So over the next few months i intend to transfer my blogs from myspace here. I no longer use myspace and only keep it active so as not to lose my writing.
The main function of myspace for me was always the blogs and so they’ll now find a new home here.
Blogs are a combination of fact and fiction. All are an exploration of life and my writing voice. Don’t assume.
So to begin the transfer…the first blog post of myspace (this post has since been reworked into a Play titled Duplicity which was performed by Riverland Youth Theatre Duplicity Ensemble as part of PlayFest_09)
November 2nd 2006
ramblings of a disturbed mind (yes its mine)
Grey bricks and stark almost bare walls, until the next morning when words in black and multicolour are screamed across the cracks. Broken cement marked with gum and horror. This floor has seen more than you or I. The people stand against the walls like moss against a tree trunk, hiding still in the corners. The air smells like cigarettes and other drugs less welcome. There in the corner is the stink of despair. It..s just your local corner shop in the dying light of afternoon. Always overcast even in the sun.
A place of contradictions, the land of hypocrites.
The people have become faceless, all with the same darkness in their eyes. We can follow one home. Pick one, any one you like.
The blonde girl there? With her make-up caked on and her too thin body blowing in the wind? Let..s go back to her house that knows not how to be a home.
Her house is there, grey bricks again. Repetition is the food of lost hope. The windows are blanked out with black paint, what is it that they hide from? And the front door, crooked on it..s hinge, there is no welcome here.
She steps inside to the sound of angry music and harsh words from the body that bore her. There is a half eaten couch scrunched up against the wall. Posters tacked against the dirty yellow, peeling and torn to match the paint. And the grey smell of smoke to set it all off.
At night she opens the window. She likes to watch the stars and dream of better places, a world that will make her whole. Her entire life has been this pattern, a woven tapestry of moments.
They crash in upon her, every harsh and hateful word. She cries there in the darkness of her room, for a life she feels is wasted though never really lived. She is a shadow with feelings, her heart kept close inside. She keeps trying to hope through the pain. Sometimes she wonders if she cried enough would she drown? It might be a relief. Still, something holds her here. The choking weed of guilt binds her to this place. Is it my fault? The question we all ask. She has no answer and so she stays.
In the morning she puts the night away. Rises in a bedroom of mirrors to reflect the screams inside.
She dresses in her black armour, brushes her veil down flat.
She walks past the shut door and the angry crashes creeping through. She cringes slightly, the only outward sign of the fear she feels inside, we are the only observers. Her heart beats a useless tattoo. She slides a bit closer to the wall, shrinks more into herself. Maybe today they won..t notice her, she..ll have no fresh bruises to hide. She only wants to protect herself, to be safe and loved. Why do they hate her so? Those which should love her most? She doesn..t know that their lost hope is what feeds the blame they place on her shoulders.
Do you see the life she lives? Which is no life at all?
Black and white everyday, shades of grey in between, but for some mornings where there is red upon the white tiles on the kitchen floor. Only the blood marks the passing of time.
We can leave her to her tears now; I think you have seen enough.
I promise she will go to school, even if the only thing she ever learns is how to avoid being noticed.
Let..s take a walk through these streets and see what else we may find.
Cracked pavements, gutters brimming with litter. The main streets are wide and straight. A mask for the crooked backstreets, the real reflection of the people.
Sometimes you see the trees looking lively, until they shrink back upon themselves, like so many forgotten children. The trees know to keep fighting the air for some purity, for some life. It..s the only way to survive unless you wish to be a parasite.
Desperation drives us to many depths.
Do you see yourself reflected?