Monthly Archives: November 2009

I’ve finally settled on a good description for my internals, my mind, body and soul you may say. They currently resemble a Kennards storage centre that has been ripped apart by a rogue, overfilled cardboard box. This in turn has created a chain reaction of explosions and now there are torn remnants of cardboard and scattered memories everywhere. It’s going to be a massive fucking cleanup and unfortunately, there is no clear starting point. It’s just messy.

I could start with some of the smaller boxes, the ones that only have a limited amount of damage. They are smouldering on the outer edges, the wispy trails of smoke filing out of their sides I am positive are just superficial and are just there are consequences of the other, bigger boxes. These are tiny boxes that haven’t, and will not be, opened. Ever. They contain small memory pockets that can just be forgotten; the roaming, over-friendly hands of a boy who was told more than once to stop, the street corner where you found yourself waiting and waiting for a guiding light when you were ‘removed’ from your home. They are boxes easily taped, cracks so barely noticeable. Nothing to worry about.

Perhaps I should tackle the junk box? That one where you cram all the shit that just doesn’t fit into the others and the crap that doesn’t deserve its own. It contains fleeting five-minute crushes, $500 ‘I want to look like Daria Werbowy but will never, ever wear this’ dresses and a smattering of those texts/emails/calls you truly wish you had never been drunk enough to make. The junk box was right near the epicentre of the explosion, but in all honestly it is just a box of random shit. Nothing terribly painful and nothing you can’t escape in future (I’m sure I’ll live to tell the tales of high-school crush turned ugly at 10yr reunion).

I guess I could begin with the problem. But that ain’t no fun at all. I know what made it burst. Cramming it full of failed relationships, broken friendships, stresses over uni and finances, inescapable family tensions. It was all piled up neatly in chronological order and now it is everywhere. Little smouldering heaps of carnage that have flown far and wide. There is shit all chance of me touching them when they could singe my hands still, burning embers have already gotten into my eyes and made them begin to tear up. No. I won’t deal with that one.

 


Maybe I should just close the door. It’s all a little overwhelming and I have better things to do with my time. If I close the door and let them sizzle maybe the Gods of Fire shall take pity on me and let the whole thing burn itself into a powdery ash, ready to be swept up and a fresh start to begin.

If not, I can always just get more boxes.

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A Guest Amongst.

I have this one friend, amazingly talented in graphic design and has a way with words that not many 20yr old males possess. I asked him and in turn he asked me to guest blog for one another. I didn’t know that the end product would end up so beautiful, or it would be so profound for me personally. In the way that sparkly shoes and new born babies can make your insides flutter this untitled piece by machinoir is just indescribable. Enjoy.

 

I should begin by apologising, I’m from Xanga. I know whitemoonrising through the real world, the one with photos not jpegs, where we actually laugh out loud, and in the case of my blog entry, the world where people suffer and are all too real at times. But there’s beauty in suffering, or so I’m told, and that’s where my post is coming from. From the conversations we have when it’s only us and a coffee rather than the wider circle of friends, drinking and making a scene, though we do that quite well also.
I wrote with whitemoonrising in mind while doing this, arguing online as we wrote for each other. By the end I came up with this story. No direct reflection on what she (or I) have written before, but something she seemed to appreciate.
She may prefer clothes by Rodarte, or for me to be nicer and less sarcastic, or for me to not argue when it comes to wearing colours and giving hugs. But I’m poor, crass and prefer to be dressed achromatically. So instead my gift to her is rather DIY, in a medium that brought us closer together.
xO, machinoir.

The white moon rises and lovers come out to play.

The midnight sun shines
and brothers and sisters,
and old mothers and fathers,
and the sad and single,
are all in bed,
dreaming of lovers of their own.

With deep shadows they dance
by streetlight and starlight,
by moonlight and the passers-by headlight,
and when they sneak between trees
to conceal themselves from view,
by a phones light or torch light.

The clockmaker, somehow, lost track of time.
No one clock worked but his wrist watch,
and he took it off to work.
He realised and buttoned his waist coat
and put on his military jacket.
The only jacket not in tatters
after he the clockmaker,
lost his seamstress wife.

He never packed up
and lately he hadn’t dusted.
It made it easier then to continue his work the next morning.
He found his keys where he left them,
wallet where he left it.
He put on his watch in his routine
but paused as a candle went out.
Among the many it made no real difference to the light in the shop,
but its end was … not sad, but, perhaps unfortunate.

He placed his watch on the burnt out candle,
taking the gesture further by pulling the pin to stop it.
He blew out the remaining candles and locked the shop.

Lovers skip by and giggle as he walked the one block home.
But he kept walking.
Past his home; or rather his house,
past the station and the train.
Past the garden where they kissed,
and the school where they met,
and the park where they walked,
and the village they shared a life in.

The lovers are admiring each other
and counting stars in the sky,
and tracing dots on each others bodies.
Now though they are watching the beauty of a tired old man,
lost on the lake path.
He approached the waters edge
to see his reflection,
but the water was not still enough.
He looked up to the sky,
silent and still,
older than him but never aging.

He approached a bench taken by a couple who moved on,
disturbed like birds on the beach.
He took off his jacket, waist coat and shirt,
and placed them neater than he cared to normally.
He took out his keys, kerchief and wallet
and set them on top of his clothes.
He sat by them to untie his shoes
and take them off with his socks.
His belt. His pants.

He walked to the water again and lowered himself in.
Then nothing.

Lovers pause as they pass
and some even stop.
Two couples by the bench seat,
and another further off,
watching on in curiosity,
simply admiring something beautiful.

The night seems to go forever.
By the time a young boy has come to his senses
out of the haze formed by his love,
and walks to the old man,
he has passed.

They don’t panic, but simply move him out of the water,
placing a picnic blanket over him and his belongings.
They try to rouse the police,
they try to rouse their family and friends,
but nobody will move,
so deep in sleep.

So the lovers are stuck
as the clock maker has passed,
and the night will go on forever,
with the moonlight
and the the lovers hearts
never fading.

 

Please visit his blog sometime: http://machinoir.xanga.com

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