I had a day today. Not awes, not bad. I was getting a coffee at Monkey on Chapel street this afternoon and the owner lady is, some would say, 'out-there'. She's rather loud and vivacious and cool, I guess. Any way, I entered the cafe and she threw this question at me, 'How's ya day been?' Isn't it sort of awkward when you haven't had a rad day but for no particular reason and a stranger genuinely wants to know how it's been? So I ummed and ahhed for a little while and she said, "scale of one to ten?" and I said, "Awww....like a...si.....seven?" And she said, "Mate, that's pretty good!" (as she poured a shot of vodka) "That is pretty good considering!" Needless to say, I grabbed my coffee and scrammed.
Today I went to Elsternwick with Catchy with intentions to photocopy more resume zines at Officeworks but I got a call from one of the places I handed my resume in yesterday asking if I could come down and chat so I turned around and did that instead. It was a clothing store, I guess pretty boutique-y, stocking such brands as Cheap Monday, The Casette Society and Trash & Luxury. I walked down and got a bit nervous talking to the guy who seemed totally dismissive, like he wouldn't have been caught without a football under his arm in high school (I'm sorry to make that unfair assumption but he just made me feel the way those guys have made me feel I guess, so I connoted the two) and to be honest, he seemed totally disinterested. So I left the place after chatting for approximately a minute-and-a-half, feeling pretty deflated considering it was only half past one. I walked home, ate an orange over the sink, went to the doctor's, and then the Monkey incident happened and I went home...
where I then watched Can't Buy Me Love with a young Patrick Dempsey and a teeny tiny Seth Green and I totally dug it! So easy to watch...perfect for my simple little mind. It was funny and the fashion in it was interesting to watch, the stereotypes were depicted, yet still interesting, and I liked/could sympathise with almost all of the characters.
I read a publication Lauren picked up called Voiceworks tonight. It's a quarterly literary publication filled with pieces of prose written by independent, freelance writers, poets, university students or just writing enthusiasts and some of the works were really inspiring to me, especially a couple which were set in Melbourne in places where Lauren and I frequent.
"A coffee shop, gloomily romantic with its muted amber light. Degraves St, where people put on Italian accents to order their macchiatos, but I'm just as bad."
And little colloquialisms and humble descriptions that set up the imagery for a scene so honestly and simply:
"We sit curled upon the couch together, bare feet touching, barely talking. Drinking straight from a bottle of Chandon, we pass it back and forth. He's looking at me strangely, eyes sleepy-hooded.
'What?' I keep saying, and he says, 'Nothing,' and keeps staring. Then he tilts the bottle to my lips, but at too much of an angle so that when I drink, the wine slithers down my face a little and dribbles onto my collarbone.
'I want to tell you something,' I say, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. And then he kisses me, and I let him take off my top."
Those two excerpts were by a lady called Rebecca Browden. Lauren and I enjoyed her works the most.
By this hour, I am totally avoiding thinking about the fact that I have no job, because I know I am going to feel totally sick once I face it. Ohmigodthisishard.
She stood leaning over the sink with one foot perched into a triangle onto her other leg like a flamingo. Juice bled quickly out of the peeled orange in her hands and plopped heavily into the sink. Her eyes were tall and wide open, locked into a gaze which barely penetrated the glass of the kitchen window. She peeled the pith out of its belly button, discarding it with satisfaction. The segments cracked as the flesh was torn into two halves. "What the hell will I do?" She pondered as she squashed the orange in her mouth, disinterestedly. The juice travelled smoothly down her throat as she ripped the rest of the orange apart, piece by piece. "Imagine if we had certain days each of us were supposed to wash up? We probably wouldn't stick to it..." A cloud of heat blew into her rib cage and up into her chest and sat under her collarbone. "What the hell will I do?"
No comments:
Post a Comment