Object Writing Poetry & Prose Blog

admin December 31st, 2007

Driving for hours to get there, Lonny looks at the map and then at our direction quizzically, always the question, “are you sure we’re headed the right way?”. In my heart I believe, but past experience proves there’s validity behind my cliff edge of doubt. We’re now on a rough dirt road. The Corolla specially requisitioned for the job from the ex ex girlfriend I lent it to, she’s not had a car in years and I had no hope of selling it, so I gave it to her as a ‘lender’. She’s done no maintenance on it at all. I picked it up with a miscellany of discarded lolly wrappers papers and CD’s that had been warped by the sun, but, Betsy [the car] was still functional, after twenty years , and the last few with a zero maintenance policy. So now she was getting us down this rough bush track, ploughing through freshly graded dirt and potholes before, thankfully, we come across a clearing, just like it said in the book! Oh I’ll have a go at the doubting Thomas tonight.

There’s a mild chill in the air- it IS march - Easter is early this year. The gas burner is hissing away with the intensity of a solar flare heating up the spicy/rice/vegetable combination that will become dinner. I have been busy making our pitch, the synthetic covering of the tent zipping and swishing in the breeze my hands flailing with the nylon before I secure it into the ground with slightly bent tent pegs. Inside the little cave I’ve been blowing up the mattress and feel a bit light-headed a bit woozy. You know how it goes, big breath, then fill the vacuum left inside the lilo, another hollow sound as you exhale again, the same as blowing up a balloon , but this is like blowing up 100 balloons. I swear that next time I ‘m getting one of those pumps that works off the battery or cigarette lighter. Anything but this monotony. I take over cooking duties while Lonny finishes the task and gets about the business of making it all homely in there. The girly touches. Though she ain’t putting no flowers up or anything like that!

The brew starts to take on a reasonable tone. The spicy Indian rice we have chosen for the first night is starting to over power the vegetables and the resident Eucalyptus. I rummage about for the tinned tuna that will accompany this. Soon we’re sitting around the gently crackling campfire watching the icy vapor trails of the 727’s heading for Adelaide, it’s just us, alone in this near wilderness. Just the three of us. Of course. I’m not sure if Betsy is going to start when it comes time to leave , but that’s another story.

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admin December 31st, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
Its a long thin passage that runs the entire length of the house. Brush against walls that are papier-mache thin. All built with his hands. This place was just a hall once, Albany Hall, The space demanded to be filled, but no infrastructure could be imposed so everything was temporary. A house of moving parts. There were no proper doors. Each door slid on runners, ball bearing wheels fighting against the channel as they make a scraping hollow sound. The handles of each door a sculpted metal half moon, cool to touch in the mornings.

There was a consolation of a real fire in the living room. This must have been part of the original hall - funny to think of it, this huge space with a fireplace at the end. The lounge was the end of the hallway and it too had a sliding door. I remember watching the News at ten which was preceded by The world at war one of my favorite childhood tv shows. Black and white images of tanks and planes would leap out of the television and explosions would fill the space. Not a great fan of war now, though still very interested in the struggle of world war 2.

The passage has only a few lights, it has its own gloom that seems to hang around near the roof like a captured cloud. Christmas night, 5 years old, wandering from my bedroom along the corridor with bleary eyes to find my mother wrapping presents in the kitchen, illumined brightly by a fluorescent light, the Cordon Blue, stove standing like an army staff sargeant ready to shout orders, even at midnight! Back along the gloomy corridor and back to sleep. Sometimes there were terrible shapes and forms hanging on the roof , demons probably, taunting me, scared , rolling up into a fetal position, pull the pillow over my head to make them go away.

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admin December 30th, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
I had to write up a little flow diagram the other day for the process I need to do to get a song/lyric from idea to completion. You might find it useful;

1-> Get an idea- any bit of inspiration or muse that passes by, maybe from your object writing?
2-> Write - using object writing- about the idea/concept/subject
3-> pick key words or themes and find rhymes - see Better Lyrics by Pat Pattison for more information. Follow this link to buy from amazon;
http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Better-Lyrics-Pat-Pattison/dp/1582970645?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1188269388&sr=8-1
4-> story board your song- what is the narrative s flow?
5-> Rewrite the main idea- using new lyrical/rhyming ideas
6-> Extract the rythmic idea from the song title … i.e. my favorite girl would be da, da da da, dum
7-> see what melodic ideas come from playing your phrases againast this rythm
8-> hit the ‘record’ button– see myhomerecordingstudio.com

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admin December 30th, 2007

Little red rooster blares out of the radio, like the sound is coming out in a big megaphone triangle, someone inside the radio is shouting out the music. Little Richard I think. It’s got a nasal twangy edge to it, one of those early 60’s recordings I think.

Cock -a-doodle-do

Foghorn leghorn, strutting about, breast puffed up like a new pillow, flap of skin on top of his head flapping about like a flag in the wind, “I say that’ll be alright son’ that’ll be alright” as another weight descends from the sky landing on the unsuspecting hound, the Wile-E-Coyote character type dog. The colours in cartoons are kept basic and flat, easy to render, easy to reproduce.

Sitting in this lounge room entertaining myself, temperature outside is appalling, don’t want to know, inside here about 10 degrees cooler, fan is flashing about from side to side, a circus clown head side to side but pushing out air, not balls, recirculating the still hot life-less air, giving the impression of cooling.

Skin is creeping with humidity, like a second skin , just resting on the first. Like something from a science-fiction movie. The monster is the humidity. To the refrigerator, hand into freezer section, crispy ice and captured whisps of icy air hang caught in the spotlight of the fridge door. So nice letting my fingers slip along the jagged edges reaching for the pre-fabricated choc-coated melt in your mouth ice cream bar. That’s the thing, that’s the way to deal with this stupid day, this stupid heat. Dinner tonight, what could it be?

cock-a-doodle -do

Red Rooster- or Big Rooster as they call it in some states. Big multicoloured displays of food hang over you like a bridge foundation, you can see all the rivets and bolts of the food holding it up. Plain old chicken and chips, not quite as good as it used to be, but tonight it’ll be fine, the white meat separates into a hundred slivers when cooked just right. The chips ooze oil, but are crunchy on the outside, just right. This chicken is going to go down just right tonight.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin December 29th, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
Hail, from the sky, a thousand tiny pelting darts. Landing on a tin roof they echo with a hollow metalic ‘ding’. There’s that moment when it’s about to begin. One or two ‘tings’ , then heavier until you look outside to see tiny chunks of ice bouncing on driveways, on the road, on your car.

Run outside and scoop up a handful. They are red hot stones in your hand except they’re made of ice, don’t hold the too long. The ice melting in your hands is a mountain river. Put a bit of hail in your mouth and it tastes like mountain water, cool and clear. Your tongue goes numb and teeth begin to ache, so cold. Chatter chatter chatter.

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admin December 29th, 2007

The restaurant is really fancy, like somewhere you see in movies. The ceilings go off into the stratosphere, the lights are bright but not imposing and the waiters attend at just the right moment, just as you are having the thought, “gee I need more wa………ter” and the glass is being filled. As I’m not used to being amongst the monied classes I always feel inadequate in places like this, aImost like I’m back at the little desks at school. But as I look around me at the well known faces of the Melbourne establishment I wonder why I should feel so different. If it’s to do with riches then I am just as rich on the inside as these other high rollers, but to me this dish is half the weeks salary, to them it’s a drip in the ocean of wealth at their disposal. How do I get to that position and feel OK about it?

The simmering conversations continue all around us as the waiter brings the first course. Some type of seared scallop on a bed of green stuff. In my mouth the scallop seems to turn to a delightful running river, exploding with the sea across the four taste sensors in my tongue. I wash it down with a sip of Sav Blanc, slightly fruity, but with a blunt front end to the taste. The green stuff that the scallops are floating on turns out to be spinach - a muscular popeye cartoon springs to mind as I let the lightly salted leaves swish around like clothes in a front loading dryer in my mouth. More wine washes down the first course. Starting to feel more equal to the wealthy compatriots of the restaurant.

The second course is a luxury ‘beef and reef’ deal. Eye fillet steak topped with enormous prawns, little faces and whiskers staring up at me on top of a townhouse of meat, almost too cute to eat. I grip the steak knife for dear life expecting a fight with the steak, as most supermarket steak I cook turns out super tough, but, this is like a hot spoon through ice-cream, the meat so tender that it almost peels, like paint coming off a wall with a heat gun, juices dripping onto the plate forming small pools of half-blood. In the mouth another revelation. I never thought steak could taste this way!. It is gamey but as soft as jelly, dissolving on the tongue.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin December 29th, 2007

Standing on the platform I look over to the other side and take in the streams of rubbish that have banked up at the lower edge of platform two. I also noticed this as I walked along the tracks on the way to the station. How is it that these pathways become defacto rubbish dumps? At least nobody is throwing away cigarette butts since they were outlawed recently. Soon it will be illegal too smoke at all, now you can’t smoke on the sidewalk or in a cafe, and smokers are banished to the outdoors areas at pubs. which swings me back to 1983 or so. I recall commuting into town on what was then known as a ‘red rattler’. These were wooden railway carriages built in the 1920’s They were made with individual compartments carrying maybe six to eight passengers. They had sliding windows that would always be fully down on stinking hot Melbourne summer days where we would all pant together in unison while the train careened along the silvered ribbons, but, as I have just remembered people used to smoke on the train! Hard to conceptualise now, being in that little compartment with cigarette smoke curling around.

I used to be one of the pariahs smoking on the train adding to the cancerous chemical fog that would be thrown into the air while we all commuted into the city. The train diving into the underground loop just after Richmond on its way to Flagstaff. I’m sure the rattlers used to go down there, like old miners with their head-lamps blazing, probably singing miners songs with their wheels but we all being so busy chugging away on our cigarettes that we didn’t notice how clever the train was . Flagtsaff station we would have to take two sets of escalators, they whirr away and you get that jerky sense of motion as they carry you upwards toward the surface toward escape. Toward the prison of work, where once again we would all be smoking

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admin December 28th, 2007

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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
Manual or automatic? Dillema. It’ll have to be manual. First driving leson, River Street South Yarra, a thin stream of a street with cobbeld oblong factories. The instructor is waiting as I exit work. Since 15 I’ve fantasisied of getting my license and now here is the first step. I’ve driven rust riddled paddock bombs around friends farms in the country. Dust kicking up through the floor, choking. Nothing has prepared me for the sheer terror of driving on the road with other people- in a manual! A kangaroo jump start hop down the road is not a good sign. I flood the carburettor with petrol and the smell seeps into the cabin.Off again. My hand glides over the shiny gear knob. Pushing the clutch in is harder than expected like using a leg weight machine at the gym. Co-ordination of clutch accelerator and brake is a bit of a 3 stooges sketch, but not as funny!

My whole body is feeling stretched as if I’m on a medieveal torture rack. I hesitate on the corner of Toorak and Punt and someone takes an opportunity and fails to give way to me. The instructor seizes the wheel like a rebounder on a basketball team and propells the car forward at firghtening speed, pulling alongside the other car he winds down his window and spits a machine gun torent of vitriol at the offending driver. I am frozen, locked in a glacier looking out, but unable to move- Will I ever be able to do this driving thing? The thing I have dreamed about over and over-imagined- lying awake making movie pictures on the roof at night.

I know everything about cars- except how to drive one!

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admin December 27th, 2007

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Started by Paul - Last post by Paul
Throat, there’s a frog in the back of my throat, it’s about the size of a golf ball, and is jumping about all over the place, making me cough. There’s a wall of flem on the back of my throat, a thick coat of paint that some one came and put there over night. They always come at night and re-apply another coat, then there’s a round of judicious pushing from the lower chest to deliver a gust of air that might dislodge some of it. It really gets in the way of singing, sometimes there’s a half hour of throat clearing before getting on stage - don’t want one single piece of that coating to affect the velvety tones that can emerge from my voice-box. Just one tiny bump can mean a cracked note and failure. Throat clearing in a concert hall is an interesting exercise. When nobody else is around you can wander out onto the stage and ‘hu-hummmmm’ in private. Hear it resonate around the cavern, screaming bats seem to be emerging from all corners of the space.

Getting a sore throat used to be a bi-annual pastime. Tonsilitis sometimes. Lying in bed with a lava flow running over your larynx, it was quelled by throat lozenges and medicine. If it was tonsilitis it was off to the doctors , the unfriendly waiting room with that sick people atmosphere, we’re all here for some cure or other. The doctor would prescribe penicilin. Off to the chemist where , perfect white suited hostesses would deliver the cure, behind shiny glossed lips and dazzling teeth. Home again to bed. Read a lot, sometimes settle down in front of TV, bring in the blankets to keep out the winter chill. The chill that had been there for weeks, seeping into pores which might be the cause of this problem with my throat.

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admin December 27th, 2007

My digits and thumb grip the cool glass container in a vice, but still the lid won’t come off. Usually this is something you find with ’shop-bought’ jam, not home-made. I persist and the top frees itself with a whirl. Sitting on the surface is a sealing layer of wax; milky and solid. This is why the lid did not want to come off; some of the wax has leaked down into the helter skelter of the thread on the jar. So now the toast is getting a little cold, I had buttered the bread already; the knife had guillotined the head off several pieces of butter. The oblong now looking a little less of its former self. I always wonder - is the head able to speak after it has been cut off in a guillotine? Is there consciousness? Butter has no consciousness, I believe. I felt no queasiness watching those waves curl up at the end of the knife before they became pools of acid on the toast, sinking down , dissolving, making bread molecules bubble beyond the vision.

The jam as I have been taught, MUST be retrieved from the jar with a spoon which is NOT allowed to come into contact with the bread or croissant or whatever it is to be spread on. This is to avoid ‘infecting’ the preserve as home-made jam is not affected with the same chemical barrage as manufactured jam, which is probably why it tastes sweeter, homelier. The jam now is being spread over the once crunchy terrain, some falling in the holes burned by the butter, but I am already savouring the delicious mix of melted butter and sweet jam. It’s a sacred combination, though truth be told I actually prefer ’shop-bought’ jam! Strange, I guess it’s always consistent, always super-sweet and sickly. I masticate over the crusts and crumbs, molars of death slicing and dicing, dissecting , this is the final coroners report for this meal.

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