Firstly - this is fiction, clearly, and it is YOUR responsibilty to make sure I finish it one day.
Yes, I mean you.
My life began in a toilet. And it seems like this event set the tone for the rest of my life, but more about that later.
A toilet of a 24 hour MacDonalds Restaurant at 3.46am. Now I don’t remember this day. I’ve tried my hardest but can’t seem to get anything before the age of two, and even then it’s just vague memories of thoughts and colours, not actual events. Like I remember thinking my brother was so old because he was seven, and I remember one summer when it felt like we went for a picnic every single day and I remember the day we threw out my cot and got me a big bed. Sad but proud, that’s how I felt.
You know how they say if walls could talk? Well that’s what this story is. This story is as if walls could talk, and they did, and they told me everything, from the most insignificant little detail to the climax of the event, the screams, the blood, the gasps. And now I’m telling you.
So it was 2001. January 26th 2001. Of course I was officially born on January 27th, but walls don’t know much about calendars and clocks, unless they have one hanging on them – which this one didn’t – So when I said, “tell me about that day” January 26th 2001 was the day they told me about.
Apparently it was hot, as it usually is that time of year. The breakfast crowd was a little slow being a public holiday and all. Usually from about 4.30am the drive through is buzzing with a steady flow of early morning tradesman wanting their breakfast value meals with a large flat white, extra bacon and an extra hash brown thanks love. But there weren’t many today. The soft serve machine was broken too, but that wouldn’t be a problem until later.
Now there are four walls in a toilet, at least, with a few little dividing cubicle walls and that extra cut out bit near the door where the hand dryer is. I only spoke with a couple of these walls. One wall, the back wall of the toilet, started in my ladies loo at the far end of the building, carried on through the bloke’s toilet and then through the disabled toilet, through the kitchens, finishing at the drive-through booth where fat Suzie had the morning shift. The other wall went down the edge of the building, starting in my toilets carrying on through the main restaurant booth area to the front of the shop. The outside of the wall was the ass end of the building where staff would sit on upturned milk crates and smoke cigarettes and pot and listen to punk music loudly. So these two walls, when they told me this story, had a pretty broad view of what happened in this particular 24 hour MacDonald’s restaurant that day. The day that turned into night, that turned in to the early hours of the morning when I was born in a MacDonalds toilet.
So as I already mentioned it was a public holiday, Australia day. The day all Aussies wear green and gold or Australian flag t-shirts and play cricket and watch cricket and watch tennis and drink beer outside and swim at the beach and watch fireworks and have coat of arms BBQ (Roo and Emu – delish!) and do all sorts of other Australian things like whinge about stuff and listen to the triple J hottest 100 and argue about silly things with family members. Like Bob Hawke’s white Australia jacket and whether Bert Newton should give up the carpet.
So it was a quiet morning as I said, fat Suzie manned the drive through and counter because it was so quiet, Mohammad was cooking out the back and Tracey the assistant manager was in the office on the phone to her boyfriend whining about having to work and telling him how much she couldn’t wait to see him later, giggle “George! No, I’m at work, ok, the pink ones, with the lace panels, yep – giggle”. Nothing much happened. Fat Suzie ate some chips, picked a zit and read most of the latest version of Dolly magazine. She loved the dolly doctor section because the girls that wrote in to that were clearly way more dumb and troubled than she was. Made her feel good. Mohammad didn’t talk much, he kept to himself, worked hard, secretly hated fat Suzie because she was fat and she smelled bad and her nail polish was too bright and ugly, but he never let her know.
Someone drove through and ordered 10 bacon and egg McMuffin meals at 09.47am and fat Suzie almost told them where to go – but she sullenly directed them to the waiting bay and they waited and waited and eventually Tracey noticed there was some sort of commotion, put her shoes back on, did up her pants, stumbled out of the office and yelled at Suzie and Mohammed for not letting her know they needed help.
Fred – the customer with the 10 meals - was actually the new guy at the local fire station and was looking forward to yet another stressful day of drunken fools and hot weather and fire and had been sent down to get the morning crew breakfast.
By the time Fred got his meals the radio was already playing Chemical Brothers – It Began in Afrika and Tracey and Suzie – who were to finish very soon and start their A-Day debauchery flew along with the beat of the song – drank up that party vibe and started to boogy. Mohammad wasn’t really into this kind of music, he also had volunteered to work the double shift, he had two young kids and a wife to support and needed to get out of this fast food hell hole as soon as possible so he often worked double shifts – especially on public holidays so he could go to night school and improve his English so that he could use his law degree here in Australia.
Nobody bothered to check the toilets before they left, or at any point during their shift – even though Tracey had clearly written on the log book – 5am – toilet check all ok, 6am – toilet check, replace one roll all ok, 7am – all ok – 8am all ok – 9am – all ok ( in a different pen) 10am – hand towels refilled – all ok. Of course, the traffic had been very slow that morning, the toilets were all ok, there was no need to fill or replace anything but Tracey was a diligent assistant manager, she went to great lengths to make it look like she was doing her job.
The New Bit
Lunch shift Start 10.30am
Mia didn’t want to work today. She DIDN’T. WANT. TO WORK. TODAY! Unfortunately she’d been seen out at the Cott Sunday Session by Tracey the week before when she had called in *sick* and therefore got stuck with the crap shift this week. Tracey also threatened to tell the bouncers that Mia was only 16 if she ever saw her there again. Cow! Her friends were having a BBQ with a keg and a paddling pool today and she was not happy to be missing it. At least she would be finished by 6pm and still get to see the Australia Day fireworks. She had a bottle of raspberry flavoured vodka in her bag too and was planning to start getting smashed at about 4.30pm so she wasn’t too far behind her mates.
Mia took control of the drive through and wallowed in her own self pity. She had purchased the cutest little white dress to wear today that had the Australian flag across the front of it that showed off not only the amazing tan she had spent the summer cultivating but also her pert little boobs that she was very proud of. By the time she got to the party it would nearly be dark, the dress wouldn’t pack it’s full punch with out all the sunshine. The radio in the kitchen had just started playing George – Run and it suited her mood perfectly. She didn’t know what the song was about but it still struck a chord with her current predicament. Life was so unfair.
And that was George, the band of brother and sister duo Katie and Ty Noonan as we all know with Run. They actually got their love of music from their mother who is a successful opera singer – I believe Katie is looking at starting a duet album with her mother next year – watch that space! Next up at number 91 with have a track form relative newcomers, Canadian rockers – Sum 41. The title track from their first full length album – here it is number 91 – Sum 41 and Fat Lip!
Mia sang along with the chorus, kicked her melancholy into the grease traps and swore that she was never gonna let society control her and as soon as she had enough money to but a car, a cute car that had air-con, she would quit this stupid job and go live her life, follow her dreams, who gives a shit about anyone. Yeah.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Paper Smiles
I always love the scenes in movies that are set at train stations. Like those old wartime movies where the boys are hurrahed off at the train station and then welcomed back at the same station, changed and broken. Or movies that play on the routine of train stations, the way you may see the same people at the same time every single day for years and years and never know anything about them. I like the way train stations look, the orderly chaotic flow of people, the constant hustle and bustle, the different platforms the crowd of faces periodically separated by whooshing trains. The architecture of big train stations is always quite pleasing too.
So I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about a story. The story is about a man who spends his days watching people at a train station, he sits there all day drawing the people and making them smile in his pictures. I imagine he picks a character and draws them as they are, usually blank faced and rushed and then thinks about what could make that person happy, then makes them happy by drawing the same character but with a smile.
I’m thinking a few of those surreal European arthouse style moments where a blank faced business man suddenly makes eye contact with the crazy old picture man, tips his hat, clicks his heels and grins like the Cheshire cat, the action purely a figment of the old man’s imagination. But more than often the smiles are real smiles that have nothing to do with the man but he feels like he created them.
The artist would be an older man, in his sixties, I would probably call him Felix, or Oscar, dressed in clean but ill fitting clothes and with a bit of a homeless look about him, a bit crazy eyed. Think scruffy Geoffrey rush in op shop clothes. He’s been sitting in this one spot for years drawing the faces of the commuters and trying to work out what would make them smile.
The shy young girl who keeps checking herself in the mirror and making sure she looks ok would smile when she realised the boy she is waiting for is just as nervous as she is. The businessman with his briefcase in one hand and newspaper under his arm just getting off the train would smile when the nine letter word he had spent trying to work out the whole train ride just pops into his head when he gets on the escalator. There would be all kinds of smiles, shy smiles, sheepish smiles, guilty grins, naughty smiles, contented eyes only smile, the man doesn’t care what kind of smile he gets from them he just needs to make them smile.
At first it all seems quite lovely, this crazy old man trying to make the world happy by imagining he is making them smile with his thoughts and his pencil. Then as we get into the character of the man more, realised exactly how obsessed with this he is, that he is there every day, that his little unit is covered with these pictures, that occasionally he can’t make someone smile and he gets obsessed with them, trying to work out what would make them happy, the inability to draw them smiling makes him depressed and delusional.
Perhaps at some point he meets a young art student or film student or journalist who wants to know more about his story, maybe have an exhibition of his pictures. Through this second character we learn the old man’s story, that he has been drawing smiles since he was in his twenties, when his life fell apart. Something horribly tragic happened and he believed it was his fault because he couldn’t make someone happy. Perhaps post natal depression causes his wife to lose the plot and drowns herself and their young baby, Felix (the old man) then becomes obsessed with working out what makes people happy and starts drawing them, feeling he must make a difference to make up for his perceived horrible failings in the past.
ps. The current background to my blog title is a glimpse of the roof of the Musee D'Orsay, my favourite experience of Paris. The building was once a train station and is absolutely beautiful, the full photo can be viewed here, from where I stole it.
So I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about a story. The story is about a man who spends his days watching people at a train station, he sits there all day drawing the people and making them smile in his pictures. I imagine he picks a character and draws them as they are, usually blank faced and rushed and then thinks about what could make that person happy, then makes them happy by drawing the same character but with a smile.
I’m thinking a few of those surreal European arthouse style moments where a blank faced business man suddenly makes eye contact with the crazy old picture man, tips his hat, clicks his heels and grins like the Cheshire cat, the action purely a figment of the old man’s imagination. But more than often the smiles are real smiles that have nothing to do with the man but he feels like he created them.
The artist would be an older man, in his sixties, I would probably call him Felix, or Oscar, dressed in clean but ill fitting clothes and with a bit of a homeless look about him, a bit crazy eyed. Think scruffy Geoffrey rush in op shop clothes. He’s been sitting in this one spot for years drawing the faces of the commuters and trying to work out what would make them smile.
The shy young girl who keeps checking herself in the mirror and making sure she looks ok would smile when she realised the boy she is waiting for is just as nervous as she is. The businessman with his briefcase in one hand and newspaper under his arm just getting off the train would smile when the nine letter word he had spent trying to work out the whole train ride just pops into his head when he gets on the escalator. There would be all kinds of smiles, shy smiles, sheepish smiles, guilty grins, naughty smiles, contented eyes only smile, the man doesn’t care what kind of smile he gets from them he just needs to make them smile.
At first it all seems quite lovely, this crazy old man trying to make the world happy by imagining he is making them smile with his thoughts and his pencil. Then as we get into the character of the man more, realised exactly how obsessed with this he is, that he is there every day, that his little unit is covered with these pictures, that occasionally he can’t make someone smile and he gets obsessed with them, trying to work out what would make them happy, the inability to draw them smiling makes him depressed and delusional.
Perhaps at some point he meets a young art student or film student or journalist who wants to know more about his story, maybe have an exhibition of his pictures. Through this second character we learn the old man’s story, that he has been drawing smiles since he was in his twenties, when his life fell apart. Something horribly tragic happened and he believed it was his fault because he couldn’t make someone happy. Perhaps post natal depression causes his wife to lose the plot and drowns herself and their young baby, Felix (the old man) then becomes obsessed with working out what makes people happy and starts drawing them, feeling he must make a difference to make up for his perceived horrible failings in the past.
ps. The current background to my blog title is a glimpse of the roof of the Musee D'Orsay, my favourite experience of Paris. The building was once a train station and is absolutely beautiful, the full photo can be viewed here, from where I stole it.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Dreams About Hair. She Does.
So I’ve had the strangest desire these past few days to want to wear my hair in two braids. Not plaits but tight severe braids, the kind that at first pull your face so tight there is a visible difference in your features, two braids with a middle part starting at the very top of my head and heading down to become neat little plaits hanging down my back. The kind of braids that you can sleep in for two nights in a row and on the third day they just look a little looser and give less of a facelift but definitely don’t look slept in.
Back in primary school, every time we did some sort of play or dance number we always had to braid our hair. My sister usually did mine because to this day I still can not braid. I was always so proud of the braid she did, she was brutal, pulled so tight I had to wince and try my hardest not to make a noise. I used to get to school on dress rehearsal and performance day and look around and see all those other girls, most with substandard braids and be so happy with my tight, fierce braid working it’s way perfectly from the top of my head and carrying on down my back. I always had a really good braid. Mum sometimes did it, her braid was never as tight, but it was ok, my sister’s braids were the best.
I’m not sure why I’ve been craving this dual braid business. One could probably analyse it and come to the conclusion that I’m trying my hardest to hold on to my youth and fight this adultness that seems to be inevitable. But one can also reasonably assume that sentences that begin with one as a pronoun are usually filled with utter wank.
I’ve also been having dreams lately about my hair. When I dream I either don’t remember any of it and just have a vague feeling that I dreamt something or I dream really vividly and remember every detail of the strange acid trip that was my night journeys. The ones I remember always jump quickly from realistic to completely surreal - that’s the nature of dreams I guess.
The thing that stands out about my dreams though, whether I remember the details or not is that they are always so emotionally charged, most of it seemingly unwarranted. I sometimes wake myself up hysterically crying over something that in normal life would evoke nothing more than a shrug or a passing thought. Or I’ll wake up in such a foul mood that it sticks with me the whole day, affecting not only myself but the people who have to interact with me.
One of the dreams I will never forget was when I was five, I had the shingles and according to the parentals was really quite sick. I remember this dream so clearly because it - strangely - is one of the scariest dreams I have ever had. The dream in it’s whole was quite surreal, I’m in a race against the road runner (yes that one ‘beep beep’) it’s not an organised race but some sort of race to get something, the terrain we are racing across is an orange circle, with the second half of the circle a darker orange. I’m going as fast as I can and I know I have to get to the other end of the circle before the road runner. As I cross the mid point and the colour changes to a darker orange I feel this intense sense of urgency, like if I don’t get there before the road runner something horrible will happen. It was as if the outcome of this race across the orange circle would affect the rest of my waking life, like if I didn’t beat that road runner I might even die. I didn’t beat the road runner. I was woken up before we got to the end, I wasn’t winning. This was definitely one of those waking up crying hysterically dreams
I do have happy dreams, dreams that result in absolute feelings of bliss, dreams where you wake up choking because you started giggling in your sleep and spend the next half an hour half choking half giggling at the hilarity of something I don’t remember. Other dreams too, you know the ones, the really good ones
Wow. Tangent.
So I dreamt about my hair. It’s not like my obsession with my hair is particularly shallow, it’s just always been a very quick way to suddenly tweak my identity slightly but significantly enough that those feelings of staleness and boredom can be quelled. Another way of avoiding the point I guess. I’m pretty sure I would have beaten that roadrunner.
Anyone know how to do a good, tight braid?
Back in primary school, every time we did some sort of play or dance number we always had to braid our hair. My sister usually did mine because to this day I still can not braid. I was always so proud of the braid she did, she was brutal, pulled so tight I had to wince and try my hardest not to make a noise. I used to get to school on dress rehearsal and performance day and look around and see all those other girls, most with substandard braids and be so happy with my tight, fierce braid working it’s way perfectly from the top of my head and carrying on down my back. I always had a really good braid. Mum sometimes did it, her braid was never as tight, but it was ok, my sister’s braids were the best.
I’m not sure why I’ve been craving this dual braid business. One could probably analyse it and come to the conclusion that I’m trying my hardest to hold on to my youth and fight this adultness that seems to be inevitable. But one can also reasonably assume that sentences that begin with one as a pronoun are usually filled with utter wank.
I’ve also been having dreams lately about my hair. When I dream I either don’t remember any of it and just have a vague feeling that I dreamt something or I dream really vividly and remember every detail of the strange acid trip that was my night journeys. The ones I remember always jump quickly from realistic to completely surreal - that’s the nature of dreams I guess.
The thing that stands out about my dreams though, whether I remember the details or not is that they are always so emotionally charged, most of it seemingly unwarranted. I sometimes wake myself up hysterically crying over something that in normal life would evoke nothing more than a shrug or a passing thought. Or I’ll wake up in such a foul mood that it sticks with me the whole day, affecting not only myself but the people who have to interact with me.
One of the dreams I will never forget was when I was five, I had the shingles and according to the parentals was really quite sick. I remember this dream so clearly because it - strangely - is one of the scariest dreams I have ever had. The dream in it’s whole was quite surreal, I’m in a race against the road runner (yes that one ‘beep beep’) it’s not an organised race but some sort of race to get something, the terrain we are racing across is an orange circle, with the second half of the circle a darker orange. I’m going as fast as I can and I know I have to get to the other end of the circle before the road runner. As I cross the mid point and the colour changes to a darker orange I feel this intense sense of urgency, like if I don’t get there before the road runner something horrible will happen. It was as if the outcome of this race across the orange circle would affect the rest of my waking life, like if I didn’t beat that road runner I might even die. I didn’t beat the road runner. I was woken up before we got to the end, I wasn’t winning. This was definitely one of those waking up crying hysterically dreams
I do have happy dreams, dreams that result in absolute feelings of bliss, dreams where you wake up choking because you started giggling in your sleep and spend the next half an hour half choking half giggling at the hilarity of something I don’t remember. Other dreams too, you know the ones, the really good ones
Wow. Tangent.
So I dreamt about my hair. It’s not like my obsession with my hair is particularly shallow, it’s just always been a very quick way to suddenly tweak my identity slightly but significantly enough that those feelings of staleness and boredom can be quelled. Another way of avoiding the point I guess. I’m pretty sure I would have beaten that roadrunner.
Anyone know how to do a good, tight braid?
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tramp Stamp
I should probably never get a tattoo. I'm just not one of those decisive, gutsy people who have convictions and are willing to wear them on their full sleeve. I'm fairly flakey actually, I like stuff, and then I don't like stuff and some stuff I don't even know what I think about. But I enjoy daydreaming and I enjoy stories. And if I were to write a story about the kind of me that would get a tattoo it would be a tattoo that represented something important to me, but not too cheesy or kitsch, something that would always remain relevant. At one stage when I was younger I wanted the 'ohm swastiastu' symbol, but I'm nowhere near that hippy anymore and I don't really believe that god is going to be with you - no matter what language we are saying it in, what god we are talking about or how pretty the symbol is.
Then I thought about getting a tattoo that represented Bali and all the great times and memories I associate with there, but frangipanis are so cliche. I briefly contemplated a gecko on my shoulder (I got a crap looking henna one when I was 18) but I really hate reptiles and would feel like a bit of a tool. "Nice tat! Are you into lizards or something?" and I would have to say "nah - hate them, just thought I would look cool"
So I have been thinking for a while that I would like something fairly patriotic, I love Australia, particularly Western Australia so have contemplated some kind of beach scene, perhaps the view of Leighton Beach from Stirling Highway? Somehow sneak in the dingo flour mill? The same view I drove past everyday on my way home to my parents place that means so much to be. But I realised as much as I still love that view - its something from the past, not something that is always going to be relevant.
So this week I have decided exactly what art I would get if I was ever going to get something, of course I reserve the right to change this final decision at any time in the future.
I want to get a panoramic image of Kings Park and the Perth City skyline on my lower back. There is a spot on the Kwinana Freeway - just after the South Perth exit - I think - where you can see Kings Park really clearly, the treetop walk, the war memorial - all the bits, then as you pan right it dips down to the freeway and the Perth City skyline is on the other side. So imagine this image stretched across my lower back, with the dip in the middle the centre of my back. I've tried to find a photo on the net of the exact view I'm talking about but can only find night images. Mine would be on a bright sunny day, perhaps with a fluffy cloud or two, the image soft, almost like a watercolour but still showing enough detail to be instantly recognisable.
I like this particular image for many reasons, I love my city, I think it's beautiful and spend quite a bit of time down on the south perth foreshore walking around the river and never get tired of how freaking beautiful it all is. I like it because I would be able to point things out - the 33rd floor of St Martins tower with the revelving restaurant I used to work in, the convention centre where I worked when it first opened, the belltower (hah!), the spot in kings park where Jacobs Ladder is, the many wonderful family picnics had in Kings Park and the many days wandering around the streets of the city after school or on my way to and from uni.
I also like the idea that the tattoo wouldnt necessarily have to stay the same, as the city develloped and grew, so could mine - I would look forward to going back one day and having the swan island added in or the cable car from Barrack street to Kings Park. I would enjoy the visual difference in the age of the ink and the age of parts of my city. My City.
That is all.
Then I thought about getting a tattoo that represented Bali and all the great times and memories I associate with there, but frangipanis are so cliche. I briefly contemplated a gecko on my shoulder (I got a crap looking henna one when I was 18) but I really hate reptiles and would feel like a bit of a tool. "Nice tat! Are you into lizards or something?" and I would have to say "nah - hate them, just thought I would look cool"
So I have been thinking for a while that I would like something fairly patriotic, I love Australia, particularly Western Australia so have contemplated some kind of beach scene, perhaps the view of Leighton Beach from Stirling Highway? Somehow sneak in the dingo flour mill? The same view I drove past everyday on my way home to my parents place that means so much to be. But I realised as much as I still love that view - its something from the past, not something that is always going to be relevant.
So this week I have decided exactly what art I would get if I was ever going to get something, of course I reserve the right to change this final decision at any time in the future.
I want to get a panoramic image of Kings Park and the Perth City skyline on my lower back. There is a spot on the Kwinana Freeway - just after the South Perth exit - I think - where you can see Kings Park really clearly, the treetop walk, the war memorial - all the bits, then as you pan right it dips down to the freeway and the Perth City skyline is on the other side. So imagine this image stretched across my lower back, with the dip in the middle the centre of my back. I've tried to find a photo on the net of the exact view I'm talking about but can only find night images. Mine would be on a bright sunny day, perhaps with a fluffy cloud or two, the image soft, almost like a watercolour but still showing enough detail to be instantly recognisable.
I like this particular image for many reasons, I love my city, I think it's beautiful and spend quite a bit of time down on the south perth foreshore walking around the river and never get tired of how freaking beautiful it all is. I like it because I would be able to point things out - the 33rd floor of St Martins tower with the revelving restaurant I used to work in, the convention centre where I worked when it first opened, the belltower (hah!), the spot in kings park where Jacobs Ladder is, the many wonderful family picnics had in Kings Park and the many days wandering around the streets of the city after school or on my way to and from uni.
I also like the idea that the tattoo wouldnt necessarily have to stay the same, as the city develloped and grew, so could mine - I would look forward to going back one day and having the swan island added in or the cable car from Barrack street to Kings Park. I would enjoy the visual difference in the age of the ink and the age of parts of my city. My City.
That is all.
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