Down to Sully’s we sauntered.
Frowns from uni easily flauntered.
The grass was greener, and the air tasted cleaner.
The day moved slow and the sky gleamed blue,
Clouds had forgotten to show and worries too.
Yes, we were uni students but to us it was more of a hobby,
Something we did in between getting drunk and grabbing coffee.
After skipping across stepping stones and feeling the grass beneath our feet
We too felt a warmth reaching our bones and gladly took our seat.
Every hour was goon o’clock,
The Flower of Youth was in this flock.
We got up to dance, to prance, to take a chance:
At love, at laughter, at the potential forever after.
We twirled our hair and shook our bodies
The clouds still weren’t there and neither were worries.
We chatted and laughed and by the end of the night
We were battered from having bathed in our company’s light.
But in the end it was the stars, the moon, the clear sky, the endless night,
That gave us the promise that, whilst we might one day have to say goodbye,everything would be alright.
It’s days like these that let you bask in life.
It’s days like these where you forget your struggles and strife.
At the end of the day we each return to our beds,
Either by ourselves or with another, many lone heads.
Hoping, that one day, we would each follow our paved out steads.
The following is an account concerning Comrade Cat and His Life. It was written after the only known photograph of him was recently shared on the internet. Circulation of this photograph has understandably led to a general preoccupation with questions which had long been dormant. Comrade Cat’s own diffidence and a paucity of reliable material concerning his life have so far forestalled nearly all discerning attempts which have approached these questions.
An absence of satisfying answers has in turn led to a multiplication of distortions. An account of Comrade Cat’s life that is anchored in known facts and confined to reasonable inference is now necessary if this humble protagonist is to claim his rightful place in the history of struggle. Below is such an initial attempt which describes Comrade Cat’s Early Years, The Events Of One Significant Night, A Resolve, and Subsequent Life Path.
To begin, it is certain that Comrade Cat did not mean to lead a wayward life; but, with the advent of adulthood he had become disoriented by a growing familiarity with the scale of oppressive forces. It was during this period when one misgiving seemed to lead rapidly to another and rest was no longer possible, that Comrade Cat was first driven into the night.
The rumours and conjectures which attend Comrade Cat’s life are unanimous that it must have been during one such restless night that Comrade Cat came upon a weathered chest. By all estimates it was a quiet night. The possums had stood still as Comrade Cat stopped opposite the chest. Comrade Cat had been disheartened that the possums should take precaution even after he had renounced strife. But the teachings of bitter experience are not suddenly unlearnt and he had wished the possums well in the most inoffensive way conceivable before turning to the chest again. The chest had withstood many years and it appeared now that it would soon come undone in the next gentle wind. Yet, as Comrade Cat approached closer, it was apparent that this chest was no forgotten ghost but the house of a battalion of books. Comrade Cat decided to investigate further to see perhaps if here, at last, could be found some literature that would relieve the isolation that had besieged him.
As Comrade Cat was perusing the volumes, he came upon Vladimir Lenin’s book Imperialism: the Highest Stage of Capitalism and Frantz Fanon’s book The Wretched of the Earth. Comrade Cat could not avoid emotion as he sat there with one paw over the bottom row of books. The discovery of Lenin’s book had reminded him of the twenty-six million souls who became martyrs of the promise that the Nazi war machine had sought to crush.
Comrade Cat had first heard the difficult story of Soviet defence against barbarism from Experienced Cat. Experienced Cat had said that it was an extension of the holocaust from which there has been no freedom in the last five centuries. Comrade Cat had wished to know more but Experienced Cat had grown silent and looked into the distance as if staring into another world. Being unwilling to disappoint with his own ignorance of world history, Comrade Cat had merely nodded.
Experienced Cat was once renowned for hardihood and acrobatic skills. But Comrade Cat and his companions would prevail upon him in the manner of children who can only be kept at bay from stories with the most complicated of manoeuvres. As night would begin to take hold Experienced Cat would speak without pause of struggles in Vietnam, Palestine or Haiti and Comrade Cat and his companions would listen as if bound by a profound spell.
Those years had slowly disappeared among the drifting monsoons. Experienced Cat became increasingly cryptic and began to devote the majority of his time to writing. These writings were later collected in a book after his passing and in such words Comrade Cat and his companions once again overheard the stories of their youth.
The discovery of Lenin’s book had renewed the emptiness that this time had left behind. As Comrade Cat sat against the chest, he was overcome by sadness for the world that had passed and for the world that had failed to arrive. And if Comrade Cat did not yet know Frantz Fanon, how could he not identify with the wretched since it was not only Experienced Cat but also his sister who had recounted with great earnestness the stories of unsparing toil and monumental struggle. These were the reasons which led Comrade Cat to resolve to study the books which chance had contrived to place in his paws that fateful night.
The earth kept turning and more than a few months passed before Comrade Cat completed a careful study of these books. He became attached to the books and held them close as he retraced his steps to restore them to the chest. Comrade Cat again noted the remarkably ramshackle condition of the chest and pondered the nature of improbable force which must have continued to keep it intact. But he could not have known, distanced as he had been then from affairs pertaining to life, that it was held together by the steadfastness of two friends who had known each other for a long time.
This period of study is widely considered decisive in Comrade Cat’s acquisition of the weapon of revolutionary theory. Since then Comrade Cat maintains a modicum of optimism and considers the sorrows and struggles of the oppressed to be the province of common concern. Admittedly, to this day Comrade Cat remains worryingly susceptible to undercurrents of alienation despite now knowing that this is the only world there ever will be.
Some days too, in the evening light when the time slows, and the past comes closer to the present, Comrade Cat is reminded of all the losses people have suffered and the regularity with which people’s modest hopes are confiscated. In such times it is the writings of Experienced Cat and the memory of emaciated faces which crowd the past that remind Comrade Cat of the losses that are yet to come, if visions for which people have held their ground are allowed to lose meaning.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
I want a boyfriend
Who lives in a big house
At the end of the street
On the harbour
With smooth stone steps
A stained-glass door
Where his mother is waiting
Arms outstretched
Asking about the traffic
And what wine I want to drink
His father loves me too
Privately
Behind the silk curtains and the marble walls
Cabinets full of liquor
Wondering if he could’ve had me
When he was young and beautiful like his boy
In his best dressed
Staring out at a world that belongs to him
My boyfriend has a room
On the second storey
Little palace tucked away
Facing that calm body of water
Kissed and fed by soft moonlight
Where we embrace quietly
In his king sized bed
And lie intertwined
When I leave in the morning
The teary farewell
I bow down to that big house
Filled with small people
Performing life with such clean precision
So far away from what I know is real
Too perfect I cannot stay
The place where I am praised
For killing the beating heart
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 3 ‘Consumed’
CW: Negative self talk
In my room, the mirror occupies around a fifth of the space. It does not domineer the space, but nor can you look at the room’s four corners without its reflective shine catching you. On some nights, I choose to sleep with its sliding doors pressed as far away from me as possible. Those nights, I barely sleep.
As I lay myself to slumber, the sheets a thin touch upon my skin, I hear the distant sound of dull knocks. A rapping, and a tapping, which only grows in its intensity.
It says: rap-tap. Listen to me.
It beseeches: rap-tap-tap. Hear me.
It pleads: rap-tap-tap-rap. Please, listen to what I have to say.
It growls: rap-rap. You have to listen to me.
It hisses: rap-rap-tap. You will listen to me.
It shouts: rap-rap-tap-tap. Listen now!
It shrieks: Rap-rap-rap. Listen to me, mongrel!
It roars so angrily: Rap-Rap-Rap. I will make you listen, putrid worm!
On and on it goes. Obscene and brutal in its description. A love turned abusive. But today, I’ve had enough. When the morning slides past the crack in my blinds, to cut across my eyelids, and sear me awake, I don’t walk past the mirror.
I stand in front of it. In front of him. He has all the same things as me. The features which make me wince. His waistline extends, not by much, but enough that I try to hide its curve. His arms are thin, not too thin, but enough that I cross them close. His jaw is lost in a bowl of loose skin. I cannot change that one.
His smile is sincere, and wild. The edges of his mouth twitch, and his teeth appear in little sparks of white. His eyes are too wide, pools of mud which try to swallow me. His hand reaches up, and his knuckles rap the glass which separates us.
He says: rap-tap-tap. So, you going to hear what I have to say?
I tell him: maybe.
He says: rap-tap. There’s no maybe, you need to hear me.
I say: fine. what is it?
He smiles, impishly, then says: tap. She did you dirty.
what.
tap-rap-rap. Yeah. You heard me. She fucked you.
I-
Rap-rap-tap. Let it happen.
things didn’t work out. It happens, we have differences.
Tap-rap-tap. That’s true, and funny. Only one issue.
what?
Rap-rap-rap. You let it happen! You wanted it!
I did not want to be hurt!
Rap-Rap-rap. No, you wanted her to be happy!
is that so bad?
Rap-tap-tap. At the cost of my happiness?
I wanted-
Rap-Rap-Rap. You didn’t want anything! You didn’t want anything. You have no wants, no desires that aren’t about others! You sit there, and you grovel, waiting for a kiss to slip free from heaven but it won’t. It hasn’t, and it never will!
I look at him. His fist is pressed against the glass. Oh, how thin it is. His mouth is a sneer, all fangs without fangs. His eyes. Oh, how lonely they are. The muddy pools draining away down his cheeks. He is angry, furious, wrathful. He is hurt.
I say to him: what did you want?
He laughs, and says: thud. What you want; to be loved.
I beseech him: but by who?
He does not answer.
I plead with him: by who?
He growls: Rap. By you. By me.
I am surprised, and it hisses from me: what?
He shouts at me: Tap-Tap. Are you so surprised? That all I desire is your acceptance?
I whisper to him: yes.
He shouts, so sadly: I only want to be satisfied with who I am. With what I am. Why can’t that be enough for you?
How alike sadness and anger are, for, with tears in his eyes he strikes me. His fist rebounding off the glass, his howls so loud, and his eyes so wet. I can only lean forward, and kiss his fist.
I wake up. The morning has slid past the crack in my blinds, and traced itself across my eyelids, searing them. I do not know who I am. I do know who I am.
I walk to the mirror, and I do not recognize the man in it. He is me.
I look at him for a long time. I see two sets of eyes which watch me. One is wide, trying to eat the world in front of it in search of vindication, no matter the cost. The other is downset, hollow, and has given its sight away too many times. I do not recognize them, nor do they recognize me. This is good.
A light knock can be heard. No longer angry, polite and inquiring.
It asks: tap. Are you angry?
I tell it the truth. I am.
A small sigh slips past the underside of the mirror. The cool breath tickles my skin. It asks: but don’t you care?
I tell it the truth. I do.
I can see them, those two pairs of eyes, asking questions.
So I say, “It is so hard, isn’t it? To stand tall, and proud. To care for you. To speak when it matters. To let go, and live.”
The first words shared aloud.
I leave, and wonder if, when I fall asleep, I will wake up again. Whether the next one to open their eyes will be the one with the downcast heart, or the hungry mouth. Maybe I will not recognize the next set of eyes. Perhaps they will have no reflection. It does not matter much. There is always a time, and a place, to change, shift, regress, even…
Hah, yes.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 1 ‘Evolution’
As I sit down on this disproportionately large, quite regal armchair, I gaze around to see much of the same. Much of the same it’s been for my entire life really. Ah, the bliss of being back in my childhood bedroom. Time stands still. Except for this new humongous beige chair of course. Now that I sit on it, this being the first time as it usually poses as a dirty laundry pile, I realise I like this chair. It has a good vantage point of these four white walls, and who doesn’t like beige?
From here I can stare directly at my shelf. Sitting on top is that ugly bright purple UE boom that broke seven or eight years ago. I was so excited when I got that for my birthday, or maybe it was Christmas? Didn’t last too long.
This shelf still fills me with unease. You see, half the thing is disconnected from the wall. Growing up I spent countless nights peering up at this long, pearly-white block of wood, half hanging directly above my head, knowing that if it broke off just that little bit more it would be a fatal blow. Probably. Definitely would cause a late-night trip to the ER.
My gaze drifts over to my wardrobe, to no doubt sneer at the two floor to ceiling mirrors plastered on the doors. Who needs mirrors that big? No one wants to see that much of themselves in their own room, I can tell you that much.
The reflection reveals a little girl lounging on a ginormous armchair. She’s pouting straight back at me. But it’s not me.
Well, it is me, of course, it’s my reflection. Obviously. But it’s not really me. I look younger here, my hair looks longer tied back in its ponytail, my face more slender, eyebrows thinner, eyes maybe a little bit sadder.
This girl looks so young.
I start to pull faces at her… at me – pull faces at me.
Still, all I see is the sad little girl in the mirror staring back at me.
It’s not her fault she’s so damn sad. She’s stuck in this bloody room with the stupid purple UE boom and the shelf that will probably enact her death. Quickly, the flicker of sadness in the little girl’s eye turns into a wired mania,
GET ME OUT
Her eyes scream as the little girl leaps to the mirror, clawing the glass doors with her every last mite,
GET ME OUT OF THIS ROOM!
My vision becomes blurry, and the wardrobe begins to softly bang. See that’s just the thing about coming home, I can never see clearly. Time warps and I am suddenly that little girl again.
Did I ever leave this place? Grow up? Move on?
Perhaps not.
Maybe I should be more grateful for this monstrosity of a chair, as it is the singular thing ajar within these four white walls. Without it, there would be no way to differentiate the time that has passed.
Maybe next time I come back I should chuck up a poster or put in a new rug to accompany the chair.
Or maybe next time I’ll just stay in my sister’s room…
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 1 ‘Evolution’
When I was 2, I could barely fathom that I had a body. I could climb and run and eat and be loved fully and easily, without pretence. I could be nestled within loving arms and put to sleep with a kiss.
When I was 4, my grandmother told me, “Be careful when you play, people can see up your skirt.” I didn’t understand why it mattered, but I could hear it in the tone of her voice that she was angry. The next time I climbed up to the monkey bars, I went a bit slower and kept my legs closed.
When I was 8, I loved to dance. I loved the way music moved through me. I felt like a conduit of something magical. I felt alive with it. I could feel it rush up through my feet and out the top of my head, and however I moved in response just made sense.
When I was 11, red marks started appearing on my hips, my clothes were too tight, and I thought they were marking me permanently. I was horrified that I was gaining weight. My friends talked about how much they weighed, they were all lighter than me, I never said anything about my own. When I finally got my period, I tried to hide it from my mother.
When I was 14, I kissed a boy for the first time. I discovered that it was easy to be loved if I looked the right way. If I walked with the right swing of my hips, if I arched my back properly. If I laughed at all the right times and blushed when I was complimented. If I let it happen, I would experience love again.
When I was 17, a man catcalled me while I was walking my dog. I ran home, and as I did, I smiled. It was a terrifying compliment to me. I felt like something dirty had happened. I felt shame. Shame that I had taken it so lightly, and shame that it had to happen for me to think I was beautiful.
When I was 19, I grew tired, sick, and bone-weary. My muscles wilted inside me. I could barely stand up in the shower. Barely walk more than 100 metres. I felt myself fall apart from the inside and out and I didn’t think I would ever recover, I felt warped beyond perception.
Now I am 21, my bones ache where they never did before. I am out of breath when I climb a set of stairs. I hate catching a glimpse of myself in a reflection or mirror. But some days I am glad that I can hug my friends, glad that I can walk the long way home. Glad that my body is now my own.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 1 ‘Evolution’
Stems and petals from yesterday
Woven together with rose-tinted fingers
Where history is clarity
And recognition is warmth
Not for good or bad
But for you to keep
Leave the skeleton
That brought you here
From the womb and up the mountain
To the golden valley where I see you now
As strong as they were
Those bones are too old to hold you
Step out of that tiny fortress
Into the dazzling tease of tomorrow
Thick with elation and desperate unease
And open yourself
With a love so deep and true
To the force you will become
Originally published in Woroni Vol.72 Issue 1 ‘Evolution’
A girl imagines she could jump.
Despite a window in place,
and four metres of space.
Still, she imagines.
Above her,
the noise is –
Leaking.
Through his head
phones he can hear –
it.
It’s not quite a buzz –
he can hear it even though
it’s not quite a buzz and
He’s wearing his headphones and
it’s leaking.
The girl adjacent wants you to
Please excuse the pun.
As she speaks, the room
cannot find the pun.
Yet,
The room does not exist
but for his eyes,
Thinks a boy as he
lets his hand fall,
between their two chairs.
The man in the corner pulls at his hair
because he is looking at the girl looking
at the window
imagining she could jump.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Swaying gently,
Solidly moored by a vast civilisation of roots below.
Generations of growth and decay,
Growth and decay.
Life goes on for the Eucalypts.
Slivers of bark
Suspended by svelte branches.
Slender limbs macabrely examine their former skin.
An ashen pallor to the trunk,
Smudged shades of grey and green and blue and white
By the brush of Albert Namatjira.
The ghost gum stands tall and straight on this plane and in the next.
For want of water, nurture and relief,
Pines and Firs and Oaks will wither and crumble
Under the golden sun in the red dirt of the Lucky Country.
Far from home.
Something so pale and so spindly
Should succumb to the will of the colonisers.
Nature should bend to man’s will.
And yet in my lifetime and the next, the Eucalypt is well rooted.