The steam from the pavement rises, rain on a hot day. A little light relief. The chatter of the streets bounces off the skyscrapers. Where do the lonely go to find relief? Some sleazy bar? Slip under a strangers sheets, all to soon the thrill is gone, emptiness lingers on.
Somewhere in this city I meld into the clan, a thousand faces and eyes all detached have glanced my way, none met my eye or looked long enough to get a glimpse of who I am, I do the same thing. We are trained not to stare, some forget and look far to long and then paranoia on those looked upon seeps out and they fear the strangers glaze. But in the city it’s faceless and we move on and on.
Rats in a cage all scurrying to the next meeting, the next lunch, the next afternoon of sin and vice. We are all breathing in the city’s poison and all breathing out discontent. Maybe that’s an overstatement but no one I know is happy with their lot. It’s just a part of the human condition to always want more than what we’ve got. Never satisfied, never full, always slightly hungry, even though most of us have more than what we need. It’s a consumer market and in the city all the gluttons are on display. Look in any storefront and you’ll see for yourself, consumerism dissipates this mad envy. Locking in full frontal on the poor making sure that the poor stay poor by feeding them the myth that happiness is a product.
At night this harbour gets quiet. All the ferry’s have stoped all the workers have gone home. It is then that this city truly breathes. When it’s empty, then it feels like home to me.
I guess it’s because at my core I’m a country girl and I can’t stand the lack of space. I wasn’t raised on a farm I was a townie, but space was never far away. Just across the road was 200 acres to roam in, all I had to do was look out for the bul, he was mean. I knew freedom there.
The lights from the skyscrapers kiss the waves that gently lap against the quay. The bridge as per usual is all lit up and it’s glow filters into the harbour below. Do others see this place like this? I don’t know. But you never read about her this way. Our city at night all peaceful, all still beauty in relief.
Some one asked me not long ago if I think of this city s my home town? Do I feel like she is mine? I answered no. I can’t connect with the rush. To belong I feel like I’d have to loose part of myself, the part that craves space and I’m not prepared to do that it would feel like losing part of my soul. The one who sits here tonight watching the play of light on water. This city isn’t who I am, she’s all slutted up with nowhere to go.
Have you ever seen her before we disgraced her face, before we cut into her. Trees and hills lined the harbour. Did you know that where the Tank Stream Arcade now stands was a stream? Water died to create what we now walk upon. Maybe one day it will rebel and break free, reclaim what we took away, the sea and streams in revolt. So beautiful it was what we lost.
A wind soft and pure, smelling of salt brushes my skin. This is my city when she is like this, the way she is tonight. But in a few hours this will disappear and again she’ll be transformed into a whore. Maybe if reincarnation exists I knew her way back when she still had her natural skin, maybe that’s why I feel so detached from what I see and remain after the others have gone to see her as I do now. Time for me to move out of the way of the ensuing crowds. Out of the way of the rush-hour, but come tonight I’ll be back and I will see her once more the way I know her to be. Light on the harbour come out to play.
© Julie Patterson
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Herald
I think I have a long standing silence, a fear of saying what I feel, emotions, I have no trouble expressing thoughts or opinions, that’s easy but speaking about the depth of the soul, what makes me tick and come undone at the seams, the trigger points, the frailty. I find it easier to leave the door closed, to not tap into the realm of the heart and soul. I know that it’s not healthy and I know all the reasons why I should let the cork out and that what I’m holding inside is my escape from my pain, for in talking there is freedom, there is relief but for the uninitiated there is trepidation, fear and nakedness, so silent I remain with the words on the prowl like a cat after a mouse.
I never learnt how to voice what I felt mainly because it didn’t feel safe to do so, in my family you kept your emotions close to your chest for their revelation could, no would be use against you in battle. Our family was rather caustic it burnt everything and everyone it came in contact with. So for self preservation you closed your mouth and watched the wheels revolve and the words would be swallowed up and consumed in bile. I saw everything, I heard everything but I said nothing about what I felt or of the fear that lived inside. Play it tough, never let them know what is real and what is false, in the lie you are safe as you can be. It’s an interesting way to grow up and as an adult you can see just how fucked up it was and how fucked up it has made you but also as an adult you can limit it’s impact. I have learnt that the hardest thing to speak about is me, not the me you see before you but the me that lives within the shell, the voice within that raises it’s head but is scared to utter a sound that is the me I know.
Hold my hand and help me, hold my hand and lead me into the light of me, hold my hand and protect me from the world, hold my hand when I cry out in truth of the unseen child within, hold my hand please.
That is the me, the one that needs affection, the one that needs companionship, the one that knows she is alone and only in revelation of pasts gone by will I find a friend and my place in the whole. My words are wounds that never healed that is why it’s so hard, they are still raw for they have seen no light to assist their recovery. As I step out of the dark into the manifestation of expression, I will find the voice I have heard inside my head all my life, maybe that is why I write because it is faceless, no one in front of me, no one to look upon my despair, no threat. My words are wounds that never healed, my voice is rarely heard. In the silence lays a truth a frozen spring waiting for the light to melt and the words to flow. Till then in the dark I shall sit with an outstretched hand.
I never learnt how to voice what I felt mainly because it didn’t feel safe to do so, in my family you kept your emotions close to your chest for their revelation could, no would be use against you in battle. Our family was rather caustic it burnt everything and everyone it came in contact with. So for self preservation you closed your mouth and watched the wheels revolve and the words would be swallowed up and consumed in bile. I saw everything, I heard everything but I said nothing about what I felt or of the fear that lived inside. Play it tough, never let them know what is real and what is false, in the lie you are safe as you can be. It’s an interesting way to grow up and as an adult you can see just how fucked up it was and how fucked up it has made you but also as an adult you can limit it’s impact. I have learnt that the hardest thing to speak about is me, not the me you see before you but the me that lives within the shell, the voice within that raises it’s head but is scared to utter a sound that is the me I know.
Hold my hand and help me, hold my hand and lead me into the light of me, hold my hand and protect me from the world, hold my hand when I cry out in truth of the unseen child within, hold my hand please.
That is the me, the one that needs affection, the one that needs companionship, the one that knows she is alone and only in revelation of pasts gone by will I find a friend and my place in the whole. My words are wounds that never healed that is why it’s so hard, they are still raw for they have seen no light to assist their recovery. As I step out of the dark into the manifestation of expression, I will find the voice I have heard inside my head all my life, maybe that is why I write because it is faceless, no one in front of me, no one to look upon my despair, no threat. My words are wounds that never healed, my voice is rarely heard. In the silence lays a truth a frozen spring waiting for the light to melt and the words to flow. Till then in the dark I shall sit with an outstretched hand.
Telling Tails
For the better part of my life I have had an indentifying feature, something that is synonymous with who I am, easily identified from behind, I have a rat’s tail. I’ve had it since I was 9 I’m now 32. I have become superstitious of it over the years and I have this strange sort of Samson and Delilah thing occurring within my body. I sort of believe it gives me strength and to cut it off I’ll lose my power but I also believe that it ties me to my past that it is a part of my youth that was tarnished, especially my father who needed control over everything, so it became a statement a rebellious feature of my childhood one that he couldn’t beat out of me.
Now though I want to cut it off and I have done for a year or so now but I keep on falling into this weird plane of existence of the false belief of magical power associated with the tail. So it’s still there.
I thought about throwing a rat’s tail chopping off party but that’s even to weird for me and that’s saying a lot. Then I thought it would be interesting to just chop it off and see who notices, to test how identified with it I am. Sort of fuck with how I believe people see me and see if it’s real or just ego. I like that whole concept to tap into how you are perceived, I know that people do recognise me by it because classmates at uni told me so when I said I was going to chop it off. “How will we recognise you?” They said. I told them “They’d have to find another way.” One of my friends Larissa told me “I was not allowed to cut it off.” “Why?” I asked. “It’s who you are.” She replied. I laughed and walked away thinking that must make me rather boring if the only thing that is associated with me is a piece of hair, mind you it measures 41cms plaited.
I used to have 2 tails the other one was from my left temple region and it was around 30cms plaited I chopped it off on the 27/02/03 not that I’m superstitious about it though. Haven’t had it as long only about 10 years.
I have had periods were my tail at the back has been much shorter but also much longer but it’s always been there. When I grew my hair long I just let it blend in with the rest of my hair when I cut it short I just cut it back in. It’s kind of fucked up to be twisted by a piece of hair I sort of understand how people who have really long hair feel when they get it cut it’s sort of like losing yourself and having to recreate your image. Maybe that’s what I need to do, recreate my image, undo the ties to my childhood, admit I am free of my youth, that I am no longer there, I am here in the present and the past has no hold on me. Maybe I analysis everything too much and never do enough, maybe there’s to many maybes in my life. Little more action especially when I have acknowledged to my self that my childhood though horrendous is over, I have dealt with it and moved on.
It was a snap decision, a realisation of the numbers, 3/3/03 and it was 3pm, 3 minutes to plait my tail and chop it off. I’d only just woken up, focus. I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom measuring out the three pieces of hair into plait able thickness. 2 minutes to go. Racing fingers over and under just a few more inches. Tie the elastic band round the end. Fuck 3:03, where are the scissors, slice, a tingle run down the nape of my neck I stand there holding my deed, very smug and very proud of myself. I had decided not to fuss over it, to not be all symbolic but a part of me wanted something memorable, special, significant, after all I was removing a part of my persona, a piece of my image, a part of my life for the last 23 years, I suppose it needed to be ritualistic.
The back of my neck feels funny, cold, barren, it’s 20 minutes later and my neck is still tingly. But it’s gone now, maybe my desire to cut it off is because I don’t feel like I have to rebel against the same forces I did as a child. The tail was such a symbol of my rebellion. Now I sit back and wait for everyone to notice.
EPILOGUE:
No one noticed, no one said anything, all the anticipation of responses, nope, nothing. It’s kind of disappointing considering that I have been told that the tail was who I was by all my friends, was it all a lie? Or are we just blind to change, caught up in our own space and we never see the outside world clearly because of our own fog? So my symbol was snipped and stowed away with the date of departure wrapped around it by a lackey band.
How far removed from your childhood you are, even more so it your childhood was brutal and you survived and are sane and functional. I never thought I’d grow old enough to look back on my life. Now I look forward to getting old, going grey, I can envision a tomorrow in spite of the yesterdays, one where I’ll be telling tales.
Now though I want to cut it off and I have done for a year or so now but I keep on falling into this weird plane of existence of the false belief of magical power associated with the tail. So it’s still there.
I thought about throwing a rat’s tail chopping off party but that’s even to weird for me and that’s saying a lot. Then I thought it would be interesting to just chop it off and see who notices, to test how identified with it I am. Sort of fuck with how I believe people see me and see if it’s real or just ego. I like that whole concept to tap into how you are perceived, I know that people do recognise me by it because classmates at uni told me so when I said I was going to chop it off. “How will we recognise you?” They said. I told them “They’d have to find another way.” One of my friends Larissa told me “I was not allowed to cut it off.” “Why?” I asked. “It’s who you are.” She replied. I laughed and walked away thinking that must make me rather boring if the only thing that is associated with me is a piece of hair, mind you it measures 41cms plaited.
I used to have 2 tails the other one was from my left temple region and it was around 30cms plaited I chopped it off on the 27/02/03 not that I’m superstitious about it though. Haven’t had it as long only about 10 years.
I have had periods were my tail at the back has been much shorter but also much longer but it’s always been there. When I grew my hair long I just let it blend in with the rest of my hair when I cut it short I just cut it back in. It’s kind of fucked up to be twisted by a piece of hair I sort of understand how people who have really long hair feel when they get it cut it’s sort of like losing yourself and having to recreate your image. Maybe that’s what I need to do, recreate my image, undo the ties to my childhood, admit I am free of my youth, that I am no longer there, I am here in the present and the past has no hold on me. Maybe I analysis everything too much and never do enough, maybe there’s to many maybes in my life. Little more action especially when I have acknowledged to my self that my childhood though horrendous is over, I have dealt with it and moved on.
It was a snap decision, a realisation of the numbers, 3/3/03 and it was 3pm, 3 minutes to plait my tail and chop it off. I’d only just woken up, focus. I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom measuring out the three pieces of hair into plait able thickness. 2 minutes to go. Racing fingers over and under just a few more inches. Tie the elastic band round the end. Fuck 3:03, where are the scissors, slice, a tingle run down the nape of my neck I stand there holding my deed, very smug and very proud of myself. I had decided not to fuss over it, to not be all symbolic but a part of me wanted something memorable, special, significant, after all I was removing a part of my persona, a piece of my image, a part of my life for the last 23 years, I suppose it needed to be ritualistic.
The back of my neck feels funny, cold, barren, it’s 20 minutes later and my neck is still tingly. But it’s gone now, maybe my desire to cut it off is because I don’t feel like I have to rebel against the same forces I did as a child. The tail was such a symbol of my rebellion. Now I sit back and wait for everyone to notice.
EPILOGUE:
No one noticed, no one said anything, all the anticipation of responses, nope, nothing. It’s kind of disappointing considering that I have been told that the tail was who I was by all my friends, was it all a lie? Or are we just blind to change, caught up in our own space and we never see the outside world clearly because of our own fog? So my symbol was snipped and stowed away with the date of departure wrapped around it by a lackey band.
How far removed from your childhood you are, even more so it your childhood was brutal and you survived and are sane and functional. I never thought I’d grow old enough to look back on my life. Now I look forward to getting old, going grey, I can envision a tomorrow in spite of the yesterdays, one where I’ll be telling tales.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Autumn Days
It's a nice time of year
the trees are changing
ground is crisping up
and most importantly
the grass doesn't grow so fast
If keep on thinking about bulbs
the effort in maintenance
scuttles the idea
It's a time for jackets and jeans
outdoor fires and snuggling at night
The spiderweb in view still is covered of dew
it's picture perfect
but I'll leave it aside
for I have ones from last season
stored away
My rose bushes are putting on a last display
pink ruffles through the window
this morning they where back lit by
a pink hued sky
Now does that mean wind, rain, or some other myth that i can't recall.
All to soon the warmish mornings will fade and treading into place
the winters air will stir and the frost will crack under foot
but for now I'll look out upon
the pink peek a boo blooms.
the trees are changing
ground is crisping up
and most importantly
the grass doesn't grow so fast
If keep on thinking about bulbs
the effort in maintenance
scuttles the idea
It's a time for jackets and jeans
outdoor fires and snuggling at night
The spiderweb in view still is covered of dew
it's picture perfect
but I'll leave it aside
for I have ones from last season
stored away
My rose bushes are putting on a last display
pink ruffles through the window
this morning they where back lit by
a pink hued sky
Now does that mean wind, rain, or some other myth that i can't recall.
All to soon the warmish mornings will fade and treading into place
the winters air will stir and the frost will crack under foot
but for now I'll look out upon
the pink peek a boo blooms.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Tinkering
I used to work with my hands, make a living,
pulling weeds, mowing lawns, planting trees.
It was fun and heavy work but over time wore out.
I have always pulled thing apart to see how they work
most times i don't have any parts left over.
I pulled apart a toy when i was about 8
resoldered it back together so the ball would run the other.
It was a trigger pull sort of game, bit like a mini pinball machine,
I re enginered it.
I play instruments, mainly stringed things,
guitar, uke, bass, banjo those kond of strings
but i can tinker out a tune on piano or organ.
I guess we all tinker, all play, use our hands to communicate
our thoughts, hope and dreams.
For some it's words,language to be specific.
Right now that's what i'm doing tinkering away
the sound of the keys tapping tink and tap, click and clap
and I wonder what less, what's more.
pulling weeds, mowing lawns, planting trees.
It was fun and heavy work but over time wore out.
I have always pulled thing apart to see how they work
most times i don't have any parts left over.
I pulled apart a toy when i was about 8
resoldered it back together so the ball would run the other.
It was a trigger pull sort of game, bit like a mini pinball machine,
I re enginered it.
I play instruments, mainly stringed things,
guitar, uke, bass, banjo those kond of strings
but i can tinker out a tune on piano or organ.
I guess we all tinker, all play, use our hands to communicate
our thoughts, hope and dreams.
For some it's words,language to be specific.
Right now that's what i'm doing tinkering away
the sound of the keys tapping tink and tap, click and clap
and I wonder what less, what's more.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
shadow
hello my little follower
i can see your shadow close to mine
it walks beside mine
A fellow traveller
a seeker
Just like me
i can see your shadow close to mine
it walks beside mine
A fellow traveller
a seeker
Just like me
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