An Ordinary Life

Fade to Black....

2009-06-04T04:05:00.000-07:00

and he did.

Trials

2009-05-14T19:36:00.000-07:00

The boy won another eisteddfod, and being sick and tired of the medals and cups, asked his mother if he could buy a motorbike with the winnings. She agreed providing that he would do his best, concentrate and try to place for a final time. It was difficult to sit still for him. restless, aways moving, kicking the chair in front or tapping his foot. It seemed that wherever he was, he was always thinking about the next place, the next destination.

Movement was just so important. He loved the movement of dance, the movement of running, the movement of a car, or his push bike. It was this that made him less stressed, fresh air, the lack of confinement of a room , building or authority.
He pestered his mother for the mini bike he saw, but she did not budge, she said she would investigate other bikes before making a purchase. She was good at this- finding the right thing at a shop. It did not matter if it was clothes, antiques, cars or even motorbikes.

A week later, as the boy disembarked from the 4.27pm train at Ingleburn Station- there it was! Yamaha trials bike. It was nothing like he imagined, in fact he had never heard of "Trials". His mother explained " the man at the bike shop said this would suit someone who likes to compete with himself, someone who is not interested in racing, but doing better on his own." "Its quiet too, so you will not disturb the neighbours".. The boy could scarcely contain himself. Begged his mother to allow him to wheel it into his bedroom. He could not take his eyes off it. The narrow lines, small petrol tank. She was slim, petite but purposeful.

That next morning he took the Yamaha out into the back yard and as with most things began to teach himself how to ride. He followed the instructions- checking the oil reservoir under the seat to be sure it was full, fill the tank with fuel, turned the fuel cock to "on". Flicked the starter switch to on, pulled in the clutch lever, swung the kick starter out, and gave the bike three generous kicks. On the third it fired up and settled into a steady 2 stroke idle. The smell of the fumes was intoxicating as he clicked the gearbox down into first. It clunked with a reassuring thud. He slowly released the clutch. Stalled.
Again he repeated the process until he was away, unsteady with every bump further opening the throttle. He then realised he had no idea how to stop- there was just too many things to consider, so the boy just let go and the bike fell over. Again he tried and again he dropped it.
It was a wonderful feeling- totally absorbed in the moment, unaware of anything else.

That afternoon the boy was riding, unsteady but riding. It was a feeling of freedom that would never leave him.

The Ghost of years ago.

2009-03-15T03:54:00.000-07:00

A mystery never fully explained.... Perhaps we can frighten the ghost of many years ago.... I'll never be good enough.., never strong enough..

Ken

2009-03-06T19:18:00.000-08:00

The lightening cracked across the night sky, ink black, fractured. The boy sat at the kitchen table, familiar, with its leathery smell of decades. His uncle walked silently passed, dressed in familiar clothes. Green King Gee work pants, Dunlop Volleys with a hole in the toe and an old business shirt.

As the thunder rumbled the boy thought he caught his uncle muttering as if he was talking himself through a situation. His uncle went and lay on the bed, arm over his forehead and shut his eyes.

He was a surveyor for the artillery in the war, nearly six years. Everytime the thunder rolled, the boy thought he saw is uncle flinch. He would never talk about the war, (so the family would say), only a subtle shift in behaviour, as the rain fell on the hot tin roof, bringing relief for some.

Later that night, the boy plucked up the courage and asked his uncle what it was like- the war. There was very little in the way of response. "The Japanese were tough" His uncle would say. " They could survive for weeks in fox holes, and only eat what the jungle would supply." Kens role as surveyor was to make the measurements for the guns to fire on the Japanese positions, requiring him to walk past snipers. They did not shoot each other, for to do so would give both positions away.

The boy went back to reading his comic, the sound of rain on the tin roof welcoming.

Later that evening as the storm relaxed its grip on the night sky Ken came out of his room and presented the boy with his army uniform, slouch hat and gaiters. It was a real soldiers kit, and the boy was more than pleased. It was a gift that he would never forget.

Better Days

2009-01-24T01:56:00.000-08:00

Respect.

People are telling me to stay away from you.

But I cannot help myself, just don't know what to do.

Even our kids say "He wont change", anyway.

I cant help myself, I just can't help myself.

People are telling me to keep away from you,

But they will never understand how much I care for you.

Even our kids they say "He wont change"

I cant help myself- still believin'.

Better days. Ayo.

That night, she washed the dishes, as he, precisely at 7pm. sat and ate his dinner.....better days

Accepted!

2009-01-13T21:59:00.000-08:00

The door of his bedroom opened and a floor board squeaked. His father whispered- “You have 10 minutes to thaw out”. The boy stirred and rolled over, he hated that moment- of waking. It was to become the routine of every school day. At precisely 6.20am his father would open that door, walk on that floor board. Not at 6.19am, not at 6.21am, or any other time but precisely at 6.20am.

Then, at exactly 6.30am the boy would rise, tip toe down the hall, and there in a bowl were two wheat bix with hot water and milk, and glass of orange juice. Not 3 wheat bix, not a glass of pineapple juice but two wheat bix and a glass of orange juice, watered down of course to save money.

The new school uniform felt starchy and hot, out of touch with the reality of a Sydney summer. The uniform was grey, with blue shirt, school tie and a boater. The policy was, if caught without the boater or tie- reported and a detention. At fouty degrees celsius you may loosen the top button of your shirt. It was policy regardless of the weather conditions. On sports days a blue blazer made of even heavier material was to be worn.

His new school shoes felt stiff as he packed his new globate school case. It was heavy- it contained every hardcover school text book for the year, pens, pencils, rulers- exercise books covered in brown paper, and a new calculator. He felt his arm stretch as he lumbered down the hall.

At precisely 7.00 am, not 6.59 and certainly not 7.01, his father left the house and walked at a brisk pace to the station. “ You see son, its exactly 7minutes to the station at this pace” his father never looked at him once, The boy struggled, globate back banging into his leg, stretching his arm and causing the skin on his fingers to become hot. Half way to the station he stopped and changed hands. “ Bloody hell, come on!” Said his father “ We have not got time to dawdle, we will miss the bloody train!” The boy gathered himself and picked up pace. Within the time frame set they arrived at the station.

The boy noticed the people on the station, some familiar, some not. Ferrets father walked slowly up and down muttering to himself, unaware that he was. Others looked half asleep. Some school girls waited for the red rattler.

"Now, the best carriage to get in is the second last from the back." "It’s the safest if the train crashes, and its not too far from the exit at Town Hall station". It ws always like that- Not the third carriage and certainly not the last and never at the front. At 7.17am the train arrived. “Always sit here, that way you cannot get attacked from behind- especially if you are travelling late at night.” His father said, and proceeded to pull the newspaper from his bag. Sometimes the train was late and, over time, the boy would grin to himself when he saw his father getting agitated. It was the same everyday, the second carriage , sitting in exactly the same spot, his father with the same newspaper, and he with disinterested eyes, day dreaming.

The train soon filled and, as expected, the boy had to vacate his seat for an adult. The trip to the city was long and the walk to school even longer. The boy felt out of place in the city and even more out of place when he met the other students. His acceptance to the new school and day one had begun at the ring of a bell.

Hemochromatosis

2008-11-09T02:29:00.000-08:00

I hurt myself today. To see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain. The only thing thats real.
The needle tears a hole. The old familiar stain.
Try to kill it all the way, but i remember everything.
What have I become? My sweetest friend.
Everyone I know, goes away in the end.

And you could have it all- my empire of dirt.

I will let you down. I will make you hurt.
I wear this crown of thorns,
Upon my liars chair.
Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair.
Beneath the stains of time, the feeling disappear.

You are someone else, I am still right here.

What have I become? My sweetest friend.
Everyone I know goes away in the end.

And you can have it all- My empire of dirt.

I will let you down. I will make you hurt.
If I could start again- A million miles away,

I would keep myself. I would find away.

These Days

2008-09-30T00:02:00.000-07:00

I know I should be more grateful,
Grateful for everytihng I have.
And I know I should be less doubtful,
But unfortunately I am just human.
I'm in a big hole surrounded by fear.
I'm in a deep dark hole,
Deep enough for me to disapear.
But where should I go if earths the only place I know?
All I know is I don't want this anymore.
Livin' out life without knowing what a distant is searching for....

There are days where I would love to be somebody else.
Days where I am fighting myself.(fuck this blood)
There are days where I wish I would be a child again,
And sometimes days where I wish they wouldn't last.
Days where I wish I would be dead

Step back, stay away from me,
Can't you respect that I only need my peace.
These days I'm too weak to see,
These days I'm all about me.
I don't want to talk this out,
Cause there are certain things we don't need to talk about.
The silence in between will let you know what I mean.
And each time I try to escape,
I pray to god not to let me faint.
And to take my all doubts away.
Hum hum....

There are days where I would love to be somebody else,
Days where I am fighting myself.
There are days where I wish I could be a child again,
And sometimes days where I wish they wouldn't last,
Days where I wish I would be dead....

New School

2008-08-17T22:32:00.000-07:00

The old green and yellow government bus chugged wearily up Bathurst Street. Black fumes belching over the boys legs as he waited for the "Walk" signal. the fumes felt strangely hot, and choked the city. He held his breath and looked at the tall buildings, trying to catch a glimpse of sky. The "Don't Walk" soon changed to "Walk" and his mother took him across the street, into a dark building. People in Sydney confused him, always in a hurry, always frowning, their lives meaningful yet meaningless. Some seemed to deliberately walk slowly, lost in conversations. There mission was to walk side by side and block the entire path, frustrating those who got stuck behind.

Men in suits and women in stilettos risked life and limb by leaping into the oncoming traffic, just to save a few seconds, Rushing. Those that were passed did not even notice, simply continued on, utterly meaningless.
The entrance to the building seemed strangely cool and quiet. To the right a sign saying "Camp Howard". A store full of camping equipment and supplies, sleeping bags, tents and fuel stoves. It looked good. To the left, an old lift, which sat wearily with its jail like door half ajar. As if its mouth was open, trying to speak. They walked down a few stairs A few stairs into a studio.

Centre was a grand piano, to the left and right, choir stalls. A middle aged man who sat in a crumpled suit, whose hair constantly needed pushing back into place, welcomed them both. He seemed always in a hurry, like those outside, thinking he should be somewhere else, if only he could overtake this task at hand. He slurped on what looked like a milkshake. " My Lunch" he said, embarrassed, pushing his hair back into place

"Right, you want to join the choir." More a statement than a question, "Yes" said his mother. The choirmaster sat at the piano and asked to boy to sing some notes, then harmonise. The boy did so. He asked him to sing a song. The boy did so. He asked him to sight read some music, the boy did so. Within a few minutes he was finished. "He certainly can sing", Said the choirmaster. "Yes." Agreed his mother. The boy felt strangely shy and out of place. This man was a kind person the boy thought to himself and liked him immediately. " We will let you know in due course" Said the Choirmaster, calling in the next boy. They both left as the next boy tried his best but sang out of tune.

They took the train, fondly called red rattlers, back to Ingleburn. "This school looks like it is the one" His mother said. "You did well, but...." The boys mind began to drift, as the inner city rail yards and slums raced past the window. She was always like that, always striving to achieve more. He drifted back into his imagination.

That evening he lay on his bed, the smell of the bus fumes still lingering on his clothes, he thought of the crowds, the buses the business of the city. Soon he was to be a part of it.

six feet

2008-06-16T06:53:00.000-07:00