He was easily infuriated; it didn’t take much to ignite the fire in his eyes and open the door to let the raging demons run loose. The steel cage that contained his emotions wasn’t steel in fact. It bore no protective outer layer; his spitting ferocity and discontent danced and spiralled between the bars, threatening to lash out at any moment.
He didn’t want to be a part of the Race; he resented his alarm clock and its neon green digits, resented the tailored wool blend suits that filled his wardrobe with dull hues of black and grey; resented the weight of the briefcase that dragged against his fingers, his arm, his heart, leaving them all blistered, raw, exhausted, sapped of life.
He hated rats, considered them vermin.
His facial features formed straight and defined lines – his mouth was small and pursed, eyebrows narrowed, forehead disappearing into a sea of creases that were made more apparent by his meticulously ironed white shirt.
Subconsciously he rehearsed exercises that gave him a discreet advantage in the Race. He gulped down the bitter coffee from the café next to the train station, read over notes once, twice, three times until he mumbled them in his dreams. As his Italian leather shoes pounded the pavements littered with cigarette butts, he saw not the vague city skyline in the distance, but a ladder, with rungs that he had no choice but to climb, to conquer.
He frowned at the girl smiling to herself as she pushed through the ticket barriers at the train station, struggling against the tide of business attire that threatened to crush her. He scowled at her evident energy, her glee at entering the confines of the city streets, her youth, her colour that danced against the wave of black and grey.
Her flippancy made him clench his teeth in anger; he twisted the Metcard between his fingers as he watched a different set of neon numbers tick over, cursing ever second that he was trapped in a nest of squeaking, and squirming, of bright pink eyes and bald tails.
He smelt the damp and decrepit odour of rodents wash away from him as he turned his key in the lock, as he heard the thump of footsteps running along the hallway. The immense public stench of the train was replaced as wafts of dinner cooking tickled his nose; the stuffy warmth that came from too many humans in one place subsided as the cool night air touched his face before he stepped inside the front door.
The lines disappeared; the fury evaporated; the man who thrashed his way through the pack to reach the ladder first no longer existed. He buried his face into her hair, cradled her tiny frame against him, knowing that she would be wiping whatever was on her fingers onto his suit jacket, of which the cost could feed an entire family for a month – but he didn’t care, as he had dropped the weight at the bottom of the stairs, where it was to remain as he helped her cut up her dinner, bathed her, read to her, was there to kiss her goodnight.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
'The world would be boring if we were all the same'
It was an artificial and fluorescently lit environment, a perfect feeding ground for daydreams and the brewing of longwinded thoughts and fables. What’s more, a window stretched from floor to ceiling, providing a view of the car park and stretch of main road, where even average behaviour was considered flamboyant.
Suburbia is breeding ground for The Grey (AC, 2009) because it’s this halfway existence between two drastic worlds. Souls get lost on their way to the city or the country, and die halfway in between, coming to a quiet rest on streets with identical footpaths, streetlights, rendered houses with Astroturf-apparent front lawns, a station wagon in the driveway and curtains hemmed by mothers-in-laws. If you walk too slowly through the suburbs (and no city does suburbia like Melbourne) you’ll get lost, and you’ll forget what the moon looks like without an orange ring encircling it.
Suburbia is safe, everything is comfortably within reach and its complete lack of anything unusual or unexpected means it’s an easy place to be a child, raise a family, grow old. But the thought of carrying out an entire life cycle in suburbia (like the cicadas that creak from the median strips, protesting against the council workers mowing down unruly grass) is positively eye-glazing. I feel grateful for the early years spent in salt-encrusted coastal towns, for the childhood past in a place where there was no supermarket because the heritage listing wouldn’t allow it.
I lost something when I was drifting through the middle-class paradise, while the windows lit with golden light, showing silhouettes of families eating dinner, blinked at me. I dropped it into the gutter, where fallen leaves don’t remain for long (we pay hideously expensive council rates for a reason, you know) and it was lost for a while. It reappeared one muggy afternoon when I was crushed against the window of a tram rattling towards Brunswick Road, I felt it drop into my pocket. It had lost its shine and it took me a time to realise how to polish it clean again.
Suburbia is breeding ground for The Grey (AC, 2009) because it’s this halfway existence between two drastic worlds. Souls get lost on their way to the city or the country, and die halfway in between, coming to a quiet rest on streets with identical footpaths, streetlights, rendered houses with Astroturf-apparent front lawns, a station wagon in the driveway and curtains hemmed by mothers-in-laws. If you walk too slowly through the suburbs (and no city does suburbia like Melbourne) you’ll get lost, and you’ll forget what the moon looks like without an orange ring encircling it.
Suburbia is safe, everything is comfortably within reach and its complete lack of anything unusual or unexpected means it’s an easy place to be a child, raise a family, grow old. But the thought of carrying out an entire life cycle in suburbia (like the cicadas that creak from the median strips, protesting against the council workers mowing down unruly grass) is positively eye-glazing. I feel grateful for the early years spent in salt-encrusted coastal towns, for the childhood past in a place where there was no supermarket because the heritage listing wouldn’t allow it.
I lost something when I was drifting through the middle-class paradise, while the windows lit with golden light, showing silhouettes of families eating dinner, blinked at me. I dropped it into the gutter, where fallen leaves don’t remain for long (we pay hideously expensive council rates for a reason, you know) and it was lost for a while. It reappeared one muggy afternoon when I was crushed against the window of a tram rattling towards Brunswick Road, I felt it drop into my pocket. It had lost its shine and it took me a time to realise how to polish it clean again.
Monday, January 11, 2010
When it started raining
1. Being dumped by a wave
A tremulous torrent of water, sucking at the tide and gaining strength as it rolls towards the shore. Dark heads bobbing at the breaking point.
The ocean swelled, an angry wall of water forming, the wave curving into a tip, breaking along the shore in a continuous cascade of water, a thunderous crack pummelling beneath the surface, churning water beneath its depths.
The swimmers decide – those armed with boards leap into the wave’s path, riding along its frothing edge until there is no more water. Then there are those without, some of who face the wave head on, attempting to stand against its wrath. The others (the smart ones?) dive beneath it, closing their eyes against the salt water fury and hoping to emerge on the other side, of calm.
The unlucky one is swept off their feet in the ocean’s rampage. Far from giddy and light-headed (the usual associated feelings with being swept off your feet) they are tossed beneath the blue concrete, paralysed momentarily as their limbs fight against the water surging against them from every direction.
An attempted fight is futile; an effort to gasp for air is wasted, because the wave has surged into every crevice of the world that they occupy. They will be tossed throughout the passage of water, whipped and wrung relentlessly with more momentum than the spin cycle on a washing machine, until – respite.
They will reappear in the shallows, coughing, gasping, spluttering, salt water bile streaming from eyes, mouth, nose, burning. Oxygen has a newfound glory; they cannot breathe in fast enough, inflating lungs scratchy with sand and salt. The wave’s victim is bent over, winded, as the smaller waves, offsets of the beast that created such turmoil, lap around their ankles. Already the sea is swirling again, waiting, biding time.
2. The silver ring with the green stone
Miles and miles of fields, blurring into a continuous strip of green. Miles and miles of road, stretched out before them, the bitumen smooth and dark, edges neat and finished. White windmills whirred gently in the breeze, giant arms reaching towards the April sky. It wasn’t cold, so two coats were unnecessary. The box was small, and unexpected. The green stone was set in silver, fit on the third finger on one’s right hand. She would stretch out her fingers like a starfish to admire it, the only piece of jewellery on otherwise bare hands. She did remember everything about that car ride.
3. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles
Fake strawberry flavour is generally more appetising than fake cherry flavour. The icing that is slathered on bakery donuts is the epitome of baby pink. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles will be chosen above donuts with chocolate icing and sprinkles.
A tremulous torrent of water, sucking at the tide and gaining strength as it rolls towards the shore. Dark heads bobbing at the breaking point.
The ocean swelled, an angry wall of water forming, the wave curving into a tip, breaking along the shore in a continuous cascade of water, a thunderous crack pummelling beneath the surface, churning water beneath its depths.
The swimmers decide – those armed with boards leap into the wave’s path, riding along its frothing edge until there is no more water. Then there are those without, some of who face the wave head on, attempting to stand against its wrath. The others (the smart ones?) dive beneath it, closing their eyes against the salt water fury and hoping to emerge on the other side, of calm.
The unlucky one is swept off their feet in the ocean’s rampage. Far from giddy and light-headed (the usual associated feelings with being swept off your feet) they are tossed beneath the blue concrete, paralysed momentarily as their limbs fight against the water surging against them from every direction.
An attempted fight is futile; an effort to gasp for air is wasted, because the wave has surged into every crevice of the world that they occupy. They will be tossed throughout the passage of water, whipped and wrung relentlessly with more momentum than the spin cycle on a washing machine, until – respite.
They will reappear in the shallows, coughing, gasping, spluttering, salt water bile streaming from eyes, mouth, nose, burning. Oxygen has a newfound glory; they cannot breathe in fast enough, inflating lungs scratchy with sand and salt. The wave’s victim is bent over, winded, as the smaller waves, offsets of the beast that created such turmoil, lap around their ankles. Already the sea is swirling again, waiting, biding time.
2. The silver ring with the green stone
Miles and miles of fields, blurring into a continuous strip of green. Miles and miles of road, stretched out before them, the bitumen smooth and dark, edges neat and finished. White windmills whirred gently in the breeze, giant arms reaching towards the April sky. It wasn’t cold, so two coats were unnecessary. The box was small, and unexpected. The green stone was set in silver, fit on the third finger on one’s right hand. She would stretch out her fingers like a starfish to admire it, the only piece of jewellery on otherwise bare hands. She did remember everything about that car ride.
3. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles
Fake strawberry flavour is generally more appetising than fake cherry flavour. The icing that is slathered on bakery donuts is the epitome of baby pink. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles will be chosen above donuts with chocolate icing and sprinkles.
So this is what you're going to do
Airports are peculiar places, these giant havens of people in transit, coming and going, assembled in eclectic groups that you wouldn’t find in any other circumstance; accompanied by luggage, trolleys, surfboards, wheelchairs, prams, toddlers, grandmothers. Though everyone is there for the same fundamental purpose (board a plane, flip through a magazine in a bored fashion, pay ridiculous amounts for cardboard-tasting aeroplane food, sleep in a grossly uncomfortable position whilst trying not to dribble on the person sitting next to you, disembark feeling groggy and covered in travel grime, eager to reach your actual destination outside the airport) nobody’s journey is the same. This bizarre hub of transport is the only time two people from opposite sides of the world may walk across the same tiled floor, passport in hand, clutching a ticket for a holiday, year-long adventure, new life, new start.
Open, raw emotion is something one would expect to find frequently in such a place where hellos and goodbyes are said at every waking minute of the day - people with torrents of tears gushing down their faces; happy tears, sad tears, exhausted, frustrated, angry tears. People shaking with quakes of laughter; relieved laughter, amused laughter, laugh-so-you-don’t-cry laughter. Though this might be the common belief (that stark emotion is more easily stumbled upon than a freshly made sandwich), more careful reflection reveals that this may just be as a result of watching Love Actually too many times and being slightly overwhelmed by the shiny-eyed credits that roll at the start of the film, showing people flying into different forms of embrace as they pour into Arrivals at Heathrow Airport. After spending 45 minutes in a queue in Charles De Gaulle airport, surrounded by utterly composed people looking with concern and fear at the girl blubbering harder than an angry whale, it could be said that airports are not quite as full of unbridled displays of emotion as first expected.
As in any situation where peoples’ usual routines are disrupted, it’s always entertaining to observe the means some will go to in order to preserve some kind of semblance of normality. Most commonly stumbled upon are the families with younger children who will gather around one communal suitcase (a makeshift table) and eat a breakfast consisting of three-day old muffins, juice and dubious looking fruit, balancing their meals on serviettes and making idle conversation even though their eyes are jumping out of their heads with exhaustion and announcements are blaring from the loudspeakers. Others include those who want a good night’s sleep and won’t let anything or anyone stop them – I’ve always envied those who can curl up on a row of seats with a blanket, pillow and eye mask and enjoy a deep slumber for the eight hours before their flight, unphased by the possibility of someone stealing all of their possessions or drawing something in permanent texta on their face.
Airports seem a permanent fixture within the means of travel now; the huge, dry and dusty island that is Australia has ensured plane trips are virtually inevitable for most who live here. So for the eons to come, we’ll still shove our belongings into suitcases (cursing the 23 kilogram limit per person) waste time at boarding gates, stare blankly at the air hostesses performing the safety proceedings, watch the city lights disappear beneath a blanket of cloud, pass minutes, hours, days with magazines and crossword puzzles, watch movies that fail to distract you from your furiously-protesting body clock, itchy eyes and cramped legs, wait in queues at Customs, at baggage terminals, all to walk through the automatic doors into a crowd of expectant people, only to see the person waiting to the side for you, to welcome you to this home, for now, here.
Open, raw emotion is something one would expect to find frequently in such a place where hellos and goodbyes are said at every waking minute of the day - people with torrents of tears gushing down their faces; happy tears, sad tears, exhausted, frustrated, angry tears. People shaking with quakes of laughter; relieved laughter, amused laughter, laugh-so-you-don’t-cry laughter. Though this might be the common belief (that stark emotion is more easily stumbled upon than a freshly made sandwich), more careful reflection reveals that this may just be as a result of watching Love Actually too many times and being slightly overwhelmed by the shiny-eyed credits that roll at the start of the film, showing people flying into different forms of embrace as they pour into Arrivals at Heathrow Airport. After spending 45 minutes in a queue in Charles De Gaulle airport, surrounded by utterly composed people looking with concern and fear at the girl blubbering harder than an angry whale, it could be said that airports are not quite as full of unbridled displays of emotion as first expected.
As in any situation where peoples’ usual routines are disrupted, it’s always entertaining to observe the means some will go to in order to preserve some kind of semblance of normality. Most commonly stumbled upon are the families with younger children who will gather around one communal suitcase (a makeshift table) and eat a breakfast consisting of three-day old muffins, juice and dubious looking fruit, balancing their meals on serviettes and making idle conversation even though their eyes are jumping out of their heads with exhaustion and announcements are blaring from the loudspeakers. Others include those who want a good night’s sleep and won’t let anything or anyone stop them – I’ve always envied those who can curl up on a row of seats with a blanket, pillow and eye mask and enjoy a deep slumber for the eight hours before their flight, unphased by the possibility of someone stealing all of their possessions or drawing something in permanent texta on their face.
Airports seem a permanent fixture within the means of travel now; the huge, dry and dusty island that is Australia has ensured plane trips are virtually inevitable for most who live here. So for the eons to come, we’ll still shove our belongings into suitcases (cursing the 23 kilogram limit per person) waste time at boarding gates, stare blankly at the air hostesses performing the safety proceedings, watch the city lights disappear beneath a blanket of cloud, pass minutes, hours, days with magazines and crossword puzzles, watch movies that fail to distract you from your furiously-protesting body clock, itchy eyes and cramped legs, wait in queues at Customs, at baggage terminals, all to walk through the automatic doors into a crowd of expectant people, only to see the person waiting to the side for you, to welcome you to this home, for now, here.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Earl Grey is for special occasions
The origin of certain things can be traced back, grabbed onto like a persistent garden weed wrenched upwards out of the ground until the roots are exposed, trailing clumps of dirt. If you look hard enough, the grains of soil can tell you more.
There are some things in life that you are unable to choose whether you like or not; they are ingrained into you, learned behaviour that you have no say in - copied patterns from the people surrounding you during the years you are cherub-faced and impressionable. Later in life, you may be exposed to the alternate by outsiders; decide that it's better and change - sometimes not, and these learned behaviour patterns (that you only follow because your mum does, and her mum did) will reign supreme.
'Do you want a cup of tea?'
A negative answer to the above question always unnerves me slightly. If I'm faced with an emotionally traumatic situation in which the person involved doesn't drink tea, I'm generally at a loss with what to do. Isn't a hot, sweet cup of tea the answer to all woes? Milo just doesn't cut it and coffee isn't exactly in the soothing comfort category.
There used to be three cups, one for each of us. They descended in size according to our age, though the mugs didn't grow with us as you would expect them to. Before I was old enough to see over the top of the table, I would balance precariously on the brown vinyl chair and heap spoonfuls of sugar into my cup into which the teabag had only been dipped once or twice, meaning there was only the slightest brown tinge to the milky rim on the surface. We didn't sip, we slurped, we didn't nibble at shortbread, we sucked the warm tea through a Tim Tam and shovelled it into our mouths before the inevitable catastrophe occured (the Tim Tam melting and falling into the bottom of the cup, forever lost).
As I got older the tea got stronger - the two heaped sugars was cut down to one, then none - the teabag now remains in my cup instead of being strained seconds after it was thrown into the boiling water. Of the three stained ceramic mugs that used to line the kitchen bench as the kettle shook and boiled, mine is the only one that remains - my brother and sister are now far less committed tea drinkers than I am.
Tea is the ultimate social tool, a fabulous procrastination device - couldn't study without a cup of tea - a way to fill in empty minutes (it wasn't just the drinking practice itself, but the fussing with the kettle, the milk - it ate away at awkward silences more furiously than termites at wood bearings).
A morning without a cup of tea feels strange, I feel displaced, like I've forgotten to moisturise my face - my skin is taut, I'm impeccably thirsty and no amount of water will quench my dehydration that craves only one thing. Even if I haul myself from bed fifteen minutes before I'm due to leave the house, I'll boil the kettle and make a tea that I'll only take a few gulps from, usually burning my mouth and leaving a cup that's three-quarters full, the tea bag floating on top. I leave a trail of tea carnage in my wake, increasingly mouldy cups littering different surfaces until I finally run out of clean mugs and have to wash them all.
I feel a powerful connection with fellow tea-drinkers - it's always comforting to find that a similar passion exists in a friend or accquaintance. The ultimate satisfaction is in a shared pot of tea, or making a cup for somebody else - drinking it together, even if it's not quite how you'd normally have it, is incredibly warming.
There are some things in life that you are unable to choose whether you like or not; they are ingrained into you, learned behaviour that you have no say in - copied patterns from the people surrounding you during the years you are cherub-faced and impressionable. Later in life, you may be exposed to the alternate by outsiders; decide that it's better and change - sometimes not, and these learned behaviour patterns (that you only follow because your mum does, and her mum did) will reign supreme.
'Do you want a cup of tea?'
A negative answer to the above question always unnerves me slightly. If I'm faced with an emotionally traumatic situation in which the person involved doesn't drink tea, I'm generally at a loss with what to do. Isn't a hot, sweet cup of tea the answer to all woes? Milo just doesn't cut it and coffee isn't exactly in the soothing comfort category.
There used to be three cups, one for each of us. They descended in size according to our age, though the mugs didn't grow with us as you would expect them to. Before I was old enough to see over the top of the table, I would balance precariously on the brown vinyl chair and heap spoonfuls of sugar into my cup into which the teabag had only been dipped once or twice, meaning there was only the slightest brown tinge to the milky rim on the surface. We didn't sip, we slurped, we didn't nibble at shortbread, we sucked the warm tea through a Tim Tam and shovelled it into our mouths before the inevitable catastrophe occured (the Tim Tam melting and falling into the bottom of the cup, forever lost).
As I got older the tea got stronger - the two heaped sugars was cut down to one, then none - the teabag now remains in my cup instead of being strained seconds after it was thrown into the boiling water. Of the three stained ceramic mugs that used to line the kitchen bench as the kettle shook and boiled, mine is the only one that remains - my brother and sister are now far less committed tea drinkers than I am.
Tea is the ultimate social tool, a fabulous procrastination device - couldn't study without a cup of tea - a way to fill in empty minutes (it wasn't just the drinking practice itself, but the fussing with the kettle, the milk - it ate away at awkward silences more furiously than termites at wood bearings).
A morning without a cup of tea feels strange, I feel displaced, like I've forgotten to moisturise my face - my skin is taut, I'm impeccably thirsty and no amount of water will quench my dehydration that craves only one thing. Even if I haul myself from bed fifteen minutes before I'm due to leave the house, I'll boil the kettle and make a tea that I'll only take a few gulps from, usually burning my mouth and leaving a cup that's three-quarters full, the tea bag floating on top. I leave a trail of tea carnage in my wake, increasingly mouldy cups littering different surfaces until I finally run out of clean mugs and have to wash them all.
I feel a powerful connection with fellow tea-drinkers - it's always comforting to find that a similar passion exists in a friend or accquaintance. The ultimate satisfaction is in a shared pot of tea, or making a cup for somebody else - drinking it together, even if it's not quite how you'd normally have it, is incredibly warming.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Do you think I could get a skin transplant?
'Maybe you're just not tanned because you've never tried to tan,' she said to me as we bounced along in the bus towards Henley Beach, circa summer 2004, the air conditioning struggling against the 39 degree heat that lashed against the windows.
'Maybe...' I mused, slathering myself in the standard inch-thick layer of SPF30+ waterproof sunscreen that had been a beach companion since before I was a foeutus. I'd only recently escaped the knee-to-neck sun suits that zipped up in the middle and came in invasive fluroescent colours (my sister and I had matching ones, of course). I was the kid who wore a hat when she went swimming - not a cool bucket hat either, with the tidy little brim, but the broad-brimmed cricket-player equivelant hats, which, combined with the coating of zinc smeared across my nose and lips, was all I needed to be a serious contender for the Australian cricket team. I've had freckles since before I could walk, known what melanoma was before I could talk. Growing up on the Eyre Peninsula means I've always loved the beach; it's just sad that the beach has never loved me in quite the same way.
'I'm sure it's that,' she said. 'You just have to turn over ever 20 minutes and you won't get burnt. Trust me.'
I eyed her dubiously, her dark olive skin bearing apparent evidence of her foolproof suntanning theory. I wish I'd been able to fast-forward to the moment where I would be standing in front of my bathroom mirror, the whites of my eyes glowing extra white because my face was so red, skin so tight it felt like it was about to split open, radiating positively purple heat with blisters quickly forming on my back.
We trekked down onto the hot sand, hurtling towards the shallow tide pools that had been left there overnight. It was the middle of the day, the sun high in the sky. We'd commented on how deliciously deserted the beach was (at 1pm on a 39-degree day, how funny!) and threw down our towels in the middle of the sand, making tracks towards the water.
After a lengthy hour bobbing around in the shallows, making sure all of my sunscreen had completely evaporated from my poor desperately-seeking-protection skin, we basked in the shallow pools of water - 'just to warm up.' I'm surprised that my memory didn't jog the last time I had lain in the sun 'just to warm up' - Dad had taken us to Victor, sans Mum - aka the inflictor of the sun suits, reapplication of sunscreen every half hour and hats so big you could make a parachute out of them - and let us take off our sun tops for twenty minutes after we'd been in the water. My eyes still water at the memory of the sting of the sunburn on my calves, my back, the not-so-gentle slap of moisturiser that had been furiously rubbed into my poor cooked skin.
We crept back onto the concrete after lying in the sun for a substantial 2-hours. We were both flushed and pink; utterly dehydrated from the salt and the fact no water had passed our lips since the moment we'd schlepped across Henley Square from the bus stop. Everything was too bright and loud, the subsiding heat brought white spots in front of my eyes.
Because of the ways of the world, and the variables that always seem to stack up in the wrong direction, the worst sunburn I've ever had coincided with the start of the new school year - even after the fiery, unstoppable pain stopped lashing at every inch of skin that hadn't been covered by bathers, there was the subsequent peeling of skin - a wrath that I not only suffered but she did as well; the 20 minute rule was thrown to the wind as we held our breaths and waited for it all to be over - because there's no amount of makeup that can cover the torment, and even if you might've managed it -
'Is your earlobe peeling?'
'Maybe...' I mused, slathering myself in the standard inch-thick layer of SPF30+ waterproof sunscreen that had been a beach companion since before I was a foeutus. I'd only recently escaped the knee-to-neck sun suits that zipped up in the middle and came in invasive fluroescent colours (my sister and I had matching ones, of course). I was the kid who wore a hat when she went swimming - not a cool bucket hat either, with the tidy little brim, but the broad-brimmed cricket-player equivelant hats, which, combined with the coating of zinc smeared across my nose and lips, was all I needed to be a serious contender for the Australian cricket team. I've had freckles since before I could walk, known what melanoma was before I could talk. Growing up on the Eyre Peninsula means I've always loved the beach; it's just sad that the beach has never loved me in quite the same way.
'I'm sure it's that,' she said. 'You just have to turn over ever 20 minutes and you won't get burnt. Trust me.'
I eyed her dubiously, her dark olive skin bearing apparent evidence of her foolproof suntanning theory. I wish I'd been able to fast-forward to the moment where I would be standing in front of my bathroom mirror, the whites of my eyes glowing extra white because my face was so red, skin so tight it felt like it was about to split open, radiating positively purple heat with blisters quickly forming on my back.
We trekked down onto the hot sand, hurtling towards the shallow tide pools that had been left there overnight. It was the middle of the day, the sun high in the sky. We'd commented on how deliciously deserted the beach was (at 1pm on a 39-degree day, how funny!) and threw down our towels in the middle of the sand, making tracks towards the water.
After a lengthy hour bobbing around in the shallows, making sure all of my sunscreen had completely evaporated from my poor desperately-seeking-protection skin, we basked in the shallow pools of water - 'just to warm up.' I'm surprised that my memory didn't jog the last time I had lain in the sun 'just to warm up' - Dad had taken us to Victor, sans Mum - aka the inflictor of the sun suits, reapplication of sunscreen every half hour and hats so big you could make a parachute out of them - and let us take off our sun tops for twenty minutes after we'd been in the water. My eyes still water at the memory of the sting of the sunburn on my calves, my back, the not-so-gentle slap of moisturiser that had been furiously rubbed into my poor cooked skin.
We crept back onto the concrete after lying in the sun for a substantial 2-hours. We were both flushed and pink; utterly dehydrated from the salt and the fact no water had passed our lips since the moment we'd schlepped across Henley Square from the bus stop. Everything was too bright and loud, the subsiding heat brought white spots in front of my eyes.
Because of the ways of the world, and the variables that always seem to stack up in the wrong direction, the worst sunburn I've ever had coincided with the start of the new school year - even after the fiery, unstoppable pain stopped lashing at every inch of skin that hadn't been covered by bathers, there was the subsequent peeling of skin - a wrath that I not only suffered but she did as well; the 20 minute rule was thrown to the wind as we held our breaths and waited for it all to be over - because there's no amount of makeup that can cover the torment, and even if you might've managed it -
'Is your earlobe peeling?'
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Tower
'You won't do it.'
'What do you mean I won't do it? Yes I will.'
'I'll bet you anything you won't.'
'How much?'
'I'm just saying, I don't think you'll do it.'
'Well I'm definitely going to now that you've said that.'
She hadn't surveyed her options at all, just tilted her chin defiantly and crossed her arms insistently in the muggy morning heat. Muggy morning heat that smelt of beer. The table was littered with bottles and other remnants of the previous night's activities. She washed the dishes, dropping a glass in the process, smashing splinters of glass across the sticky kitchen floor.
It felt like Sunday. She had wrung the sand out of unwashed bathers and was the last one to climb into the rusted red Camry ('Why do you get to sit in the front? My legs are clearly longer').
She was already nervously assessing her decision. She'd been doing so before they swung into the car park of the beach, before he navigated the car uneasily along the outcrop of rocks to avoid the hefty swim from the beach to the Tower. She'd seen it before, joked that she would leap from it before, face lifted to the sky, full of carefree energy with no fear. But that was before, and as they piled out of the car and began clambering down the rocks, the fear ebbed through her, starting with her feet, which were already being gnarled at by the pointed rock edges. She attempted to propel herself forward faster, not wanting to be left behind by the lengthy steps and ruthlessness of those in front of her. They'd reached the edge; wasted no time in leaping forward into the sea that lapped at the tide line etched onto the rocks.
The cold water had hit her with a smack, and she frantically doggy-paddled against what she couldn't see, writhing against the unknown that could be lurking beneath her. She was breathing in panicky gasps, partly due to the unexpected chill of the water and partly due to the overwhelming panic at being left behind. 'Wait for me!' she wanted to shout out. Don't leave me behind, the littlest sister had said. She tried to swim in long lunges, tried to calm herself before grasping onto the rusted ladder at the base of the Tower.
They called out to her as she clambered up the first half of the ladder, before reaching the tangled mess of barbed wire and cage that was meant to prevent people from doing exactly what they were now.
She attempted to wedge herself through the gap, cursing feeble arm muscles and white bread and chocolate cake and everything that was making it difficult to spring with ease onto the top platform of the Tower. He grabbed her arms and relayed encouragement as she grappled against the wire that clung onto her ankles.
'I've got you!'
She felt as though she was flapping in the wind as her feet failed to grip at anything, a flag bearing a warning to the beach goers that watched them, with gazes that were a mixture of disapproval, amusement and curiosity. Would they jump? She'd watched others stand at the top of the Tower for hours as they tried to rally up the courage to plummet into the ocean below.
'The longer you stay up here the worse it gets.'
The barbed wire shredded at her feet and ankles (the moment she nearly fell would serve a reminder in the form of a purple scar on her heel). He finally wrenched her over the railings and the three of them stood closely together, the iron platform that had been heated by the sun's persistent rays warming the bottoms of their feet.
'I'm scared!' she shook, as they assessed the scene surrounding them. Were they a part of the sky? Is that what it felt like? Could she reach over and swipe at the wisp of cloud that seemed to float past? Not quite. Countless jellyfish dotted the sea beneath them, pummelling back and forth in that strange synchronised motion that only jellyfish do.
He climbed swiftly over the railing, eager to demonstrate to her what she had to do.
'...then you look to the sky, hold out your arms...and JUMP!'
The last word stretched out like a bungee cord as he rocketed into the water, emerging after a few moments with a grin stretched from ear to ear.
Now there were two.
'I'm not going until you do,' he said to her, assessing her shivery frame and knowing full well that if he left her up there by herself they would spend hours coaxing her down, cooking on the rocks as they waited for her to stem the fear that would keep oozing steadily, like the blood out of her cut feet.
She burbled a string of irrationality, making him laugh.
'Come on! Live a little.'
She remembered his surity of the fact that she wouldn't do it, allowing her to find the ability to climb through the railing and grip her toes over the edge.
She screamed as she shot through the air, her fear vanishing as adrenalin flooded through her veins; the powerful rush enveloping her as she sunk like a stone deep under the water, subsiding only slightly as she had to kick her legs to rush to the surface, lungs bursting for air.
'I told you I would do it!' she smiled, proud, exhausted. They tactfully made no mention of the doubt that had danced around her when it was just the three of them standing in the piece of springtime sky. They gave no congratulations either, nor sympathy as she limped to the car, muttering at the blood shed. There was just a silent sense of achievement, and they let her have her pride.
'What do you mean I won't do it? Yes I will.'
'I'll bet you anything you won't.'
'How much?'
'I'm just saying, I don't think you'll do it.'
'Well I'm definitely going to now that you've said that.'
She hadn't surveyed her options at all, just tilted her chin defiantly and crossed her arms insistently in the muggy morning heat. Muggy morning heat that smelt of beer. The table was littered with bottles and other remnants of the previous night's activities. She washed the dishes, dropping a glass in the process, smashing splinters of glass across the sticky kitchen floor.
It felt like Sunday. She had wrung the sand out of unwashed bathers and was the last one to climb into the rusted red Camry ('Why do you get to sit in the front? My legs are clearly longer').
She was already nervously assessing her decision. She'd been doing so before they swung into the car park of the beach, before he navigated the car uneasily along the outcrop of rocks to avoid the hefty swim from the beach to the Tower. She'd seen it before, joked that she would leap from it before, face lifted to the sky, full of carefree energy with no fear. But that was before, and as they piled out of the car and began clambering down the rocks, the fear ebbed through her, starting with her feet, which were already being gnarled at by the pointed rock edges. She attempted to propel herself forward faster, not wanting to be left behind by the lengthy steps and ruthlessness of those in front of her. They'd reached the edge; wasted no time in leaping forward into the sea that lapped at the tide line etched onto the rocks.
The cold water had hit her with a smack, and she frantically doggy-paddled against what she couldn't see, writhing against the unknown that could be lurking beneath her. She was breathing in panicky gasps, partly due to the unexpected chill of the water and partly due to the overwhelming panic at being left behind. 'Wait for me!' she wanted to shout out. Don't leave me behind, the littlest sister had said. She tried to swim in long lunges, tried to calm herself before grasping onto the rusted ladder at the base of the Tower.
They called out to her as she clambered up the first half of the ladder, before reaching the tangled mess of barbed wire and cage that was meant to prevent people from doing exactly what they were now.
She attempted to wedge herself through the gap, cursing feeble arm muscles and white bread and chocolate cake and everything that was making it difficult to spring with ease onto the top platform of the Tower. He grabbed her arms and relayed encouragement as she grappled against the wire that clung onto her ankles.
'I've got you!'
She felt as though she was flapping in the wind as her feet failed to grip at anything, a flag bearing a warning to the beach goers that watched them, with gazes that were a mixture of disapproval, amusement and curiosity. Would they jump? She'd watched others stand at the top of the Tower for hours as they tried to rally up the courage to plummet into the ocean below.
'The longer you stay up here the worse it gets.'
The barbed wire shredded at her feet and ankles (the moment she nearly fell would serve a reminder in the form of a purple scar on her heel). He finally wrenched her over the railings and the three of them stood closely together, the iron platform that had been heated by the sun's persistent rays warming the bottoms of their feet.
'I'm scared!' she shook, as they assessed the scene surrounding them. Were they a part of the sky? Is that what it felt like? Could she reach over and swipe at the wisp of cloud that seemed to float past? Not quite. Countless jellyfish dotted the sea beneath them, pummelling back and forth in that strange synchronised motion that only jellyfish do.
He climbed swiftly over the railing, eager to demonstrate to her what she had to do.
'...then you look to the sky, hold out your arms...and JUMP!'
The last word stretched out like a bungee cord as he rocketed into the water, emerging after a few moments with a grin stretched from ear to ear.
Now there were two.
'I'm not going until you do,' he said to her, assessing her shivery frame and knowing full well that if he left her up there by herself they would spend hours coaxing her down, cooking on the rocks as they waited for her to stem the fear that would keep oozing steadily, like the blood out of her cut feet.
She burbled a string of irrationality, making him laugh.
'Come on! Live a little.'
She remembered his surity of the fact that she wouldn't do it, allowing her to find the ability to climb through the railing and grip her toes over the edge.
She screamed as she shot through the air, her fear vanishing as adrenalin flooded through her veins; the powerful rush enveloping her as she sunk like a stone deep under the water, subsiding only slightly as she had to kick her legs to rush to the surface, lungs bursting for air.
'I told you I would do it!' she smiled, proud, exhausted. They tactfully made no mention of the doubt that had danced around her when it was just the three of them standing in the piece of springtime sky. They gave no congratulations either, nor sympathy as she limped to the car, muttering at the blood shed. There was just a silent sense of achievement, and they let her have her pride.
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