Hacker

Is it the long list of pressing things that need to be done,
by a certain date, certain time
Maybe it's the ever-present drizzle
And the fear of slipping on the concrete in shoes not designed for wet weather.
Is it the forced imbibing of a book, published in 1986, that turned out to be pleasing to read, cocooned in a nest of featherdown with eyes itching from tiredness?
The leftover coffee foam is sugary sweet, remaining on the walls of the glass in a way I can't quite explain (perhaps because it's separated from the rest, just like this?)
I hid my disappointment in my generic choices, my wide and expansive choices
'I hate accounting, I hate numbers, I just don't understand them. I refuse to study something I hate.'
'It's education' he said. 'Sometimes you don't get a choice.'
I told her about this
As well as this vice of mine, that I maintain isn't an outpouring of emotion (I hate that, in a public forum).
Maybe it's because I need a response, a 5pm Monday response, that's why I'm this way inclined, today, yesterday? (Write it, write it, write it).

I'm just sayin'

1. 'We're dreaming of a bright white Christmas (and I'm crying like a newborn baby)'

In my dream I say this to you while I'm singing it, and secretly grin on the inside while I watch your forehead terse in disgust and confusion. I wait for the familiar spiel that I now know, and dream-like me doesn't feel the cold so manages to find it that much funnier. I mentally prepare myself to ask the questions I already know the answers to.

'I've been through this with you before - snow isn't pretty. It might look pretty while it's falling down in little flakes but the next day it turns to slush, and then it turns to ice.'

'But at Christmas isn't it pretty, you're inside with the lovely fire and all the Christmas images that are plastered all over everything match how it actually is outside.'

'No, because it hardly ever snows at Christmas, it's just fucking cold. And we have central heating, not a roaring fire.'

'I still think snow's exciting, I really hope it snows again here before you leave.'

'Why do you want that? Do you not remember when it snowed last time and it was just really really cold and all the sidewalks and roads were slippery with ice? You fell over in the middle of the street, remember, and you complained about it for ages. Don't tell me you want it to snow.'

'Well it hurt, that's why I complained, I can still feel the egg on the back of my head. And I do want it to snow because then we can make snow angels.'

'I'm done talking about snow.'

In my dream, I don't feel the cold, and I have wings. The Pacific Ocean is a puddle, and 5c pieces are worth a thousand dollars each (I've got a jar of them on my windowsill, just imagine that).

I'm going to cut up my roast dinners and put them in my Thermos too

1.

‘He said it was overwritten, I don’t even know what that means.’

‘It means just really over the top descriptions and paragraph-long sentences that are filled with all these rare adjectives. You visualise everything really intensely and use too many metaphors.’

‘What? That’s not fair, I thought this was the one subject where I’m allowed to do that.’

I could visualise what she was doing while we were having this conversation, separated by the Hay Plain (the most boring stretch of land known to man) and 8 hours of vehicular control. She wouldn’t be sitting still, she’d probably be lurking from one room of the house to the next. She might pause in front of the glass door that looked out into the backyard, but not for long. The fridge door might open and she’d pick at something like cheese or a salad or dish that had been made the day before, but never take a plate and fill it up like I would. She wouldn't eat it while we were on the phone either, having screeched at me before if I took a loud sip of tea close to the receiver. I could visualise the expressions on her face and her body language while she spoke, and be able to predict what she was going to say before she did. Her listening fillers were usually in the same tone, same emphasis, though I suppose mine were as well.

2.

‘I saw a girl get her shoe stuck in the escalator at uni yesterday.’
‘Ha! Did you? Did you tell her that I did the same thing?’
‘First I started laughing hysterically, like I couldn’t stop. Then I said to her “My friend will be so relieved to hear that this has happened to you, it happened to her last week..” She was much calmer than you were about it though.’
‘How on earth was she calm? Were there waves of people coming behind her so that she couldn’t get her shoe back?’
‘Yeah and she was just waiting there with this really tired expression on her face, her shoe was more mangled than yours as well, it was a Haviaana that was all caught up in the teeth of the escalator and flapping around.’
‘I don’t know that I feel any better after hearing this story.’
‘I thought it was pretty funny. Are you going to use the rest of that soy sauce?’
‘No, you can have it, can I have some of your miso?’
‘No, you can’t, you’re sick. And you’ve made me sick, I can feel it already. I have a very low immune system.’
‘There is no way I could have made you sick this quickly, a cold incubates for 3 days at least.’
‘You have.’

3.

‘This is what people do, they work all their lives at jobs they don’t even like so they can come to Ikea on a public holiday and spend their money on a perfect house that looks like it came out of the catalogue.’
‘Everyone wants a perfect Swedish house, don’t you?’
‘No I want to move to Paris, but you won’t let me.’
‘Yes I will, I want to move to Paris too. That’s why we’ll be together forever, because we both want to move to Paris.’

‘Did that movie really have an effect on you or something?’

The first one was 3192

It’s not love – you never swept me off my feet. I struggle to believe that anyone would be able to, but even you, with the broken diamonds in your teeth and glitter in your eyes, and that swagger, even you couldn’t manage it.

I’ve always been able to think about other things rather than you, but you were a better option than the alternative. With that said, I feel more than endearment for you and I don’t know that I could turn my back without a moment’s thought. We’ve progressed over the last few months from a mutual and grudging affection, to an acceptance.

You terrified me at first. I was certain I could never really know you, wasn’t sure that I wanted to. The first few weeks after our introduction passed quickly, blurrily. I didn’t trust you and didn’t trust myself around you. What did we even do those first few weeks? They left me drained, wrung-out with exhaustion. I used to wake up at 4am and be near-death by 4pm, blind and deaf with tiredness. Though our union was chosen, I sometimes questioned that choice, wondered if the other one might’ve been kinder to me, easier. Carrying a steel midbeam by myself on the tram that rattled down Burnley Street made me ask that question, so did the lunch room conversation and so did the colour of our bedroom walls, a slightly off mint green that was punctured with old Blu-Tack. I won’t lie and say that the question wasn’t asked.

I strayed. I needed to, needed to make the comparison and to be reminded of the right choice. Needed to have the sugar bowl filled back up to the brim, swap the batteries over so I could look at you and say yes, instead of no. It was only a couple of days, and I came back, didn’t I?

I’ve never liked you for the same reasons that everyone knows you for, never really seen the characteristics in you that others guffaw over. It took me a while to see past the bravado, but I guess luckily for you, I liked what I saw. You took some things from me, gave me back others. I never thought about it too much because my head was busy deciding what to do next. You had taken all my money, so there were some choices I would have to make. You and your bravado took it from me when I wasn’t being careful, while I was caught up in the newness and excitement of it all. Then there came the moment where I was able to grab what I wanted, and there was purpose and drive behind our existence together. Everything was screaming out a reason.

I’m thankful for the year, happy about it, I don’t look at it with any scorn or vengeance. On days where I don’t feel like leaving my feet planted on the ground, I live where there is an accent on top of the ‘e’. It’s become a comfort of sorts, this thing between you and I. Perhaps it’s still not easier than the one who pronounces their vowels properly, but I know you well now, so there are fewer moments that startle me. So here's to that year.

Is this day going really slowly for you?

The Monday to Friday was something I had a strong understanding of when I was submerged in the boring and murky pond of full time employment. I looked forward to Friday even if Saturday contained nothing better than Tuesday. It was a natural progression and one that everyone around me seemed to uphold with vengeance so I followed suite. A new life thesedays reckons a new weekly structure, but when the world shares an opinion for the days of the week you just can't help but be affected. Fridays are still my favourite day.


Monday

What is Monday? Monday hurts. Monday hits you repetively with a heavy brick, resulting in a heavy and long lasting pain that throbs throughout the day. You curse Monday as it wakes you against your will with a shrill alarm tone, throws you into disarray as you have to forage for the things you should have organised for the week ahead but didn't. A Monday's pain can be slightly subdued if said organisation is adhered to, if your Sunday self is kind to your Monday being. Clean washing and milk that isn't past its use-by will help you find a smooth Monday path. Even if you work on a Sunday, Monday still hurts, because the world hates Mondays and the world's discontent is completely contagious (more so than swine flu). Mondays demand creature comforts, generally in the form of carbohydrates, and unchallenging tasks. Monday mornings generally feature tired eyes and an aromatic waft of caffeine. Short tempers reign supreme on a Monday. Be calm, eat your pasta with excessive amounts of creamy (and delicious) sauce, wait for the storm to pass. It's just a storm, after all.

Tuesday

Tuesday is Monday's child, and is a horrible wretched spawn. But Tuesday can be tamed, soothed, trained into good behaviour if its fed the right encouragement and rewards. Happy Tuesdays are not uncommon, usually because everyone feels utmost joy at the fact it is no longer Monday. Cheap movie tickets help with this. On Tuesday you can fathom productivity again; there is less of the mania that surrounds Monday. Tuesdays sometimes feature as clean-up day, in which you sweep up the broken glass that the storm that was Monday shattered all over the kitchen floor. You can enjoy vegetables on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are easily forgotten.

Wednesday

That's not to say that the point of this ramble (because there so obviously is one) is to determine that Saturday and Sunday are the best days. Such a theory could wield to be completely untrue depending on your routine. If Wednesday holds devilish tasks for you, you will resent Wednesdays with far more fury than Mondays. Wednesday was always hard to spell, and commonly sounded out with emphasis. Perhaps 'emphasis' is a good way to summarise Wednesday. There is emphasis on the fact you have now reached the middle of the working week. Hello Wednesday, friend of Thursday, followed by Friday.

Thursday

You can justify behaviours on a Thursday that you couldn't do on another weekday. Thursday feasts are common; abandoning homework or exercise plans for mass television viewings or unnecessary outings are common. Thursday is pay day; financial woes tend not to exist on a Thursday. Thursday is holding hands with Friday, their fingers are entwined, their hands are so closely clasped that you forget they aren't joined. You usually sail happily from Thursday to Friday, feeling the wave of motion from another's fingers to your own.

Friday

You are everybody's friend on a Friday. Waking up at the crack of dawn is less painful because chances are, Saturday won't greet you with the beep-beep of an alarm clock. Though many will refuse to recognise that Friday shares several key characteristics of Monday, it is true. Fridays are usually also unchallenging, but instead of having sharp and pointed edges like Monday, Friday is smooth, rounded, easy to hold. Friday afternoons are slightly lethargic, slightly antsy, as everybody's waiting. Friday has 24 Happy Hours - everything is more pleasant because you are most likely doing it for the last time before respite comes in the form of weekend. Friday afternoons are like an overstretched elastic band that has finally been allowed to slacken. Don't try and make a useful phone call after 4pm on Friday afternoon, because nobody wants to speak to you. You cannot get anywhere fast enough at 5pm on a Friday. (Please note that 5pm could be 1pm, 2pm, 3pm etc. A Friday finish is not exceptional).


All I will say about the weekend is Saturday smells like clean sheets and train tickets; Sunday smells like eggs on toast and newspapers.

We're not the baby boomers

I remember the brush fence that had been built around the house that bust the budget, balanced on the hill with the sea encircling it like a decorative wallpaper. The woodheap next door was what attracted the snakes, and they would creep along the tops of the brush fence, hiding amongst the coarse bunches of sticks brambled together with wire. Gumboots and a shovel went hand in hand when the discovery of a snake was made, and I never saw the outcome that came after that, whether it was through shielding my own eyes or being called away from the window (so essentially someone else shielding them for me).

I remember how angry she was at the lack of street signs, at the winding roads in the place that there seemed to be a constant mist of rain from June until September. The anger at the warren of turns and blind corners, the slippery roads and the dull yellow headlights, turned into joy, when spring finally tickled our chins with warm fingers and the blossom tree at the bottom of the driveway burst into a calm array of pink and white.

I remember the smell of disinfectant that I came to associate with moving house, as we scrubbed out cupboards, wiped away the dust on skirting boards and powerpoints, the type of cleaning nobody really bothers with unless it's thought someone will examine these spaces with an attention to detail. There was a makeshift wall made from cupboards and boxes, which gave me a new appreciation for doorknobs, even if they didn't have locks. She would buy the discounted flowers from the supermarket, the wilted and sad ones, then nurse them back to life with water and sunlight, before they had their moment to shine on the front table, greeting the people we didn't know who might've wanted to buy the house ('We knew it was the house for us because of the slightly dead carnations in the front room').


I remember the lack of fly screens, in this place where blowflys and their disgusting magnetic buzzing tendencies didn't seem to exist. A lack of fly screens made it possible to thrust open the double windows and be faced with nothing between you and the air outside. As a result, people would tumble their bedding out of the windows in the morning, leaving it to air. Even when the air was so cold that you wondered whether it would turn the bedding to icy sheets of cardboard, deft hands would hurl the blankets from the terrace windows for the duration of the morning.

That smells like Tupperware

She spent most of her time waiting, killing time. While she waited she would watch the particles of dust dance in the sunlight. Thinking about doing that was boring, and untrue. Because the light didn't play tricks like that, didn't shimmer with dust fibres, didn't swap and flitter like a playful hummingbird (do hummingbirds exist in Australia?) In reality the light hovered outside the window, hid behind the bus stop, never reaching the corners of the space she occupied.

If she wasn't waiting, killing time, she was running, trying to revive the time that was beaten under her as she ran. It didn't seem fair, these two extremes. Lateness did not bode gracefully with her, not at all. Though clumsy in everyday existence, lateness was a sure shortcut to utter uncoordination, a formula for being flustered and red-faced.

When she rushed, time raced. When she waited (usually on a dirty bench, in the searing sun) time stomped slowly around her, scuffing its feet and dragging its weight.

She hated stepping onto the metal teeth of the escalator, always envisaging the fall that could take place (had taken place). While she stood to the left, she had watched a dust ball accumulate. It blew in the warm air that rushed from the platforms. It was dust, hair, fluff, forgotten bits and pieces. It grew like tumbleweed. She was repulsed, but intrigued, letting the metaphor spin forth in her mind. Sort of a sick fascination one develops at things that are unpleasant or horrific.