A Moment
this one,the horror translation,is a more interesting variation compared to the other...
Anonymous

thanks heaps! I love any feedback I can get at the moment! 

this one. the horror version...
Anonymous

sorry. what about the horror version? 

Two Strangers in a Studio- Horror Translation

In a tiny back studio on the third level of a hostel sit two strangers. The hostel is filled with the sweat and surrender of artists and fakers, strivers and floaters, characters and charades; a home for those locked into a space for fear of not having space at all in a city of transience. The studio’s back wall is painted in Australian colours, shouting and shivering as shades of the tropics and the earth seduce and insult each other. The room stares west into the sun, bleeding the paints of the wall into one and sending them shrieking into a vermillion glow. Looming shadows scuttle across the floorboards. The floorboards watch and wait. They call to the ghosts of those who have walked upon its creaky and uneven back, swaying under the dance of light to entice the footsteps yet to come. This room sees all and nothing.

 

The musical clumsiness of a young woman disturbs the humid vibrations of the studio. She enters with her own rhythm and a large bag. Her day, a series of stumbles and fatigued irritation, halts momentarily as she feels the weight of another’s presence in the studio. A flicker, a jolt, a restriction of the throat. There in her peripheral. She turns, and sees the silhouette of an Aboriginal man sitting in the corner.

 

She glances at him with polite acknowledgment across the room. Rummaging through her bag in the search for her writings from the last few months, she senses the man watching her. He sits in a creaky wooden chair, his limbs pouring into each other in a stillness that seems to have momentum. With stony brown silence he stares. There he sits, experiencing and breathing and watching, seemingly in that order.

 

She scrambles and scribbles and hisses into her writings and he turns back to his book. Moments pass, floor boards hum throughout the hostel.

 

“What are you writing?” His voice rumbles low. She has to lean into the space between their bodies to hear. 

 

“Just thoughts at the moment. It’s a story but it’s just this big ball of …” She fiddles with her hands, her fingers rigid as if trying to catch the words she cannot find. “Stuff that’s not going anywhere.”

 

She waits for him to speak, to excuse herself from the onus of answers. He holds his gaze and waits.

 

“I just- I can’t find the voice for it.”

 

She looks into him, seeking and fumbling and trying to absorb and devour him and the words and how they howl and whisper all at once in that little cupboard of desire and fear that sits in her sternum. And there, in the studio, two strangers sit as hours inaudibly trickle by under the veneer of night and seclusion.

 

Her pen hovers over her page, the poetry of the mundane starkly gawking back at her, ashamed and awkward. Her torso twitches, contorting and elsewhere. In a scrambled panic, she senses the man rise from his seat. Out of the vast expanse of silence and space, she feels the pressure of his hands brace her skull and travel towards her temples. His breath collides against her skin. It hurtles through her bones like electricity ricocheting and bruising the flesh, bringing each pore to a state of arrest.

 

Us blackfellas, we’re good at storytelling, you know? Guess it’s cus we’ve been silent for a long time now.”

 

The ridges of his trimmed nails edge into her skin and she feels him sear through her brain. She cannot shift. She has no words. She is frozen on the crest of a wave, unable to breath. Stapled in that moment. The rancid smell of bleach stings her nose, suffocating her. She feels their callous hands. There inside her head, a nine year old boy. It is the man. His head plunged into bleach. White on black, taming the curls, curbing the stories. Another voltage surges through her leaden jaw. There is a haze, the room is swallowed up by the darkness and her body clamps shut. She tries to find the wooden floors, the window or the wall but they feel miles away. Her hands begin to grow heavy. They throb and blister and scorch. She looks down and her palms are ripped open, chunks of black bitumen and stones wedged deep into the flesh. A woman is hammering her fists into the road as a vehicle speeds down the narrow street, the copper earth in flight. Her babies. His mother. Her memory. His fear. Ripping through her, one after the other, the stings and words and sterile beds. Forget. Forget. Forget. Can’t hold on to thought. Sporadic, convulsion, rhetoric questions.

 

She falls into the wooden floor boards as they welcome her ghosts and there she sits thrashing in deep, ugly sounds that surge up from her belly. He is gone.

 

Two Strangers in a Studio- A Very Short Story

n a tiny back studio on the third level of a hostel sit two strangers. The hostel is filled with the sweat and surrender of artists and fakers, strivers and floaters, characters and charades; a home for those locked into a space for fear of not having space at all in a city of transience. The studio faces west into the sun and watches the goodbyes of the afternoon through its windows. This room sees all and nothing at the same time. The back wall is painted in Mexican colours, shouting and shivering as colours of the tropics and earthy shades seduce and insult each other.

The afternoon glow descends on to the wooden floor boards. It calls to the ghosts of those who have walked upon its creaky and uneven back whilst seemingly swaying under the dance of light to welcome the footsteps yet to come.

The musical clumsiness of a young woman disturbs the humid vibrations of the studio where an Aboriginal man sits reading. She enters with her own rhythm and a bag brimmed with snatches of paper, ink, coins, tickets, charm and in which an open packet of almonds tumbles throughout. Her day, a series of stumbles and fatigued irritation, halts momentarily as she feels the weight of another’s presence in the studio. There she sees the man, a stranger who is not quite a stranger. They have seen each other before, silently passed in hallways and waited side by side at bus stops with the familiar anonymity of temporary neighbours. Hoping to find solitude, she retracts a little and composes herself as she discovers that she must share this corner of the world.

She glances at him with polite acknowledgment across the room. Rummaging through her bag in the search for her writings from the last few months, she senses the man watching her. He sits in a creaky wooden chair, his limbs pouring into each other in a stillness that seems to have momentum. His gaze, through soft, unashamed brown eyes, is comfortable in the silence. There he sits, experiencing and breathing and watching, seemingly in that order.

She scrambles and scribbles and hisses into her writings and he turns back to his book. Moments pass, floor boards hum throughout the hostel.

“What are you writing?” His voice rumbles low. She has to lean into the space between their bodies to hear. 

“Just thoughts at the moment. It’s a story but it’s just this big ball of …” She fiddles with her hands, her fingers rigid as if trying to catch the words she cannot find. “Stuff that’s not going anywhere.”

She waits for him to speak, to excuse herself from the onus of answers. He holds his gaze and waits.

“You know when you’re trying to capture it all and it’s all there but something’s not right.”

She looks into him, seeking and fumbling and trying to absorb and devour him and the words and how they howl and whisper all at once in that little cupboard of desire and fear that sits in her sternum. 

And there, in the studio two strangers sit as hours trickle by under the veneer of a summer night.She feels the pillows of his finger tips firm yet light on her temples. His breath melts into her hair, her pores rising to greet it as it lingers, seeping into her bones.

Us blackfellas, we’re good at storytelling, you know? Guess it’s cus we’ve been silent for a long time now.”

He leaves, and she falls into the wooden floor boards as they welcome her ghosts and there she sits thrashing in deep, ugly sounds that surge up from her belly. 

Why I write?

I write because I know not what else to do. All other art forms that I have encountered, both as an artist and as a recipient of a work, have been shared experiences, an event of communal exchange but the poetry of language is beyond this. It becomes the reader as much as it is a thing in their possession. It no longer belongs to the author. This art form is not limited by me. It exists only in the moment in which eyes are cast over it and in between it belongs to nobody. It cannot exist in peripheral. This notion makes me tremble with humility, it lends momentum to experience and the desire to create something as imperfect and heavy with equal measures of ache and attainment as life itself is what drives me to write.

Writing transforms the personal into the universal. The limitations of my own moments of transcendence, despair and the grizzly mundane in between are given flight and have the potential to, not only mirror, but become an exact moment in another’s life. I yearn to create in others that sensation of soaring, resonating recognition that swells somewhere between the heart, breasts and the divine. The inexpressible inbreeding of insignificance and invincibility physically manifested within another human being. This is the art I chase, this is the thought I thread and finally the life I lead. And so, I write.

A train murders through my unconscious sleep. A doll’s face rearranged itself and deformed in my dreams as I saw that this creature was not the skin and bone I had known. Not the face I had committed to as truth. And now? I write and write and purge that deep bloody pulp feeling out from my sternum into the cold air and humanity’s abstraction from itself. My arm permeates. My arm hesitates. My arm regurgitates. But I don’t mind because I think of you as I suck on those lavender pills. Epilim. And I guess I’m epileptic. epilogue, epiphany, epitome. How about that for a title. For someone who avoided titles for so long- as all thought of permanence curdled action. This is the title I’ve ended up with. My eye has lost its moisture and the girl in front of me keeps looking back. She drinks and sips and farts Diet Coke. She looks like Lindsay Lohan with that tanned, make-up smeared freckle- a mixture of grommet ignorance and haunting hellos. I don’t know why she looks at me but I am tired. Growing tired. I once went on a long ageless walk with a man with an affection for gum and who has traded in the heartache and stumble of fermented trust for the stage. I went on a walk with this man. A walk where my skin was left sour with burn. His affection for gum is but another subconscious habit that I have stolen for myself. We have in common the sad history that robs us of the license to feel without self-monitoring, the permission to transform from trembling teetotalers to a gluttony of sweat, hormones and the belief in eternity. Surrounding me there are bodies perched on a national service now sold to the sweaty, iron blood smell of currency that travels on an iron vein. Everyone looks anxious and ready to fight. Perhaps I just caught my own reflection in the looking glass. You never know, even when you do know- especially when you do know.

Life begins with a whimper and a smell

Then hypocrisy and fake tan

Chocolate spirals that go hand in hand

Laugh to see the other side of the moon

To make it

Craft from your hands

From whence you came

The miracle of before and after

With a little to spare for icing and goodbyes

Cleanliness is a bubble in the jaw

A right wing habit to pop

Wednesday Morning Middle and Tea

Ferocious imbalance

Suspended falling

A love letter between friends

Over food, grace, coffee, declarations

A postcard from white silence

Could you love Forever?

To dream with certainty

To know you are carving history

Into the footstpes to come

The fizzle and pop of cells and electric pores

This life has been a passionate love affair. There has been rain. There has been fire. To be devoured and adored from a safe distance is to be an island. To be in the pulse. The heartbeat. The vein. The momentum of the flesh, of ideas of words and heat and fear and the bravery of laughter. To stare. To desire. To hide. To wait. To hunt. To capture and to howl. To lose and win to lady luck. To startle and shake. For the dust to settle. The clay to rot. The silence. The rhythm, the ink, the stories, the memory, the stains, the hunger, the flight. To stay. To live. To be and then no longer.

Sitting on my balcony typing a document I’ve named Ethical Considerations but in all honesty I am not paying it much consideration at all. Miles Davis is swearing and fumbling in my ear with that trumpet of his, sizzling and dividing my attention. I’m talking about the l’esprit de escalier- the spirit of the staircase with a young film director with eyes in the theatre. My dusty poetry got some airing tonight with a friend who writes and talks upstream and I’m compiling my thoughts and memory for a 30 sec film summing up my life thus far for a project I’m pitching. The city’s stories, lifetimes told in 30 secs, projected in the train station tunnels across Brisbane. I thought my film would be all images but there’s definitely a few words I’d like to say. I can’t help myself. A phone call. I had one of those too and a dinner for two, made for three. That’s my night in a nutshell. Give or take a few details.