Lip Balm
Catherine was speaking to a group of women. She was talking so fast she was spitting. Her multicoloured hair was half tied up with a piece of Brazilian fabric and the lines on her face were caked in, working a moon scape with pale foundation across her loose skin.
Susan spoke in the same authoritative way as Catherine; they could have been sisters. I could imagine them together as young women conspiring against their mother.
Catherine had lived a hundred different lives all over the world; somewhere along the way she had met a man and touched him enough to create a child.
Susan had lived and loved the lives of three men; they had all left her with a child each and returned to their countries, their mothers and lost childhood loves.
Susan was unmistakeably a mother, and undoubtedly a terrible actress.
She was a makeup artist and a lover of men, she was extremely proud of the way she loved men. Her devotion to her children was equally amazing and we wondered if that was what had chased away her lovely men.
Susan had a thin yoga body and massive breastfeeding breasts.
Always slung over her thin shoulders were massive handbags, filled with; you could only guess. Her life seemed at once extraordinarily organised and wildly disorganised – she was always late but never forgot anything you asked her to bring.
The weather was undecided that day in the park. We were sitting in a circle listening to Catherine rant at us passionately. Susan grabbed one of her enormous bags from under her chair and pulled out a lip balm.
She flicked her hair slowly and slow motional and sexily and snowily; not sure exactly as she over-acted a serious facial expression, she applied the balm to her her chapped cherry lips. The park went slow motion; I was amazed at how intimate it was this small act; me roped into the intimacy. A performance, some kind of lurid scene in a porn film, and I was there. Shocked at her open a sexual hunger and transfixed at the same time, included and excluded; mean and kind. I don’t like her though.
She smacked her lips together; reset, pulled her concentration back to the group and moved her body forward like she was listening again, still holding the lip balm in her hand when Catherine reached for it grabbing first her hand.
Still focused on the group of women sitting on the grass listening, Catherine continues to speak and teach while slowly holding Susan’s hand. Like King Henry the Eighth and a turkey’s leg she smeared the lip balm on her paler lips, gloss and Susan’s spit left behind gliding. Like a seen from a Grecian orgy; then finished like nothing had happened; the end. Susan flung her bag swung her hips and hung her hand down her leg she sauntered away watched and liking the watching, I saw her go, my face red, my stomach churning and I thought ‘shit actress, I could do her part much better’.
Showing posts with label Short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short stories. Show all posts
Monday, July 28, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Story by Iggy, Quinn and Noah
Once there was a handsome, strong prince who was trapped by an evil chicken. Only the magic goat could save him. The goat went to rescue him and played the chicken dance which the chicken could not resist. The goat kissed the prince and they broke into disco fever.
The king was happy to have the prince back to kiss and to marry the frog princess who had a big beard. The wise man he met on the way back told him 'that to defeat a wolf he must wee on it'; so he did. The chicken was still dancing, then became an old 70's rocker with a high princess hat and smoky purple glasses and a swagger.
The king was happy to have the prince back to kiss and to marry the frog princess who had a big beard. The wise man he met on the way back told him 'that to defeat a wolf he must wee on it'; so he did. The chicken was still dancing, then became an old 70's rocker with a high princess hat and smoky purple glasses and a swagger.
Friday, May 23, 2008
What Was Coming
What Was Coming
It’s funny how they always stood there looking out to sea; looking outwards at the very edge of the country on the cliffs – their feet hanging ten, their knees bent and their eyes squinting looking, always looking; on beaches their feet buried in the sand. Their skin was browned from the constant sun, and wind, and salt. Their hair was bleached like shells deposited after storms, too far up on the rocks for the seas to reclaim. And they looked ever seaward; ever forward, looking to see What Was Coming.
The sea swelled and calmed before them; at night it foamed white and often seemed empty; it’s emptiness, baroness, loneliness, soothed and lulled them, they swayed together and whispered words of contentment into the wind; and the wind carried it to the ears of the watchers, the waiters, waiting to see What Was Coming.
Occasionally, the blue metamorphosed before their eyes, inextricably, unexplainably, naturally to grey, then to black. Behind the blackness was a menace and a rage that confused the watchers; they breathed shorter breaths, they whined in fear, their skinny bodies clinging to rock faces pounded by spray as the ocean roared and changed and they peered forwards, always forwards looking waiting for What Was Coming.
Once the menace temporarily subsided, their eyes squinted to slits, looking to see if What Was Coming had arrived. They found debris, little mementos of What Was Coming washed up by the ever-changing untrustworthy ocean. The debris was foreign, unrecognizable and inferior and useless as all unrecognizable things. The debris was frightening and strange and different, ‘not like ours’ they said. And they looked again fiercer, looking forwards out to sea waiting for What Was Coming.
They congratulated themselves that they were there on the front line, unwavering watching waiting protecting us all, holding back the tide of What Was Coming; congratulated themselves for being watchers and waiters because it was now, could be now, the time for What Was Coming.
And the seas brought with it stories from the world, but they would not turn around or look away, abandon their post, they must keep watching and waiting, eyes forward and searching looking for What Was Coming.
They had been waiting for What Was Coming for 225 years by the time I stopped to look at them. They were weary, but not enough to turn around and look behind them, to look away, their vigilant search for What Was Coming. I said nothing, what could I say. What Was Coming?
I looked behind them and I saw a mandala of people in the shapes of rivers, birds black and blue, I saw shapes swaying and moving looking inwards towards their heart.
Once or twice the occasional nervous glance over a shoulder; glancing, chancing What Was Coming. Inside their circles, I smelled food, and fabric, joy and animals. Inside their circles I felt warm and cold, hugged and forbidden. Inside their circles I heard sounds, music, laughter, crying, wailing.
I looked out to sea and heard nothing but the wind, on my skin I felt nothing but the wind and salt, my feet felt burned on the hot rough rocks and I looked at the proud silent faces either side of me, facing outwards, always forwards waiting for What Was Coming; I turned inwards, I looked inwards.
It’s funny how they always stood there looking out to sea; looking outwards at the very edge of the country on the cliffs – their feet hanging ten, their knees bent and their eyes squinting looking, always looking; on beaches their feet buried in the sand. Their skin was browned from the constant sun, and wind, and salt. Their hair was bleached like shells deposited after storms, too far up on the rocks for the seas to reclaim. And they looked ever seaward; ever forward, looking to see What Was Coming.
The sea swelled and calmed before them; at night it foamed white and often seemed empty; it’s emptiness, baroness, loneliness, soothed and lulled them, they swayed together and whispered words of contentment into the wind; and the wind carried it to the ears of the watchers, the waiters, waiting to see What Was Coming.
Occasionally, the blue metamorphosed before their eyes, inextricably, unexplainably, naturally to grey, then to black. Behind the blackness was a menace and a rage that confused the watchers; they breathed shorter breaths, they whined in fear, their skinny bodies clinging to rock faces pounded by spray as the ocean roared and changed and they peered forwards, always forwards looking waiting for What Was Coming.
Once the menace temporarily subsided, their eyes squinted to slits, looking to see if What Was Coming had arrived. They found debris, little mementos of What Was Coming washed up by the ever-changing untrustworthy ocean. The debris was foreign, unrecognizable and inferior and useless as all unrecognizable things. The debris was frightening and strange and different, ‘not like ours’ they said. And they looked again fiercer, looking forwards out to sea waiting for What Was Coming.
They congratulated themselves that they were there on the front line, unwavering watching waiting protecting us all, holding back the tide of What Was Coming; congratulated themselves for being watchers and waiters because it was now, could be now, the time for What Was Coming.
And the seas brought with it stories from the world, but they would not turn around or look away, abandon their post, they must keep watching and waiting, eyes forward and searching looking for What Was Coming.
They had been waiting for What Was Coming for 225 years by the time I stopped to look at them. They were weary, but not enough to turn around and look behind them, to look away, their vigilant search for What Was Coming. I said nothing, what could I say. What Was Coming?
I looked behind them and I saw a mandala of people in the shapes of rivers, birds black and blue, I saw shapes swaying and moving looking inwards towards their heart.
Once or twice the occasional nervous glance over a shoulder; glancing, chancing What Was Coming. Inside their circles, I smelled food, and fabric, joy and animals. Inside their circles I felt warm and cold, hugged and forbidden. Inside their circles I heard sounds, music, laughter, crying, wailing.
I looked out to sea and heard nothing but the wind, on my skin I felt nothing but the wind and salt, my feet felt burned on the hot rough rocks and I looked at the proud silent faces either side of me, facing outwards, always forwards waiting for What Was Coming; I turned inwards, I looked inwards.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Poem
Domestic witness
The man’s actions are punitive.
He is loitering in shadow.
His ugly scarred face is submissive.
He smashes her face into the bureau.
Freedom is unlikely, used to pacify.
Vandalised body to be kept from the light.
Strange and confusing reactions used to petrify.
He shakes her baby, she holds her tight.
In this place there is no retaliation.
She is the only domestic witness.
Between them exists no conversation.
He is the lord of her castle of distress.
In her imagination her life is a sitcom.
A channel where he doesn’t exist.
Tick tock, in the background there’s a bomb.
She is getting sick of playing the protagonist.
He is eating with ill humour.
She is knotting her hair.
He is sleeping.
Carmen Lahiff-Jenkins 2005
The man’s actions are punitive.
He is loitering in shadow.
His ugly scarred face is submissive.
He smashes her face into the bureau.
Freedom is unlikely, used to pacify.
Vandalised body to be kept from the light.
Strange and confusing reactions used to petrify.
He shakes her baby, she holds her tight.
In this place there is no retaliation.
She is the only domestic witness.
Between them exists no conversation.
He is the lord of her castle of distress.
In her imagination her life is a sitcom.
A channel where he doesn’t exist.
Tick tock, in the background there’s a bomb.
She is getting sick of playing the protagonist.
He is eating with ill humour.
She is knotting her hair.
He is sleeping.
Carmen Lahiff-Jenkins 2005
Monday, May 12, 2008
Excommunication and Mary MacKillop
I've been meaning to put up some images of the christening and Grace's birthday. Hamish and I felt so honored to be asked to be the god parents, we had never been asked before; however, when we were up there I suddenly felt a little bit like a hypocrite - I'm not religious and I don't believe in God. I don't want to take the values of someone else and belittle them with my actions and I felt worried that although this day had meaning for others, all it meant to me was something special for Grace, which is of course enough; isn't it?
The Catholic Church is such a crock of rubbish, Hamish isn't even a catholic, he from the Uniting Church, in fact there was a time there in the mid 90s when I worked hard to be excommunicated, (and it looks like I would have been) a fabulous term and concept for officially being kicked out of the church - I wonder if other religions have this tool for dumping undesirables - I wonder if priests who interfere with children are excommunicated? (They aren't - they just lose their position in communion with their fellow priests etc)
(Taken from Wikipedia)
There are a few offenses that, in and of themselves, lead to automatic excommunication from the Catholic Church:
Apostasy (canon 1364),
Heresy (canon 1364),
Schism (canon 1364),
Desecration of the Eucharist (canon 1367),
Physical violence against the Pope (canon 1370),
Attempted sacramental absolution of a partner in a sin against the sixth commandment of the Decalogue ("Thou shalt not commit adultery.") (canon 1378 §1),
Ordination of a bishop without papal mandate (canon 1382),
Direct violation of the sacramental seal of confession by a confessor (canon 1388),
Procurement of a completed abortion (canon 1398), or
Being a conspiring or necessary accomplice in any of the above (canon 1329).
Wow, how many people should have been dumped as a member of the church? Wikipedia also has a list link - check it out in case you're on it!
Sinead O'Connor has been excommunicated and so has Fidel Castro, also an excommunicationee that was later rescinded was Mary MacKillop. In 1871, Mary was wrongly excommunicated by Bishop Sheil, who was against most of the changes for which she had fought. (Mary and her Josephites were also involved with an orphanage, neglected children, girls in danger, the aged poor and, in Kapunda, South Australia, a reformatory, and a home for the aged and incurably ill. Generally, the Sisters were prepared to follow farmers, railway workers and miners into the isolated outback and live as they lived. They shared the same hardships whilst educating their children.) She was censured on the grounds that she had incited the sisters to disobedience and defiance in her school. Bishop Sheil had also complained that the participants of the school sang excessively. Following her excommunication, she travelled to Rome, explained her predicament to the Pope, and was reinstated in St Ignatius Church in 1872. Despite her ordeal she never publicly blamed the church leaders for their actions. What a gal! It's a good thing she kept quiet, she may have been excommunicated again.
(Taken from Wikipedia)
There are a few offenses that, in and of themselves, lead to automatic excommunication from the Catholic Church:
Apostasy (canon 1364),
Heresy (canon 1364),
Schism (canon 1364),
Desecration of the Eucharist (canon 1367),
Physical violence against the Pope (canon 1370),
Attempted sacramental absolution of a partner in a sin against the sixth commandment of the Decalogue ("Thou shalt not commit adultery.") (canon 1378 §1),
Ordination of a bishop without papal mandate (canon 1382),
Direct violation of the sacramental seal of confession by a confessor (canon 1388),
Procurement of a completed abortion (canon 1398), or
Being a conspiring or necessary accomplice in any of the above (canon 1329).
Wow, how many people should have been dumped as a member of the church? Wikipedia also has a list link - check it out in case you're on it!
Sinead O'Connor has been excommunicated and so has Fidel Castro, also an excommunicationee that was later rescinded was Mary MacKillop. In 1871, Mary was wrongly excommunicated by Bishop Sheil, who was against most of the changes for which she had fought. (Mary and her Josephites were also involved with an orphanage, neglected children, girls in danger, the aged poor and, in Kapunda, South Australia, a reformatory, and a home for the aged and incurably ill. Generally, the Sisters were prepared to follow farmers, railway workers and miners into the isolated outback and live as they lived. They shared the same hardships whilst educating their children.) She was censured on the grounds that she had incited the sisters to disobedience and defiance in her school. Bishop Sheil had also complained that the participants of the school sang excessively. Following her excommunication, she travelled to Rome, explained her predicament to the Pope, and was reinstated in St Ignatius Church in 1872. Despite her ordeal she never publicly blamed the church leaders for their actions. What a gal! It's a good thing she kept quiet, she may have been excommunicated again.
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