Object Writing Poetry & Prose Blog

admin August 2nd, 2008

An exchange shop somewhere in the Greek Islands;  rows and rows of used books , hardcovers , paperbacks, in varying stages of cleanliness and decay, the inside covers of the paperbacks seem to be crumbling like an ancient fort. Throw- away books that were never meant to last now becoming ash beneath my fingertips, fainter and fainter with every read, with each transaction. The inside cover of one book bears a large stamp from a library in Rotterdam with a squiggly signature inside.

This place smells of the decaying leaves within the books. With each page opened and examined another molecule or two joins the breath of the shop , giving the unmistakable air of ‘olde bookshop’ , similar to a library when you get to the real ancient book sections, bound in heavy duty cardboard with gilt lettering  sunk into the faux fabric exterior.

I pick up a spy novel , Len Deighton, one of the ‘pre formulaic ‘ ones. My finger running over the ridged heavy imprint of a Luger sitting sitting atop a red soviet hammer and sickle.  Flipping through the pages to make sure they’re not marked is like running my fingers over the edges of a well worn pack of cards or a sheaf of photocopy paper.  At a cafe next door I order a pastry and a strong coffee. As the fishing boats come into the harbour and the ferry swirls around to release another draft of passengers I begin. I could easily finish by the end of the day. The coffee is bitter and thick as treacle, offset by the sweetness of the Baklava. Time seems to be moving at a different pace here on Naxos, Greek Island time I like to think of it as, the words on the page start to swim before me after an hour so I know it’s time for a bit of a siesta, though that’s not what they call it here, thoughts move to lunch, perhaps a lamb gyro……

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admin August 2nd, 2008

Pictures mounted on cardboard backing, curly edges, a shattered picture, humpty dumpty pieces on a table, cardboard backing is rough. Picture is glossy,  pieces scattered around the edge being sucked into the vortex. Making the borders first, a border - like a country each piece is a country of its own making, a world, hedgerows of pieces, each piece is a tooth in the mouth of the  puzzle, it’s  a mystery, the picture on the box is the guide, the map, but it doesn’t give directions - like a vision or a dream. It’s there, but doesn’t tell you how, you have to work it out, puzzling, furrows plowed into the forehead, perplexing.

Start with the borders. the edging, the Berlin wall around the outside, then keep the prisoners in, the pieces are all experiencing freedom on the outside ,  but then they’re plugged into their spot, just like us, locked into  place, locked into a life , a behaviour a course of action, as fixed as the bee to pollen. Stuck in the furrows, puzzling our way through, holding up the pieces of our lives examining them, wondering where they fit, do things fit? Does anything fit anymore?

Trying to force pieces into a place they don’t belong, just like us, just like a pair of shoes that don’t fit, pinching on the toes and the sides of the feet,  each step uncomfortable, why did I buy this pair? Because they were CHEAP, my mother saying ‘cheap and cheerful’ learning later through a series of misplaced puzzle pieces that the reality is that this means ‘cheap and nasty’. Quality costs, costs in time and money and patience.

Nobody’s picture is perfect, looking on I think that someone might have the ideal life, but they have things to deal with, illnesses, losses, triumphs, successes. No-one is immune, it depends on how you think, how you picture the world , how you have constructed your jigsaw puzzle of a life. Some people have gaping holes in the middle of their puzzle, they don’t know why, others have all the pieces locked into place  and the image seems unbreakable. I keep trying to place the cardboard backed bits and pieces of my life into place, but they never fit so I jam them together and it’s all just a mess, though it appears to be a complete picture

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admin August 2nd, 2008

Pictures mounted on cardboard backing, curly edges, a shattered picture, humpty dumpty pieces on a table, cardboard backing is rough. Picture is glossy,  pieces scattered around the edge being sucked into the vortex. Making the borders first, a border - like a country each piece is a country of its own making, a world, hedgerows of pieces, each piece is a tooth in the mouth of the  puzzle, it’s  a mystery, the picture on the box is the guide, the map, but it doesn’t give directions - like a vision or a dream. It’s there, but doesn’t tell you how, you have to work it out, puzzling, furrows plowed into the forehead, perplexing.

Start with the borders. the edging, the Berlin wall around the outside, then keep the prisoners in, the pieces are all experiencing freedom on the outside ,  but then they’re plugged into their spot, just like us, locked into  place, locked into a life , a behaviour a course of action, as fixed as the bee to pollen. Stuck in the furrows, puzzling our way through, holding up the pieces of our lives examining them, wondering where they fit, do things fit? Does anything fit anymore?

Trying to force pieces into a place they don’t belong, just like us, just like a pair of shoes that don’t fit, pinching on the toes and the sides of the feet,  each step uncomfortable, why did I buy this pair? Because they were CHEAP, my mother saying ‘cheap and cheerful’ learning later through a series of misplaced puzzle pieces that the reality is that this means ‘cheap and nasty’. Quality costs, costs in time and money and patience.

Nobody’s picture is perfect, looking on I think that someone might have the ideal life, but they have things to deal with, illnesses, losses, triumphs, successes. No-one is immune, it depends on how you think, how you picture the world , how you have constructed your jigsaw puzzle of a life. Some people have gaping holes in the middle of their puzzle, they don’t know why, others have all the pieces locked into place  and the image seems unbreakable. I keep trying to place the cardboard backed bits and pieces of my life into place, but they never fit so I jam them together and it’s all just a mess, though it appears to be a complete picture

• object writing
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admin August 2nd, 2008

Pictures mounted on cardboard backing, curly edges, a shattered picture, humpty dumpty pieces on a table, cardboard backing is rough. Picture is glossy,  pieces scattered around the edge being sucked into the vortex. Making the borders first, a border - like a country each piece is a country of its own making, a world, hedgerows of pieces, each piece is a tooth in the mouth of the  puzzle, it’s  a mystery, the picture on the box is the guide, the map, but it doesn’t give directions - like a vision or a dream. It’s there, but doesn’t tell you how, you have to work it out, puzzling, furrows plowed into the forehead, perplexing.

Start with the borders. the edging, the Berlin wall around the outside, then keep the prisoners in, the pieces are all experiencing freedom on the outside ,  but then they’re plugged into their spot, just like us, locked into  place, locked into a life , a behaviour a course of action, as fixed as the bee to pollen. Stuck in the furrows, puzzling our way through, holding up the pieces of our lives examining them, wondering where they fit, do things fit? Does anything fit anymore?

Trying to force pieces into a place they don’t belong, just like us, just like a pair of shoes that don’t fit, pinching on the toes and the sides of the feet,  each step uncomfortable, why did I buy this pair? Because they were CHEAP, my mother saying ‘cheap and cheerful’ learning later through a series of misplaced puzzle pieces that the reality is that this means ‘cheap and nasty’. Quality costs, costs in time and money and patience.

Nobody’s picture is perfect, looking on I think that someone might have the ideal life, but they have things to deal with, illnesses, losses, triumphs, successes. No-one is immune, it depends on how you think, how you picture the world , how you have constructed your jigsaw puzzle of a life. Some people have gaping holes in the middle of their puzzle, they don’t know why, others have all the pieces locked into place  and the image seems unbreakable. I keep trying to place the cardboard backed bits and pieces of my life into place, but they never fit so I jam them together and it’s all just a mess, though it appears to be a complete picture

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admin August 1st, 2008

Straps wrap around my face like vines, flapping at me as the wind hisses by my face , cutting my newly razored face with an icy blast. The headphones are squirting sound into my ears and acting as a buffer against the cold. Fingers are trapped inside a furry cave, they are doing a birds claw grip on the spongy ends of the handle bars. Potholes and sidewalk cracks are transmitted in pneumatic jolts as legs pump up and down, initially like they were suspended with 200 pound weights but now warm and flowing , heart kachunking at 120 to 130.

I’m a machine racing through the crisp edges of Faulkner Park this morning. Edging along a narrow ribbon of tar that undulates with the creeping tree roots. Sucking in the crisp air, it’s like biting into an icy pole, but dry , biting away at my mouth, negotiating my way around dogs off the leash and people on foot walking in the same direction as me. Approaching from behind and making a noise to let them know I’m there. The gears set just high enough for me to make an extra effort, other wise there’s no point.

At Toorak road it’s the daredevil cross. Looking both ways assessing the oncoming traffic. A fleet goes past, rubber streaming on the ashphalt, some with radios blaring … doof doof doof. Pogo stick legs plant on pedals and I spring across , cutting back along the college and onto the strip of pavement. At the shrine corner , the man turns green and the bike catapults over pavement edgings for the home stretch. The whole body is warm now, in the zone , flowing along like rain in a gutter, swirling and bobbing along the footpath, round more pedestrians until the St.Kilda Road cross. A swig from the water bottle; the flat taste of water quieting the pounding veins and heart and rasping breath, adjust the helmet and power across to John Mellencamp’s Jack and Dianne…….

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