Monthly Archives: September 2009


The World According to Freshhh.


“Can I have another party so that I can pass out and people can come in and trash my kitchen again? That’s a big negatory, Charlie Bear.”

“I’m back from Canberra for good. Let’s face it, Canberra is shithouse.”

“Boombah, what have I done to deserve a demotion? Is this about your nickname? Boombah is a term of endearment if you say it with a smile.”

“Your thighs will be fuming soon. Mark. My. Words.”

“I like this Charlie Bear, you and me. Me, high. You, not. Walking. Walking down WALKING THE KAJFJIDDHSJDFIFNFing wrong way down the Pacific Highway. ARGH! I’m high. Why didn’t you take over the navigation controls?!”

“I have to stop kissing people, it’s gonna get me into trouble.”

And, finally.

“You don’t realise it, but you are playing along with the world order. Don’t worry Charlie Bear, I got yo back.”


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There are some mornings when you wake up with no expectations of your day. You have been having catastrophically bad weeks for as long as you can remember, and a good day constitutes getting through it with making at least one decision for yourself. But then you are pleasantly surprised, shocked even, to find something (and someone) who has been able to complete shift your mood. They pick you up in a way you had stopped believing in a long time ago.

And this, was one of those surprises.

I only sort of wrote this. It’s a voyeurs perspective on a personal situation. I’d say who but I think those who know will pick up on it and those who don’t are better left in the dark, just glad I got the okay on posting it, it was kind of hard to write.

These walls are thin, thinner than anyone would like. I could hear her every foot step, every time she got a message on her phone, flicking off the light switch and when she’d pull the blanket over her head in the morning for a moments more sleep when the sun peered through her window. I heard her giggle to herself, and sob, locked in her room, in her own little world.
There was a man who would come in. At first he made her happy but it seemed that he had been bringing her nothing but grief. I’d tried to turn up music or film so I couldn’t hear them. I felt like screaming through the wall or bashing it down to save her, but she’d only hate me for it, and I’m a rubbish plasterer.

He was there. He whispered to her, sincerely, maybe. I hoped so. I knew the sound of her move against the bed, his fingers moving down her back, that piece of her spine that gives her chills down her arms.
Silence whispered through the walls and I went about like I didn’t notice their midnight stillness so early in the night. She fit into his hands and found the place she was meant to be, but he never fit hers the same way.

Gripped bodies parted like the promises they’d made. Standing and kicking up the dust cutting a line around the edge under the bed where only toes could reach but nobody could see.
She has always had the key to leave her room, to enter another world. She hid it from herself, not wanting to even know it was there, no plans on leaving. Walking away from him she put the key in the lock and tried to turn.
Admitting the world is ending is hard enough, but no breath is big enough to prepare you for stepping into the cold unknown, and she stopped turning.


His voice still sounds sincere as he moves to her.
She’s frozen to her spot. He moves her with his breath down her neck, his nose against her ear, unfreezing her, easing her back into him and into the comfort of the room. She slips away and they fall to the ground, loosing the key to the dusty corner where nothing goes or moves, a constant in the comfort of the room.


She’s placed perfectly in the nook of his arm and body, happy to lay forever again. He stretches across the room in the Jesus Christ pose finding the key and placing it back in her hand. He plays the part of lover and friend, comforting her as he tells her to try the door again. He pulls her to her feet, treating her as though she’s his doll, but with her eyes shut she can’t see he’s playing the part of the puppeteer.
More false comfort and lies stolen from Hollywood scripts, from films that had class and magic. He unravels his twisted chords to make her neat again and guides her hand and key towards the lock. Under the guise of complements and sentimentality he stands unharmed and clean, but he picked up up only to throw her out.

And there it is. My day made. Someone who had picked up my writing and transformed it, giving it a new personality I never even contemplated. I’m still speechless, after a full days hospitality work and three hours of the worlds most boring essay topic I am speechless. And so incredibly humbled and happy for the first time in weeks.







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Neon Indian, my iPhone, Stephanie Rhodes, jade green stones, the sky when it is full of clouds that look like fairy floss, Guy Sebastians tatts, Ruby Claire, sending people bouquets of trees/branches, glittery Miu Miu shoes, Date Night!, Victoria Slaughter, making Victoria Slaughter go out on Date Night!, having little hauwssse parties in a teepee in my back garden, velvet dresses, having FB chat sessions with Victoria about what we find on NAP, spelt bread, playing with Buddha, learning how to drive an RC car, Guy Sebastians tatts, Kimberley Jackson, collecting limited edition designer books, ski season, figs and other assorted fruits, choosing my nail colour based on its name.


Fairy lights, faux otter fur blankets for my bed/couch/car, the colour grey in all its shades, toasted organic bread drizzled with freshly pressed olive oil and salt n’ pepper, matching my nails to the food I happen to be eating, elaborate gold photo frames, making lists of things to do and not do, dreaming about rockstars, pretending I can skate, making cocktails, drinking cocktails, bad music, Guy Sebastians tattooed arm, sitting with my Mac charger on my lap when I am cold, childhood romances, Hong Kong, early Norman Lindsay sketches, reinventing myself, writing essays for sociology, collecting bowls of colourful trinkets to brighten my room, my gaudy gold and diamonte key chain.


My cluttered bedroom, having things ordered and organised, reading blogs, sequinned tee shirt dresses worn with sparkly swan brooches, Lula Magazine, spending my days off at Fresh drinking copious amounts of coffee and having ridiculous conversations with the staff, tattooing myself, planning to one day make the tattoos permanent, British accents, buying things for my dowery box, elaborate wall hangings, being vegetarian, being cuddled, Alice bands, plane travel, seeing my best friends, going on epic drives, bright pink iPods, Drive My Car by The Beatles, dusk and daybreak.

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Completely and utterly, the Same Soul.

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She cried softly, little choking sobs. The outside world would have to strain to hear.

He stroked her back, asking her gently why she wouldn’t smile for him anymore. He longed for her joy.

She was after Forever, an always. A never-ending world for them.

He twirled her hair between his finger. Smile, he pleaded. His world was hers for keeps.


They held each other tightly. Gripped hands and feet. Knees slotting into knees. One clasped on tightly to the promises made in the dark lit night. Promises of keeps. The other gripped just as tightly, hoping that when the dust of broken promises finally settled, that their worlds would continue to turn and new days would continue to shine brightly as they always had.

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I have my key in the door, ready to turn and let myself back out into the real world. Our alternate universe no longer holds me in it’s grip. I just need to turn my key. I stand with my back to you, frozen. Release is so close. And I go to make the final click of a lock.

Baby, this isn’t the end. It’s a hiccup. Unexpected.

I can’t move my arm. It is stuck in a half turn, with a key unable to go forward or go back. You move closer to me. My body feels like a dead weight, heavy in thoughts that shoot through the soles of my feet and cement me to the floor.

Baby, look at me. Are you okay? I need to know you are okay.

Your breath is hot down my neck, I can feel your head behind my shoulder. And my head lulls itself to the side, I expose myself to the very things I am trying to escape. You come to rest, you brush the back of my ear softly with your nose. My arm begins to drop with the pain of everything.

I want this to be Us. To be You and I. I just need the time to realise.

The strength our of bond, our situation, comes crashing over my body. I crumble limb by limb and we both fall to the floor. The key bounces down from the lock into an unreachable corner and bags of belongings empty as the jars and bottles roll away.

I’m so sorry Baby, so sorry. You know I love you. I don’t want to be the one to walk away, to hurt you.












But then you do the strangest thing. Whilst I am paralysed on the floor, still facing the door, you move. You stretch out and grab the key to freedom. And you place it in my open palm and close my fingers around it tight. You tell me it is okay to go. And you pull me up.

Look at you, you beautiful and broken creature.

I’m like a doll in your arms. I stand there as you adjust my dress, my coat. You circle around me, straightening and fussing. You brush your fingers down my cheek as you fix my hair. Wipe the wisps away from my eyes. I don’t see you though. I don’t want to see you.

Let me help you. I wish you didn’t have to go.

And as you become my hands, putting my key back in the lock, you close my fingers around its cold, metal head and slowly peel away your grasp on my hand. You have put me right back to the start where I stood steadfast not just five minutes earlier. I now stand empty, unable to hold the weight of myself and my thoughts. 

I miss you already.

I’m not even gone. I don’t even have to go. But I am because you want me too. You have plied my emotions, you have destroyed my ability to stand strong in my original decisions and you have shown me the door. And made it seem like I was always the one who was walking away. But I wasn’t. You walked away when you helped me turn the lock.

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“I wanted you so badly to just become a Face. Like you used to be. A pretty, little Face whose heart I didn’t continue to break”.


The simple fact is, we now lay broken. Your face has been traced by my finger over and over as we lay, content in a peace that has now disappeared. My face can still feel your palm where it held my cheek as I used to lull into slumber on your lap. Your thumb resting underneath my nose.

Large chunks of our hearts and souls are scattered, not by anger but by a silent pain which we cannot fix. We cannot change the last three weeks and make them anything than what they are. But most importantly, we cannot change what we have become. We are more than a Face and it is our collective personalities that require nurturing and developing as we try and mend our broken hearts.


We’re beyond the point of no return, but we cannot possibly leave it with nothing to show for our journey.

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