POEMS & OTHER MUSINGS
THE BEAUTY BADSEED / “The Memory Box” Excerpt
In the bathroom mirror I inspected my body. I noticed the blemish on my hip first, a small, inconspicuous red bump; then on my neck I found another, then another tiny pimple on my chest. The more I inspected, the more I found things wrong with me. I turned to investigate the back of me, head craned like a bird over one shoulder to find, to my horror, that one butt cheek was noticeably smaller than the other. “At least they’re not sagging yet”, I thought, “they’ve still got some life left in them”.
Back to facing front to check if the imbalance in my backside was mimicked in my breasts. To my disappointment, yes. But at least I was still thin, right?
Though, if I turned to the side and viewed the silhouette of my profile in the shower glass, it looked like my tummy popped out over my pubic bone and my shoulder blades looked too pointy and my spine too curved. “Perhaps I have a weak core”... ”perhaps I don’t work hard enough”...
When did I first drink the poisoned elixir that put me in this stupor? I feel I have been placed under a spell. This body that I am, that I chose, I’ve objectified, gouged, critisised, mutilated and even hated.
And still it works.
Still, it feels; still it heals; still it walks; still it sees and hears. It’s been waiting so long for me to wake up and remember kindness. Not just for myself either… no one has been safe from my harsh vanity. I could look a loved one in the eye and assess them with the other. People could be everything: intelligent, creative, generous, hilarious. It didn’t matter. I would draw my comparisons and place them somewhere on my internal scoring-board. All the while the inner-monologue would run…I couldn’t even tell you now what the original blueprint of idolised perfection was that I overlaid upon everyone. Whatever it was, you weren’t it.
I have vivid memories of my mother scrutinising herself in the bathroom mirror. I remember too, for whatever reason, dad telling me that men prefer “curvy women”. Like he was letting me in on a secret. I must have been 11 or 12 then. My breasts were only little buds.
Why do I feel as though I’ve been retired from the public eye at 31? Like an old racehorse no longer fit for the track now that the flesh on my thighs is beginning to dimple.
Why does society idolise women barely after their bleed has settled into a steady rhythm? Why do others feel they have a say in how I choose to present myself? An obligation even, to let me know when they’re impressed. Why have I spent so much of my life in rejection of this flesh that I possess? When can I relax into my being? To see the beauty in all of it?
QUIET EXALTATION / Poem
For days, months, years,
I have existed in hollow apparitions;
visions that flicker like synthetic light;
projections cast on cold walls,
turning to shadow when I reach out to touch them.
It’s time to return to the land of the breathing, beating, pulse and hum.
Hum.
Wash the pots, hang the cloth.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Each morning rising as the sun does,
in a rolling rhythm.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Touch a cheek to the warm earth.
Drink in the elixir of crisp eucalypt and red soil.
Take root in simple action,
honest words.
Exist as existence does,
in humble exaltation of what is.
SCHOOL PICK-UP / “The Memory Box” Excerpt
Dad had a motorbike accident before I was born. He had a large scar around his right eye, where they took skin from behind his ear and grafted it. To me, that's just how my dad looked. That's the face I loved and admired. It never occurred to me that the scar might be a source of shame...a reason to hide from the world. In retrospect, perhaps that's why he wore those big black sunnies with the blinkers on them... the ones that looked like they'd time travelled from the 80's... to shield him from the judging eyes of the world as much as from the sun.
I just thought they looked cool. I thought everything about my dad was cool. I always looked forward to the fortnight weekend when he'd take me to stay at his house. I was an only child at dad's house...
There, among the silver soccer-mum cars and beige hatchbacks, he'd shine like a knight on horseback in his classic Holden Torana. She was glorious; a metallic deep-ocean blue that shimmered turquoise in the sun and black in the shade. The seats were upholstered by my nan's own hand, in something that resembled a fine corduroy, and the dash glistened with little christmas coloured lights all in a row, outlining the tape-deck's analogue EQ.
On the bonnet was the prize that really stood her out from the rest though. There, above the V8 engine that purred contentedly by the school gate, was painted a giant black panther poised to leap out at onlookers.
She was iconic.
Dad would step out of the driver's seat in his work-boots and jeans, his muscle shirt hung over tanned shoulders and his freshly curled mullet pulled back into a respectable ponytail. I'd fly down the school entranceway, little hands grabbing at my backpack straps in an attempt to keep it from awkwardly jostling off my shoulders as I ran. He'd bring his towering figure down to my level in an awkward crouch and catch me like a baseball glove does a fast-spinning ball.
Sat in the front seat of the Torana, 'Roxette' obnoxiously blasting from the stereo cassette player, I was king of the world. I was free. Dad was there, we were on our way... away from everything for the weekend, away to spend time in the apple of his eye for two days before the monotony of school and mum's house took hold again.
*
He changed after Poppy died. He was only 32 when he lost his dad. He was a year older than I am now, barely. Something just never clicked back into place. I think that’s where my grief started too. I lost my hero when he lost his.
FORMLESS / Song Lyric
I am formless
but I form this
body
in a context
in a culture
in a dream.
Didn’t choose my lessons,
they chose me,
nor my blessings,
they ‘re growing with the heaving tide.
I don’t know your suffering,
you can’t know mine.
We play life with the cards we’ve been dealt.
We are formless
but we form this,
moment
with a story,
in a culture,
walking blind.
So I feel my sorry’s deeply,
I get to know my mind.
Try to keep my promises
Just tryin’ to stay honest when
livin’ gets hard,
it gets hard sometimes.
We are formless,
but we form this
moment
with a story,
in a culture
in a bind.
We all pave the path,
gotta do our time.
The future’s uncertain,
we can’t always get it right.
But I got a reason
to keep believin’,
I’ve seen kindness in a stranger’s eyes.