Why do the birds go on singing?

Written by

Girls – End Of The World (Skeeter Davis cover)

On one of the cross-streets between the train station and where I used to work, there is a woman who sits and cries.

I saw her every day, sitting on a bench or a stoop or huddled against a wall, designer knock-off handbag clutched under her arm, regrowth-marred blonde hair hanging like spaghetti, crying with a paper-crumpled face.

The first time I saw her, I was running (literally – boots slapping pavement, suit-wearers launching themselves out of the way) late for work. She startled me, bewildered me, and I wanted badly to stop. Feeling hopeless and heartless, I continued hurricaning on my way. Someone else will comfort her, I let my city mind assure me.

As I sent emails and made photocopies, the crying woman dribbled from my mind. Her despair was replaced with Important Things – deadlines and requests and cups of coffee to be made.

The next day, as I hauled my hood over my head for insulation, her sobs swirled and spiraled like stream from a hot cup of coffee. She watched me as I trekked past. Her wet eyes followed me. I could feel them burning, judging, shaming. She knows I am a compassionless person. She knows I have no soul.

 

The despair of the crying woman’s life began to permeate my own, soaking everything and leaving a dampness that persisted for weeks, everything I did wet with her tears. When bad things happened – when I missed my train, or when I got food poisoning, or when I rubbed blisters all over my feet and had to hobble like an octogenarian – I rationalised that at least I wasn’t driven to sobbing on a city street. Nothing could ever be as bad as that level of all-consuming misery.

My mind sketched high-contrast lithographs of the world ending, of everyone dying and the city falling in on itself.

 

The day I was slated to finish at that job, I resolved to confront the crying woman. Perhaps we could cry about it together. She sat in the mouth of a laneway, inconspicuous yet unmissable. The lines in her face deepened as I approached, her features folding in on themselves and wringing out more tears.

“Why are you crying?” I vomited. She lowered the hand that was held to her mouth like a 1920s film star and extended it toward me, imploring, demanding, pleading.

“D’you have any spare change?” she slurred. Her voice, like her face, was wrapped around itself, punctured by fold lines and tears. She breathed smoke and petrol. Her paper skin was kindling. The fire rushed to my face, filling my cheeks with red and steaming away all the water. I choked out a “No, sorry” and tripped over myself as I turned away.

[Morning Light / Andre De Freitas.]

Posted on August 27, 2012 - Tunes - No Comments »

Hey, are you awake?

Written by

The National – About Today

Douglas was 6-foot-2, 42 years old, and a cuckold.

Douglas sighed deeply — a sigh that seemed to deflate his torso like a punctured exercise ball — swung his legs out of bed, and was a cuckold.

Douglas wore a suit to work, which made his shoulders look even more broad, and loosely fingered the cufflinks his wife had bought him, and was a cuckold.

Douglas slid his size 13 feet into dress shoes using a shoehorn that a now-distant friend had given as a wedding present, and was a cuckold.

Douglas’ voice cracked during a conference call at work and, later, when Debbie, the secretary, asked him if everything was alright, he said it was, and didn’t mention that he was a cuckold.

Douglas walked brazenly out of work early, slumped into his leather car seat, and was a cuckold.

Douglas picked up his daughters — seven and nine — who squabbled and tittered in the back seat, while he sat silent in the front, driving slower than the speed limit, and was a cuckold.

Douglas traded his suit for a polo and poured himself an inch of Woodford Reserve, and was a cuckold.

Douglas idly stroked his youngest daughter’s straw blond hair when she fell asleep on his lap on the couch, and was a cuckold.

Douglas went to bed, alone.

[Cherry Tree.]

Posted on August 26, 2012 - Tunes - No Comments »

Like rotten fruit soaking up the sun

Written by

Kira Puru & The Bruise – Apple Tree

“You know who you remind me of?” she asked.

“Who?”

“I dunno. I guess you don’t, really. That’s just always something I imagine myself saying.”

“Oh.”

I didn’t know what else to say. She was always full of these odd little things; I don’t think she even needed a response. But maybe she did.

“You remind me of something, though,” I tried.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. But I can’t remember what.”

“Well, aren’t we just fine together.”

 

We were okay together. Sometimes great, but never consistently. Depending on how much we’d been drinking. We did like to drink together.

She offered me another cigarette. I’d already accepted the first offer so I guess I couldn’t say no. I guess I didn’t want to say no. I don’t know. I liked her company. You felt like you were picking up a conversation that was already underway. With her you could sometimes skip beginnings. I think we both appreciated that.

She had a birthmark that covered most of her right hand. She called it a port-wine stain. I’d stopped noticing it a long time ago. She said she could tell a lot about a person by their first reaction to it. She liked when people asked her outright what it was, because if they ignored it, it was usually because they were a little disgusted by it and didn’t want to deal with it, according to her. She had one whole red finger, which I guess was pretty strange if you thought about it for a while. What I liked most about it was how it changed colour when she was cold. It turned from red to purple, from the outsides first and then all the way through the core. The best was when it was cold around the outside but the centre was still pink. But you didn’t really see that that much.

 

“If I told you you reminded me of my brother, how would that make you feel?” she asked.

“Not that weird, I guess. Why should it?”

“Should it?”

“Not really.” I paused. “Depends which brother.”

She laughed and said, “Which would you prefer? I can probably guess.”

“No one’s like him.”

She dragged delicately on her cigarette and exhaled. “True.”

I looked around. Everyone else had gone inside.

She stubbed out her cig and beat me to it. “I guess we should go inside.”

“I guess.”

 

So we went back inside.

[When All Your Love Is Not Enough.]

Posted on August 23, 2012 - Tunes - No Comments »

But what can I say, rules must be obeyed

Written by

The Vaccines – The Winner Takes It All (ABBA cover)

The 14-year-old dickwad who lives across the road and four doors down stole his mum’s keys and hid them in our letterbox. She knocked on our door on Monday afternoon wearing tracksuit pants and shape-up trainers, having evidently worked her way up the street Jehovah’s Witness-style.

“He does these things all the time,” she said. “He does these things all the time.”

With the kind of exasperated frankness that only mothers can muster, she told me about the fiasco. I’m still not wholly sure what happened – her story juggled three different cars, two separate cases of vehicular vandalism, various ways to punish the kid (of which she asked my opinion), and a plea to sign her petition to widen our road.

The total cost of events was somewhere between $5,000 and $10,000, $500 of which was designated to key replacement, the rest going to repairs for the two accidents (the cause of which remained undetermined to me). Having left me somewhat nervous over living mere doors away from a potential car vandal and key thief, she blustered back to number five, keys hanging from her thumb as she waved goodbye over her shoulder.

I saw the dickwad a few days later, riding his dickwad skateboard around outside our house. His hair was styled and his jeans were skinny. His shirt was begging for more muscular padding. He smirked at me through the window – eyes dark, brow lowered, mouth upturned at the side, the barest hint of pointy canine protruding over his lip.

He looked like a key-stealer. He probably stole the skateboard, too. He probably took things from every house he visited – stashes of single socks, TV remotes, kitchen utensils, lighters, yo-yos. That’s where my sunglasses were. That dickwad kid had them. He probably took important things too, more important than keys. He probably threw out all his sister’s tampons the day before she needed them, and poked holes in his parents’ condoms.

On behalf of all the inevitable late-night rushes to the nearest tampon seller, and all the potential pregnancy scares to a couple with teenagers, I wanted to punch that kid right in his smirky dickwad face.

He remounted his skateboard and rolled off back to number five, hair flipping and jeans creeping down his backside. I locked my door and decided to forgive him for taking my sunglasses. He was in enough trouble already. [Please, Please Do Not Disturb.]

Posted on August 20, 2012 - Tunes - No Comments »

I act like an idiot because I have a void in my heart

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Posted on August 14, 2012 - Videos - 1 Comment »

Somebody give me a map

Written by

Frank Ocean – Lost

I want to tell you about this couple. They own a bike shop that’s open from 3 p.m. till 2 a.m. and it’s always packed. I stopped at three gas stations on my way across town, filling up my front tire with air. I’m not calling the sleezebag who does roadside assistance – this new flat came less than an hour after he fixed it, trying to sell me a new outer tire the entire time even though mine was only a week old. I sat as far back on my motorbike as I could, trying not to put pressure on the wheezing wheel.

Anyways, this couple. What you do is sit and wait until they finish all the motorbikes that got there before you. When it’s your turn, you push your bike up to the front of this tiny shop – there is room for two bikes and that’s it; the rest sit waiting for healing on the side of the road. I showed the lady – I’d guess mid-60s, in sweatpants, hair reddish from grease and hands just plain black – my flat. I asked her how to say that in Malay. (It’s ‘puncture’ with a thick accent.) She bemoaned the amount of punctures she’d fixed already (it was about 1 a.m.). I sympathized and mentioned that I would have preferred for her to have one less flat to fix that night as well.

She squatted – they live on their haunches, this couple – and took the tire off, using a rubber mallet to knock out the main screw and a pair of metal rods to pry the tire off the rim. After refilling the inner tube and sticking it in a tub of water (wait for bubbles) she pointed out where the sleezebag had cocked up – he forgot to cover where the spokes meet the rim. She glued a blue band around the inside of the rim and reattached the wheel, never leaving a squatting position, every once in a while pushing her glasses back up her greasy nose with the back of her wrist.

The man waddled over from paperwork or whatever he was doing in the back of the shop. I’ve never seen him with a shirt on. His bones jut out against his gaunt skin and he perpetually has a cigarette with two inches of ash hanging out of his mouth. Half his teeth are missing. Without a word, he tested the brakes, adjusted one, and brushed oil on the chain. He spit on the ground, dabbed his finger in it, and rubbed the spittle onto the top of the pin on the inner tube.

When he was done, he asked me where I am from. How long am I staying. I don’t know, I’m not sure really, I responded. Maybe forever. The woman brightened up, suggested I get a girlfriend here. All of the ladies want me to have a girlfriend here. I agree with them. I told her so: Yes, I agree. I will acquire a girlfriend and live here forever. I will rent this shop next door, I pointed. The man suggested I stay open from 3-2. Morning is for sleeping, he said, pushing his palms together next to his cocked head.

The woman, face still lit up, continued exonerating Penang. The food is cheap, the people are friendly (this statement came with a thumbs up to indicate how great and friendly the people are). It is the Best Place. The man agreed about the food, but lamented the rising cost of housing. Then they were concerned about what I drank. Do I like coffee? No, but I drink tea, I explained. Lots of tea. They were worried. Lipton? Was I drinking Lipton? The coloring was bad in tea. And the sugar. And if you drink milk with it, milk has too much sugar. They were becoming increasingly concerned. I tried to indicate that I wasn’t drinking TOO much tea, but just enough, and definitely sans dairy products. I backed the motorbike up slowly to hint that I was leaving. I started the engine.

The man asked how old I was. I was 25. He conveyed his belief that someone of my age (25) and handsomeness levels (very) would have no qualms acquiring a girlfriend. He leaned in. Was he making a pass? His hands were near my face, then lower, my chest. He reached down and attached the strap to my helmet. Safety first! he said. I thanked him and agreed, safety first. Goodbye, goodbye. I must be on my way. Goodbye. [Channel Orange.]

Posted on August 12, 2012 - Tunes - 1 Comment »

You’re a goddam fool and I love you

Written by

[Strange Negotiations.]

Posted on August 10, 2012 - Videos - 4 Comments »

Sting us out of silence

Written by

Sparklehorse – Cow

That was the summer my father and I found ourselves painting headstones in silence, sitting on scorched marble graves of souped-up genteels in the Catholic section, furthest from the cemetery gates.

We bought the enamel paint special, even though it was only the day after Christmas and the town had all but buried itself ‘til mid-January. Red dust covered everything; we shimmered in the heat. Our fingers were swollen and restless and straining for delicacy as we wedged the bristles in between the Gothic crevices of each inscription. In Loving Memory. We wiped away smudges and clumsy edges with methylated spirits, dazing ourselves on the warm fumes. We cleaned our brushes in Nana’s favourite mug. We said nothing to each other.

I wore Breton stripes and an Akruba hat — a pretentious city-slicked hipster. Ants crawled into our shoes and stung us out of silence. They’d made a nest underneath the grave; the surrounding earth was collapsed in one or two spots and ants streamed around the dusty cavities. You couldn’t see what was down there. You didn’t want to.

Now and again my foot would slip into one of the holes. Sometimes I’d accidentally kick it in deeper, if my heel was resting on the edge and caused the soil to rupture further. I always yanked my foot away as soon as I felt the dirt crumble – half because of the ants, and half because of something else.

Words were spoken, eventually. It started with ant-stinger swears, then conversation tumbled past. We were burnt and thirsty; the ice between us turned to ash and dust among fake plastic flowers – the only kind that lasted here.

The enamel was like tar on the sun-bleached tombstones. It glistened in chiseled rivulets and half absorbed, half reflected the light that would one day erode it. This day, though – the day after Christmas, flanked by false roses – our words would withstand.

[Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot.]

Posted on August 8, 2012 - Tunes - 1 Comment »

I saw a lifetime pass me by

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Posted on July 18, 2012 - Tunes - No Comments »

The circles you become

Written by

Freedom Fry – Summer In The City

I tore my hamstring last week. I can’t run, so all I can do is sit around and watch people do things. Taut joggers pounding flesh on park pathways. Children hopscotching in apartment block car-spots. People in shorts and singlets doing things.

Sitting on this bench in the afternoon I stretch my leg and feel the pull, the swell, the fabric on skin.

***

Man, I’m happy. I’m so happy I can’t take it. I’m used to being sad and angry and grumpy and tired and apathetic and bored. Now I’m happy and it’s fucking weird. People say stupid things and I smile, forget about it, be happy. I can’t get work done because I can’t think – all I can do is happiness. Everything seems little and wonderful and all I want to do is sit in the sun and see people smiling, laughing, waving to each other excitedly. Children marvelling, mothers marvelling over their children’s marvels. I can’t hear them but I imagine.

“What’s that, mum?”
“It’s called a merry-go-round, honey.”
“What do you do with it?”
“You sit on the edge, and your friend spins you. Or you can stand and your friend spins you. Or you can spin yourself. Then you spin them. You spin, darling.“

So they leave hours later and I amble over to the merry-go-round, hands pinched against the metal grips, and start spinning. I climb on, lay flat on my back and close my eyes, spinning. [“Summer In The City.”]

Posted on July 17, 2012 - Tunes - 1 Comment »

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