Friday, 1 April 2011

Wax Poetic On, Wax Poetic Off

This is not the blog post I thought I was going to write. It never is. I am a blogpost medium ... blog posts are all swirling around."Pick me! Pick me!"

I usually always pick the loneliest and ugliest ones, for fricks sake.

::

Dave is coming back today after being away for over a week. I miss his presence in the house. It's hard, running into the laundry in the middle of the night holding a huge carving knife ...  screaming I CALLED THE COPS to all of the imaginary murderers. Real hard. I'm so tired.

Yesterday I walked into a large shopping centre that sells clothes like this:



After I took that photo, the salesgirl came up to me and said, "It's beautiful, isn't it?" I looked her right in the eyes, to detect any trace of humour ... no. She was serious. I said yes, it really was beautiful. (Fo' yo MAMA.)

Nothing was good. Uncomfortable in my own skin. A raw nerve ending. I wandered around. I sat having a chicken burger in the food hall at 11am, like a lost and lonely loser .... because I was a lost and lonely loser. Hey that's ok - it was the truth in that minute, Know Thyself and all that. I rang my sister Linda and she made me laugh so hard that people were giving me dirty looks. I am a loud laugher, people. At least I'm not sitting there feeding my kids nuggets and coke at 11am. (Just sitting in my glass house made of chicken burgers.)

I got a Chinese massage for 1.5 hours. It was the best. The woman treated my body with such tenderness she brought me to tears. She seemed to care more about me than I cared about me.

There's only curtains partitioning people in the massage place ... the chick next to me had a mobile phone that just kept ringing. Her ringtone blared, all four times it rang ... "Wake up in the mornin' feelin' like P. Diddy ..."

I was all Zen until Ke$ha kept interrupting. After an inordinate amount of time spent on my buttocks, I started to wonder if my massage therapist was coming on to me. What would I do if she did? It must have happened, somewhere in the world. If I googled "massage therapist made a pass at me .." I would probably read of someone's account of that, somewhere.

Do you ever get the feeling that google spoils finding shit out now? Back in the olden days, we had a stack of encyclopedias. My second dead dad used to just pull a random one out most nights and start reading it. Mostly because he was a wanker.

I wanted to get all Banksy-ified and write in a simple "E" to this next sign. Can you guess where?


                                               Unfortunate.

::

This post isn't going anywhere. Is it supposed to? My Spirit is a sad sack this week. That's ok. All I want to do is write poems. Every day in April for Taylor Mali and every Friday for Amy Turn Sharp. The whole world is a poem. I haven't written one in years. Well, only if you don't count my blog posts. Or the way I fold the laundry ... the way I love my babies ... the way I think about my first ever suicide note at the ripe old age of seven. All poetry.

The gap in my husbands bottom teeth is a poem. The letter from his oncologist. The cobwebs in the Buddha. The lines on my face; the marks etched into my chopping board and my heart.

Where do you hold your poems?
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