The Apathetic Enthusiast

Words without Me

I The Stranger

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              Today, I forgot myself. 
              When I woke up, I just left memories behind. 
              I saw them on my pillow as I went to leave, 
              but I couldn't remember what they were for, 
              or why I would need them, so I carried on 
              getting ready for the day without them.
              I went about my business without a worry. 
              Not much to mention in events, 
              but I think I learned a lot, about an everyday. 
              In some ways, it was the best day ever.
              And,
              By the time I made my way home, 
              the moon was out in full force. 
              Bright as anything and washing the clouds in silver. 
      A beauty of a sight. 
              I couldn't remember 
                         ever seeing 
                              something so 
                                        lovely.

The First Day

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                   Hitchhiking Hippies 
                   Shrinking dandylion crowns
                   Wind knotting wild hair

                   Peace signs thrown from car windows
                   Lost scarves on fences 
                   Carefree catches in the heat

                   Painted toes no shoes
                   Hundred dollar sundresses
                   And second hand hats

                   Town to bush and streets to sand
                   Spots for cloud watching
                   Seats for cold beer and burnt meat 

                   Water fights on decks
                   Lawn mowers echo of hills
                   Strangers share the sun 

                   Until the last day
                   When its too cold for those things
                   And the rain is back

Closed Tracks

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            Walking on trees
            Reminds me
            That I take light heartedness seriously
            Sarcastic with reality
            The storm pulls the pines down vertically 
            Soiled hands hold torn roots ceremonially
            This is a graveyard playground of balancing tom foolery
            Laughing in high winds on lost limbs precariously 
            I make the most of this tragedy with sombre mockery
            Tomorrows chainsaws will come with no sense of sympathy
            I can only take dirt home with me

Salty Cliff Air

April 10-14 145

        Under the protection of the roof 
        We climb the branches as high as we dare not to
        Red vines grow thick and fast along the kitchen walls
        Grasping blindly at our feet
        Wrapping themselves around our moon lit ladders 
        Desperate to catch us before we reach the stars

A Year of Taking Notes

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My friend Bailey was the first of my group to have a baby, ‘Baileys baby’ we all said when we heard, with a bit of an Elvis twang. She had wanted a painting from me for years, I had promised I would do one but I could never decide what it would be, and she said she didn’t mind. She was caring and cheerful and all I could see was a farm scene of unicorns and cats, which she would probably love but I wasn’t feeling it. So when she had her little guy I thought ‘brilliant, this I can do.’ I chose one of the first photos she posted, only a few days old, and set up the coffee table with all my supplies and got into it. Within a few hours I had a beautiful rendition of him. Soft skin and perfect colours. I had used the white of the canvas as the highlights, and his features where exactly where they should be. I was so proud and couldn’t wait to tell her.

Of course a few days later I picked it up again, set on doing a green background with leaves falling around him when I muddied the colours and placement of his face.
He was bruised, almost rotted. I felt him slip through my fingers, like he had been handed to me and I dropped him. I didn’t touch the painting for months after that, I couldn’t bare to look at it. I hid it in the cupboard and tried to forget about it, every now and then pulling it out and staring at the sick dwarfish face, desperately wishing I could take it back.

It was after a long night at work, usually me and one of the other girls would sneak off to the kitchen on a Saturday night while the bar and band was in full swing to polish and roll the cutlery for the next day. She would polish and I would roll, sometimes gossiping, sometimes in silence. Rolling cutlery was my favourite part of the job. I had it down to an art, every single roll was exactly alike, tight enough to hold upside down and loose enough to pull out the cutlery without effort. Not so dipped that it would destroy the napkin to unroll it, but they never came undone on their own. It was my ultimate OCD dream. But one night we were short staffed and I had to do it alone while the others held the floor and bar.

Instead of going to the kitchen, I quietly slipped through the glass doors into the function room just next to it. I liked this room, on busy nights I would have this all to myself, I would set romantic tables for two and family tables of fours to sixes. I would leave one door open for the smell from the kitchen and one closed for privacy from the chefs. I would have a candle lit on every table and a refreshing breeze stirring the air, and when the sun set, I would tilt the blinds just right and fill the room with bright orange dancing beams of light.

It was dark now though, empty and cold, all the chair legs up. I lit some candles just for me, keeping the lights off, sat at the farthest corner table and rolled each set of knife fork, spoon knife, fork spoon, perfectly.

When I was finished, I stared at the full baskets, napkins glowing silver blue in the darkness of the moonlight. It was then I remembered the story of Dorian Gray. His portrait painted so honestly and with so much love, that it had captured his soul. Had I rolled my soul into these utensils? How could I put so much of myself into something strangers used to eat with, wiping their mouths and dropping to the floor for me to pick up once they’d gone. I doubt anyone even noticed how efficient they were, or how beautifully they were placed in rows upon rows. And I was always rolling cutlery, it was a job never finished, I would fill basket after basket after basket and it never stayed full. I had rolled thousands. Hundreds a day. They were my accomplishment.

When I got home I set my paints up on the lounge floor and pulled out the painting that had been my undoing. I cleaned my brushes and looked for each stroke I needed to bring him back to life. And as I painted I saw him more and more, until I was staring face to face with my best friends son, dreaming with closed eyes that might open at any minute. I mixed a dark blue black oil and let it flow over the dead green leaves, from the edges of the canvas to his face, painting my soul into depth of the universe I wrapped in the blanket around him. When I was finished and the sun was rising, I scattered ink stars with small silver flicks of my brush, creating galaxies, without waiting for the paint to dry.

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The Long Road

IMG_2094 Silver sunset silhouettes
 Sleek and slender branches bared  
 In the unforgiving winter air
 Majestically unaware
 Of their natural beauty just by simply being there

Cold July

 April 10-14 709  When it's late and I'm alone 
And all I want to do is sleep
       The minutes pass me by

 And when I can't bare another
It comes
                   And it goes

					

The Island of Smoke

IMG_2718                     Further North than I thought
                           The drowning plateaued
                       And the sound let me sleep
                                      For a while

Fish in the sea

              It hurts to see you in shirts I don't recognize
              Tan from days in the sun without me
              All security disappears
              I am the fish I caught earlier today
              Tricked
              Caught
              Beaten
              Torn from water
              Blinded by light
              Thrown into dry darkness
              To Writhe
              To Panic
              A bucket of sweet home relief 
              Poured into my tomb
              One quick deep breath
              I am safe 
              Then you slit my throat and bleed me out

              To think I sat there watching myself die
              Trying not to be upset over a fish

Tight lips and Pockets

Every time I see them they are arguing about money, which makes me wonder why 
they bother going out at all. I have been their waitress at three different 
restaurants now and not once have they given me any sign of recognition. 
I try and relax the tension, one meal at a time, as any good waitress should, 
but they never let up. Once they even turned on me together, it was the chefs 
fault but at least they were united.
I see them on my days off sometimes, just around town. Her walking ahead, him 
pushing his wheel chair. I guess they don’t live too far. One day I saw them 
coming back from the beach, with six kids in toe. Three with mocha skin like 
hers, and three with freckles and long faces like his. They skipped along the 
side walk in pairs, matching in ages, laughing and screaming about ice cream. 
The couple charged on behind unsmiling, 
                                  hands clenched, 
                                             laden with shoes and wet towels.

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