the table before it repels them. The dice chased from the table dance and tumble like an Olympic gymnast before coming to rest. Winner.

The chips are stacked up on your winning hand like breakfast pancakes - do you want to try your luck again?
No, not a gambler, really! The round chips are heavy mini-weights in your hand. The black ones are a hundred dollars, the reds $25. Make your way through the crush of people, sitting with vacant faces peering at tumbling fruit. Inane tunes fills the air, bells ringing, announcements float over the haze of noise WINNER .

The tellers count out your money with mechanical accuracy. Time to escape. You ve done it, fooled them, managed to swap those dice didn t you? Clever, the old switch-a-rooney. They ll work it out, they know who you are, time to blow town. Get in that car and drive, for miles and miles, let the distance be the cushion. do you think they ll come chasing you?

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