Monday, January 31, 2011

The Actor

The actor lives at 33 rue des Annelets, 75019, Paris.  There is no lift.  He is currently performing in a play, thus he is his profession - it always makes him feel a frightful impostor when asked what he 'does' when he's not rehearsing or performing in anything at that particular moment.  Because after all, what is he then, if not Sganarelle, or Prospero or Oedipe?  He doesn't exist.  He was never there.  An actor can't just act without a play.  An actor without a play is an actless.  And now the play will run four more months.  So he won't have to feel the nothingness until at least then.  Except sometimes in the small of night. 

The feeling of currently being what he is brings a great deal of satisfaction.  Particularly as he is well respected throughout the community.  In fact, after a brief television appearance in an awful show that made him shudder as he read his daily scripts, he has rather become a household name.  Admired.  Which is a curious feeling, especially after decades in the theatre and all that training.  Admired.  For being what? 

For he is nothing.  And everything.  All at once.  It's exhilarating.  He knows nothing else.  And he enjoys the approval.  It feels nice.  He signs photos of himself now.  He wears a robe and a look in his eye.  People 'double-take' him in the street.  Young girls go red.  That's hardly a bad sensation, now, is it?

Still, despite the attention, he is alone.  Not lonely.  He likes himself.  He likes to be inside himself.  Hence the string of unsuccessful relationships, the daughter in Rouen, the apartment, the toys, the routines.  The dreams.  The waiting.  He likes the peace of the small of night.  He dreams he is a puppeteer.

He is an actor.  A puppet.  A born marionette, hand shoved firmly up him from behind.  Directors, producers, set designers, costume designers, everyone else, and then him.  He likes the hands on him, moving him, the best ones making him feel like he's moving himself.  He is.  They can't find a vessel like him to fill up - he's got the gift.  He knows how to disappear.  To become the thing, and to let it become him at the same time.  To release.  To play.  He knows it all.  People watch him, they see him transform.  He can only do that because he's got the gift.  And he knows every sense of his body intimately, knows every part of himself like clockwork and how to make it rise and dance.  So he likes the hand up his skirt.  He knows how to be manipulated and to manipulate the hand back.  It's good when it hurts.  Pain is good.  It makes him feel real. 

Then, when the lights are on, he's free of the hand, free of everything.  He flies out over the audience.  They soak in him.

And then, in the small of night, back in the Rue des Annelets, he takes his make-up off. 

Bombazine Black

Artwork du Jour 102

Rue des Annelets

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Breaking up with Marky Mark

Something was up with Marky Mark.  I didn’t know what.  We were in Bondi, at his family’s holiday house.  His mother and all the wild sisters from The Fighter were there.  The house was ramshackle.  We went into the bedroom and got nude and I tried to forget about the weirdness I was feeling from him, but he started picking at me.  We argued.  It got nasty.  I said ‘What’s wrong?  Why are you doing this?’  But he turned his back on me.  I lay there, feeling that familiar fury rise.  Then I got up and stormed out.
Now things would never be the same.  I would always be waiting for the bad thing to happen again.  That awful mood, the impenetrable one.  The aggression.  The brick wall.  
That was it.  It was over.
I got my swimming costume out.  There were awful photos of me on the walls with Marky Mark, all dressed up, but looking haggard and old.  In one photo I had white Harlequin make-up on with the painted-on tear and the white circle only covered a portion of my actual face, the rest was fleshy, old-person jowls.  Mutton dressed up as Harlequin.  I walked out into the sunlight.
None of my friends in Bondi were home.  It wasn't Bondi.  I went to the beach.  I didn’t want to swim, it was a wild ocean beach that would swallow you whole.  So I sat there.  And I thought ‘It’s over between Marky Mark and I.’  And I felt better for a moment.  But then I looked down. 
I was eight months pregnant.
FUCK I thought, and started to cry.  What would I do?  It was over, but now we were tied together forever.  How could I have been so stupid?
Everyone on the beach was so normal.  They were smiling, happy.  And I could never go back to normal with Marky.  Not since the Fight.
A little fat boy came and grabbed my hand and took me to a park where the autumn leaves had all fallen from the trees.  The smell of the fallen yellow leaves, which formed a thick blanket on the ground was exquisite.  I said to the boy, ‘Smell the leaves!’  But he didn’t care about the smell.  It drove me wild that he didn't care.  The boy started talking to an elderly man on a bench.  And the elderly man snarled and said something horrible to him.  I grabbed the fat kid’s hand and we walked away.  When I looked down at him, the kid was crying.
‘Don’t worry about the mean man,’ I said to him.  ‘Not all old people are nice.’  The kid didn’t say anything, but kept licking his ice-cream.
I took him back to the holiday shack with all of Marky Mark’s family in it, drinking mixed spirits.  I was happy because I’d lasted all day and hoped they’d been worried about me, missed me.  But nobody had noticed.  Not even Marky Mark who sat outside by the pool, looking into it, thinking, scowling.  He didn’t look up as I walked out there with the fat kid.  The fat kid wanted to swim in the pool.  It was an above-ground one thick with leaves and dead animals and scum.  I said no.  The kid was gone.
And I was left there with Marky Mark.  He looked up at me.  He was smoking a cigarette.  His face was hard.  I wanted to die.
Did we have to stay together even though we loathed each other?
The feeling was so awfully sad.  The Blue Valentine ache.  That knowledge that it was dead, there was nothing either of us could do to get it back.  I wanted so badly to reach him.  But there was a big, murky pool of toxic water between us that would skin us if we tried.
It was one of those great dreams, because then I got to wake up and realise it wasn’t true.  I lay there in the dark, feeling the sweetness of reality.  I wasn’t pregnant to an ice-cold Marky Mark, nor lost in fake Bondi with a fat kid.  I was here, the bed was warm with a gentle, sleeping non-fighter and perhaps I’d just watched a few too many new releases.

Artwork du Jour 101


Friday, January 28, 2011


This awful thing happened to the word Gay.  Somehow, in the playground, it became a substitute word for ‘naf’ or ‘dumb’ or ‘crap’, crushing in one foul kiddy swoop the beauty and joy of the adjective.  I don’t know if that’s just an Australian thing – possibly.  It’s shameful.
In the old days, to say something was gay was to say it was lovely, joyful, fun.  ‘How was your outing Susan?’  ‘Indeed, it was gay!’  ‘What a gay time we’re having at this wonderful party!’  ‘Where have you been John?’  ‘Out having a gay old walk with Ralph.’
Of course, gay also refers to homosexuals.  And I realised with horror when I worked in a shop with a lovely big gay man called Neil that the silly schoolyard version of gay had nestled deep inside my grown-up vernacular.
“What did you think of this picture with this frame?’ he asked one day.
“Ew,” I said.  “Gay.”
And I wasn’t saying it was homosexual, I was saying it was naf, thus involuntarily criticising the sexuality of poor old Neil.  He winced slightly but said he didn’t mind, he knew the expression all too well.  But I remember thinking – god – what happened to Gay?  How did such a wonderful word been so negatively aligned?  It seemed, like the prune, to have been the victim of a vicious smear campaign.
The Love and I were talking about language last night over dinner, and the thwarting of Gay came up.
“Gay got robbed,” said The Love.  “Gay is lovely.” 
“So true!” I said. 
“Let’s bring Gay back,” he said, with determination.  I heartily agreed. 
“This is a deeply gay meal,” I declared, and we both giggled ashamedly, looking down at our plates.
“That’s wrong,” he said.  “I think it only refers to time.  Occasion.  Spirit.”
“Right,” I said.  “What a gay time I’ve had enjoying this lovely meal.”
“Precisely!” he said.  “It’s indeed been gay to spend time with you conversing, supping.”
“What a gay apartment this is, in this gay, gay town.”
“What gay hours can be spent finding new ways to say gay.”
We clinked glasses.
And we actually found that when you start to use the word Gay in its proper context you had the added bonus of suddenly becoming more eloquent and refined with your speech, returning to an olden time where words like Indeed got thrown in a lot.  It’s great.  It’s Gatsby.  
It does take practise, and I’m hardly fluent in it yet, but leading a more Gay-filled life is a positively delightful pursuit in itself, I must say old chap, in-deed.  Now, what say you to a jolly old stroll? 

Artwork du Jour 99

This is a Door

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Little Faraway Books

A special friend once gave me a beautiful little book of Lewis Carroll photographs.
I love that little book.
I wanted so badly to look at it this morning.
But then I remembered that to get to the little book I'd have to tunnel all the way through the earth to the other side and find a key that opened a big big door and find my way through a big dark room to a little box and inside that box the book might be, but that's not for sure.   
So I looked at some of his photos on the internet.  It was nice.  But it wasn't quite the same.

Artwork du Jour 98

Puppy Trapped Unsettlingly inside a Collage

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

I Less than Three You Too

It all began with this
Who discovered that?
It took me a while to turn my head on the side, but once I figured it out, those dots and dashes would make me wild.  Why the smile?  Why the little coda at the end of a perfectly fine sentence?  No offense, I know they have become an intrinsic part of modern communication and are intended to give a happy little burst at the end of sentences, but they give me a wiggly feeling inside.  In fact, they drive me positively mental.  It’s true that’s probably because my first contact with the Emoticon was when the Frenchman got passive aggressive with me in emails and texts, signing off with those infuriating dots and dashes: 
That's ok, I'm used to you being late :)
Or this one
That's ok, I'll see you next year ;)
Argh!  That winky one is the WORST.
I just could never understand them.  I think the way I read them is wrong.  They make me feel creepy.  I’m sure they’re not intended to be. 
I suppose people find them cute.  They can be.  When I get woken up in the morning by a little face on skype that’s blowing kisses beside a message that reads
‘Awake yet sleepyhead?’
It’s cute.  Because it’s Dad.  And even the fact that he has discovered how to use something as modern as those little yellow pre-designed emoticons is heartbreakingly sweet.
I guess it’s mainly the analog ones that freak me out.  Probably because it takes me ages to figure out what they mean.  At first I couldn’t figure out why everyone was putting a colon and a bracket at the end of all their messages.  And why one would come up automatically when I tried to put in a full-stop and a quotation mark or something.  It was terribly confusing.  Like modern language had taken a turn I just wasn’t prepared for.
Recently there has been this one a lot:
I had no clue what it was.  I stared at it for hours.  An ice-cream?  A mathematical equation?  A bird?  People kept sending emails with it at the end, or even as a subject heading.  Some people even put the little collection of symbols as a comment on the blog.
“What does ‘greater than three’ mean?” I called out to The Love.
“What?” he replied from the kitchen.
“What’s a ‘greater than three’ at the end of an email?  Or on my blog?  Are they rating me?”
He came and looked.
“That’s ‘less than three', my genius,” he said, stroking his beard.  “I’ve seen it before.”
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Well at first I thought it was a pair of balls,” he said.  “Or a bum.  But I think it’s actually a love heart.”
I reread the messages with the less than three at the end of them.  Indeed, the messages seemed to imply ‘love heart’ more than ‘balls’ or ‘bum’ or ‘less than three’.  So that was nice.  At least they weren’t giving me the thumbs down. 
The less-than-three seems to live on its own, rather than being thrown on to the end of sentences for effect – correct me if I’m wrong.  I rather like it.  It’s creative.  Maybe I should make up some emoticons of my own. 
<)  sailboat
**  clown’s eyes
(+)  hot cross bun
?|  i’m blind and now I must wear a patch
5318008  boobies
Anyway, if you sent me a less-than-three love heart, sorry to sound unappreciative, I am happier now that I know what it means and I thank you very much.  I less-than-three you too.  Semi-colon bracket.  Semi-colon bracket.

Artwork du Jour 97

Getting to the Point

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Thanks for the Clutter

God bless Paris for Clutter.  Thank you man in the wine shop containing nothing but piled up white boxes with wine inside the boxes and the boxes on top of other boxes and a tiny gap in between for us to walk down, not to peruse the bottles, but to try to get out of your way, only to realise that your only chance of making it around to the register is if I follow you all the way back out the door into the freezing cold street and then back in again.  A queue was gathering outside in the cold.  They knew the rules.  Bless you for your lack of concern over whether customers can find stuff or not – who cares – you know your clientele and what they want and you know your products and exactly where to reach for the bottle you’re looking for.
And your wine is wonderful.
Thanks depot-vente lady behind your pile of scarves and hats and piles of shoes and coats and slacks and old umbrellas and dusty fur stoles and stacks of brooch boxes and old mannequin heads.  Thanks for the hidden chest of drawers with a hundred cashmere scarves inside from Hermes and Dior and Cacharel in all different awful colours and prints and thank you for not having the right thing for us but not minding, as though we had come to your house and it was all yours anyway and you didn’t really mind if you got to hold on to it a bit longer.
Thanks lady.  Thanks for directing us to the shop a few doors down with the uptight cigarette-drenched lady with her miniature, silky black rat-dog curled up in its regal bed.  Thanks madame behind your counter peeking your pin-nose out from your mountains of disorganised piles of jumpers and cardigans and dresses and hats and for your snooty attitude for every single person walking in and for sniggering at that man who questioned the price,
‘Beh, cachemire c’est le cachemire, hein?’
Thank you for kicking your pointy foot through the boxes of rubble to find the perfect scarf for our friend and for raising your eyebrows and tutting your head back and forth saying Of Course, it’s Beautiful as though we were naughty for even commenting.
Thank you butcher lady with all your piled up meats and rambling stories about your little girls we can’t understand and thank you Kaiss for the potatoes and the rocket and the overwhelm-ment of all the colours and delights of your overstuffed fruit shop and for the stories and for the piece of sticky Algerian nougat.  Now there’s always a present at the end.  A caramel.  A rambutan.  And you can never, ever go back.
Thanks for the chaos, Paris, and the feeling and the abundance.
I’m fat on you.  And bedraggled.
And guess what?  There’s snow tomorrow.

Artwork du Jour 96

État Neuf

Monday, January 24, 2011

Perspective. Or 'The Persecution of Prunes'

In the greater perspective of things a blog written by a bunny has very little importance.  I was feeling that this week, hence my silence.  My determination to write regularly and rhythmically was overthrown by the pissanty feeling of blabbing n’importe quoi in the face of birth, death, glory, tragedy throughout the world.
The thoughts did come, and I wondered if they were worth writing about.  I ate a prune.  I thought about the tragedy of the prune.  What is must be like to spend a life so under-appreciated, so vilified, so uncomfortable for people in fruit shops to buy.  Why? Just because someone who spent too long in the pool once referred to themselves as one, or someone called their mother a shrivelled, dried-up old one to get a reaction one dark day deep in puberty.  I’m sure it’s just because someone once said they’re good for movement downstairs.  So what?  I’m sure lots of fruits are.  Fibre – ew.  Poor prunes.  Persecuted for being good for you. 
It must be just terrible to be so unfairly branded.  To be so interminably unfashionable.  The cause of a thousand sneers and derisive giggles.  Who decided prunes were bad?  If you traced it back to the beginning I bet it started with some kid in a primary school, poking his finger at a sweet, harmless prune, turning all the kids against it. The world’s greatest ever smear campaign.
Sometimes when I feel bad for someone or something, I think of someone who once said to me that no matter what, there’s always someone wishing they were just that person or thing you feel sorry for.  That everything depends on Perspective.  You never can assume what someone or something is feeling.  That always makes me feel better.  And so I thought, who knows, maybe the prune enjoys its life as an outcast?  Maybe it likes the peace and quiet of sitting so long on the shelf and of not being fetishised and devoured like say a strawberry or a mango.  Maybe it’s happy just being a plain old no-fuss prune.  Maybe it enjoys its solitude.  Maybe it revels in the negative attention, like a Goth.  Maybe it’s laughing at us all and having great parties.
And I thought lots of thoughts like this and I didn’t write them down because I then thought of Perspective and how in the grand scheme of things maybe prune persecution didn’t matter so much.  Perspective is great but it can really constipate you artistically.  You can’t afford to think too muchEspecially when you like writing about silly little things.  You start thinking things like, how can I write about prunes when there are floods in Australia?  People have lost their lives!  And your fingers on the keyboard turn to stumps and you have to crawl under the covers and get really tiny and warm and try as hard as you can to empathise and be a better person and remember to keep Perspective on things.
Today I had the good fortune of having a lovely midwife in a building in a room that looked over the rooftops of Paris and all its monuments to the east run me a bath shaped like a big smooth white shell and put four drops of something heavenly in it and tell me to run the bath really full, and the bath was very very high and I felt so awfully guilty about Australia and the drought and the floods that I had to keep reminding myself as I sunk into the bath’s heavenly depths that I was in France and there was no water shortage nor other current natural disaster.  Which made me feel even worse for all the poor people back home who were suffering, and here was I in a watery cocoon, the Eiffel Tower casting its shadow across my archipelago.  And as the midwife came back into the room to insist I fill the bath deeper so as to be completely submerged, I had to remind myself again that nobody was being directly hurt by my indulgence.  Images of yellowed gardens and buckets in showers and four-wheel drives floating in vast expanses of iced-coffee continued to flood my mind.  I shut my eyes tight.  I tried to gain Perspective on my current situation.  It was just a bath.  It was ok.
And then when I was as shrivelled as a good, nasty old prune I finally got out.  And I must say, being one felt excellent.

Artwork du Jour 95

Life from the Perspective of the Man in the Window

Thursday, January 20, 2011

You're not a Man, man

I woke up a few mornings ago with an intense coup de blues.  The heaviness in the chest region was quite extreme.  It ached.  I played a lot of online poker, but it didn’t go away.  In fact the poker only made it worse.  Which online poker can do, because it’s fun, but ultimately unsatisfying, even if you do finally win against some loose unit called Indie who waits until the last possible moment to make every single measly bet. 
I felt sad.  And it was terrible because all I knew was that the sadness was about Kiki and about The Love.  But I couldn’t identify precisely what it was about them.  Which made me withdraw into the Bunny Cave until I figured it out.  The lonely place.
And then finally, after days of poker and mole-ing and hot little oozy tears, I realised what it was. 
It sounds strange, but because of Kiki and the feeling of going so abruptly from a light concave to an extreme convex, I realised that I was female – a woman, a lady.  And that the Love was a man.  Which, although obvious, was suddenly shocking and sad to me, because our connection always had such a gender-ambivalent beauty to it.  We were besties.  BFF.  The balance of our masculine/feminine was fluid and constantly sliding and essentially, equal.  We each had our days and moments where either side would preside.  I liked my masculinity.  Of course I was female, and The Love had the most wonderful way of making me feel that, and he was magnificently male, but never in our lives had the divide been so apparent.  I was absolutely woman.
It felt very, very lonely.
And so definitive.  Final.  I was going to be a mother.  Mothers aren’t boys.  No, The Love would be a father, and I would be a mother and we would be a family, and as much as we tried to be equals, there would be roles.  He simply couldn’t breastfeed, as much as his nipples were sweet.  There were things already I couldn’t do, for the femininity.  I could barely walk for goodness sakes.  I certainly couldn’t climb a tree.  I couldn’t knock down six tequila shots in a bar in Berlin.  I had to wear a bra.
Our gender islands were, for the first time, completely separated.  It felt awfully isolating.  I wanted to make him feel what I was feeling – a creature in my body, dancing and twisting.  I wanted him to swell up and become all round too, so we could share it, like we shared everything else. 
But from now on, we would forever be different.
It was a sort of grieving.  A letting go of my boyhood.  In France, before a man gets married they have an enterrement de vie de garcon, like a bachelor party.  In French it means ‘Burial of the boy’s life’.  That’s exactly how I felt.  I was burying my little bachelor, my boy, that was why I felt sad.  There was no mistaking me for a boy from here on in.  There would be curves and breasts and female instincts and mothering and stuff.  I had to let the young buck go.
So I did.  Once I could identify what the feeling was, it was so much easier.  I could tell The Love what it was.
“I’m sorry,” I told his poor face, worn from days of torment.  “I’ve just realised that you’re a boy and I’m a girl and we’re going to experience this differently.  And that we’re sort of alone together.”
And he smiled and we hugged in that warm and awkward way, the basketball between us.

Artwork du Jour 94

So Close and Yet so Far

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Ziggy and the Cat

Why does my night head insist on plaguing me with random weirdnesses?  Ziggy Stardust is the current Tormenter – more specifically the second verse – more specifically the words
Like a cat in Japan
It’s driving me mental.  I’ll have spent a lovely night, perhaps watched a film, perhaps absorbed the pages of some book, probably discussed something interesting with The Love and off will go the lights and the Cat will be Back.
I can see it, that damn Cat, it’s one of those Good Luck ones with the arm that goes up and down, Waving.  Hi-ey!  Good Luck!  In fact I think it’s a Chinese good luck cat, not even a Japanese one, which only makes it all the more infuriating.  Sometimes it’s Hello Kitty and once it was even a street cat hopping mangily across the bin lids of Tokyo.  But the Japanese/Chinese one from the restaurant window always trumps any of the above, returning to wave its awful little ceramic arm in time to the Ziggy song, and preventing me from sleep. 

And just when the Cat is satisfied it’s annoyed me enough, in will step:
‘With God-given a-ass...’
And I can see Ziggy’s ass in a tight pair of jeans on stage.  And then Bowie, all painted.  And then those images alternate with the Cat until the sun comes up.
I rolled over yesterday morning and broached the subject with The Love.
“That CAT from Ziggy Stardust has EATEN MY SLEEP!!!”
“Which cat?”
“You know, the cat in Japan.”
“The cat?"
“I imagine he means one of those Good Luck cats,” I said, waving my arm mechanically up and down. 
The Love laughed.  “It’s not a real cat he’s talking about.  It’s a cool cat – Ziggy - he’s cool, he can really play guitar, he has cool hair - like some cat in Japan.”
“Oh,” I said, grateful, and feeling confident that his image would make my Cat go away.  I could almost see it – the cool cat Ziggy, with his ass, on stage, swaggering. 
And then last night, for the first night in about a week the song didn’t come, nor the Cat, nor the Ass, nor even Bowie’s silver lightning bolt face and I was so grateful when I woke up for the good night’s sleep that I lay there feeling a great sense of peace.  And then, as if to congratulate me, there it was, the Good Luck Cat.  The Song.  Argh!  And I lay there comatose, the song playing over and over.  I resigned myself to the fact that Ziggy Stardust was going to play in my head for the rest of my life, accompanied by the image of a stupid Cat.  Why me? I wondered.  What did I do to deserve this?  And then suddenly it occurred to me - maybe the Cat had been sent for a reason, via Ziggy.  To bring me Good Luck?  I lay there and tried to feel that.  And I took the Good Luck in.  I thanked the Cat.  And then I politely asked that he and Ziggy leave. 
But they didn’t. 
Defeated, eating breakfast with The Love I asked, “What’s the song that gets rid of the songs again?”
“I feeeel good, dernernernernernerner.  I knew that I would now- dernernernernernerner,” he answered, getting up and performing an empassioned dance in his socks and underpants. 
And sure enough, the Cat went screeching away.
And now I can’t get ‘I Feel Good’ out of there, and the image of The Love sliding around the apartment in his smalls, gyrating wildly with his air guitar. 
Which, in any case, beats that Cat any day.

Artwork du Jour 93

Slipping off

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

What to do with Moments

One of the hardest things about being on a break from the blog was that when funny and strange things would happen, I would just have to enjoy them for myself.  Which, I must admit, was rather boring.  It was like the moment hadn’t really existed, which is terrible, because it had.  That’s such a hard thing about being alive, isn’t it, all these moments, every day, and how to keep them?  Take photos, write books.  Make them tangible.  But then, there are so many of them, you could spend your whole life just doing nothing but recording.  I remember Helen Garner once saying her compulsion to record was a sort of a curse – she would carry a notepad around with her and when she was having an interesting conversation with a friend or something, with sinking heart she’d say, ‘I’m so sorry, but do you mind if I note this down?’  It is kind of awful.  Like you’ll live your life and it will all be beautifully recorded and then in heaven you’ll get to sit back with your pile of well-documented memories and go ‘Right, now, time to enjoy it.’  And you hope that heaven exists, or at least some sort of reading room, because if not, you will never have been able to enjoy any of it in the moment and you will just be in the ground thinking ‘Shit’. 
Dad was like that with his camera, always filming everything, always hidden behind there at weddings and Christmas and at the kids’ baseball game.  He’s emerged now and has let go and is enjoying it.  But it’s a tough habit to break.
I find it tough: tougher and tougher.  Especially when you’re on a blog ‘Break’ and it’s Christmas and you're reading the Paris méteo on the internet and you look up at The Love and say,
“There’s snow tomorrow.  There’s snow Friday.  There’s snow Saturday.”
And he cocks his head and when met with your blank, expectant face, furrows his brow and looks at the floor. 
“Er… What?” he asks, seemingly disturbed.
“Snow.  The forecast says snow,” you reply, perplexed by his reaction.
And he laughs and looks relieved and says,
“I thought you said ‘There’s no tomorrow.  There’s no Friday.  There’s no Saturday.'”
And you laugh so hard your belly hurts.  Because it pleases you on so many levels.  Firstly, the idea of the actual words he thought you said.  That it could be possible that tomorrow, the day after and the day after that could simply disappear.  Secondly, that he could conceive that you would say such strange and profound declarations after researching on the internet, sucking on a prune.  Thirdly, that he would conceive that you could say something so apocalyptic with such calm, matter-of-fact conviction.
It was agonising not to record that on the night.  It actually hurt. 
But then, I suppose it’s still with me enough to remember it now, so maybe there was no need.

Whatever the case, putting the little moment safely inside its little bunny cage, certainly does feel good.

Artwork du Jour 92

The Moment

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Take me back, baby

I'm back!  I missed you.  Missed me.  Missing you.  Missing me.  Missing you.  Missing me?

I never was good at Breaks.  See me in the bushes throwing stones at your apartment window.  See me sending late night emails that should have been safely stored in ‘drafts’ until tomorrow morning.  See me getting drunk at Twister and driving in a stained miniskirt to your house at 4am; see me knowing where the spare key is and tiptoeing up the stairs without making a sound because I know exactly in which part of each stair to step on so as not to wake your parents; see me hovering over your bed watching you sleep before gasping and scurrying out after realising there’s two torsos spooned beneath that misleading quilt.   

It was really hard to stay away.

Things got a little creepy.  I started stalking you.  Looking up your page to see what you were doing, not that anything had changed, because you’re me.  That was weird.  A bit like when you google yourself to see if you’ve done anything you didn't know about - you know, that you've starred in a film or someone's interviewed you, or you've written some brilliant book or article you weren't aware of.  There was, of course, nothing.  But I kept looking anyway.

I just never was talented at letting go.

But I did it.  One whole month plus several heartbreaking days.  And now here I am, back, lusting for you in that way we only can because we've had a Break.  Sweating lusty beads at the sight of each other.  Electric.  Desperate to feel each other's fur, recapture that special feeling.

I want you Bunny.

It’s so good to be back in your life.  Back in mine.  It wasn’t right to be apart.  I saw someone else for a while, true, but that's over now, it was just a filler.  I'm glad I waited so we could get back together properly, not just had a dirty little fling in between.  I thought about it, believe me, but I have too much respect for you.
I’m so happy to be back in your life.  Let's be more than friends.   

Say yes.

Je t'aime.


Artwork du Jour 91


Saturday, January 15, 2011

The Kellys, The Dark

Check this out:

The Love told me all these stories that when I hear this song I think of.

He and his fellow band members walked in the dark once from El Paso to Mexico.  Through the desert.  Suddenly over the horizon they could see lights in the distance.  The lights were Mexico.  And they walked there, into the madness. 

And when he wrote this song, Dark Kellys, he said he was thinking of the Kelly gang in old Victoria and imagining another bushranger trying to get away from them, and running and running in the dark until over the horizon, come the Kelly brothers.  There in the distance, like Mexico.  

And the guy is running.  But he knows the Kellys are going to get him.  

And BANG there is a big shootout.  Bang!  Bang!  And the bushranger is brought down.  Should have known better.

I miss you awfully.
Back soon.  So much to tell/ask.
Bunny X