Geoff
Stomp, stomp, stomp. I knew even before he sat down he was in a bad mood. His footsteps shook the metal filing cabinets and sent frothy, ripples across the day-old cups of instant coffee littering the desks. His breathing was heavy and interspersed with dry, rasping coughs. I didn’t dare turn my head as he passed in a cloud of stale sweat.
Thud. His brown satchel stuffed with newspapers and unpaid bills landed on the worn carpet by his chair. I risked a quick glance: his podgy, red face was covered with beads of perspiration and the veins on his neck were rigid and taut. He looked like a pit bull terrier tied to fence – full of violence but somehow impotent and just a little sad.
Are you okay Geoff? He rubbed his sore, sleepless eyes and made to switch on his monitor. Fine, absolutely fine. I fell silent and started taping away at my keyboard.
Click. His screen turned blue, illuminating his features. His cheap glasses rested comfortably on his broad nose and his unshaven chin was dotted with blobs of dried toothpaste.
He noticed me looking at him and frowned. This thing never works, I’m locked out of the buggering server again. Mine seems to be working, I said lowing my gaze.
He bent over and pulled a squashed bacon and egg croissant from his bag. Without looking I knew he was tearing it to pieces, spraying flakes of buttery pastry all over the desk.
The next part of his morning ritual was even worse. I grimaced as he licked each finger, wiped his hands on his black jeans and ran them through his thinning, black hair.
Feeling better now, I asked. Just dandy, just dandy, he replied.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Geoff
Character homework from a couple of weeks ago... I didn't get a chance to read it out.
Friday, 27 February 2009
An amateur attempt at poetry
Hi everyone, I took my place observation piece from a few weeks ago and attempted to turn it into a poem as I felt like it didnt' really lend itself to prose. But this is officially my first foray into poetry so I am starving for feedback (and brutal honesty!). It's about the apartment (American for 'flat' :) I lived in Brooklyn during post-uni years. And it doesn't have a title. Suggestions?
Apartment 67, 20 Butler Place.
Behind a sensible green door
It contains inside it the City
In which it is contained
The City of Superlatives.
Where Outsiders form the corps of Insiders.
Big Dreamers stunted by their own dreams
Waiting to exhale
Only to inhale more, more, more
And survive on
The headiness of too much oxygen, too much opportunity
Where normalcy is suspended,
A City in permanent liminality.
The revolving door of 20 Butler Place.
The event horizon absorbing all matter into
Its dazzling vortex
Dizzying overstimalation.
Endearing clutter.
Random bric-a-brac.
Pink plastic flamingo
Art Nouveau posters
The one with the cat
Antique mosaic lamp
The contents of the Old Curiosity Shop thrown up
All over the living room.
Sickly sweet scent
Of overripe rubbish.
Grungy old couch
Second, or third, or fourth-hand
Not for sitting, for hosting
The preoccupations of the day
Or the psuedo squatters
Vistors, homeless friends, drunken mistakes
Cosy-colored walls
Enclose the clutter
Sunny crayon yellow, lickable peach, cool-blooded turquoise
A children's playroom reading by parents undecided,
About their child's gender or temperament
The opposite of darkness
More navigable the less you can see
A modern day Rent
Outbreak less HIV and more existential angst
The tricky business of no boundaries
Whereabouts of household items as fluid as
Life plans
Lightbulbs
Next to oatmeal
Second drawer
Curious method to the madness
Organized Chaos
Coded for 'insiders'
23 flatmates in three years
Or perhaps 24
Lost count in the double digits
Insulated from what we feared most:
Settling into a mundane complacency
Everyday an excavation
Of past lives
Previous tenants
Ken-doll British male model
His guilty pleasures of calculus and opera
Lovable West Coast gap-year kid
Needs toilet training
Belgian-Congolese world music drummer
Red-headed, long-limbed environmental perfectionist
Suicidal poet and her bubbling cauldron of
Culinary delights and crazy ideas
Venezuelan economist
Uptight Israeli financier
With his bed in the kitchen
Bisexuals, Monosexuals
Professionals, Unprofessionals
Idealists and Idealized
Sharing milk with strangers
Otherwise inaccessible
Revolving door of Apt 67
Revolving gates of New York City
Rotating beaters of an electric mixer
Whipping together unlikely ingredients
Apartment 67, 20 Butler Place.
Behind a sensible green door
It contains inside it the City
In which it is contained
The City of Superlatives.
Where Outsiders form the corps of Insiders.
Big Dreamers stunted by their own dreams
Waiting to exhale
Only to inhale more, more, more
And survive on
The headiness of too much oxygen, too much opportunity
Where normalcy is suspended,
A City in permanent liminality.
The revolving door of 20 Butler Place.
The event horizon absorbing all matter into
Its dazzling vortex
Dizzying overstimalation.
Endearing clutter.
Random bric-a-brac.
Pink plastic flamingo
Art Nouveau posters
The one with the cat
Antique mosaic lamp
The contents of the Old Curiosity Shop thrown up
All over the living room.
Sickly sweet scent
Of overripe rubbish.
Grungy old couch
Second, or third, or fourth-hand
Not for sitting, for hosting
The preoccupations of the day
Or the psuedo squatters
Vistors, homeless friends, drunken mistakes
Cosy-colored walls
Enclose the clutter
Sunny crayon yellow, lickable peach, cool-blooded turquoise
A children's playroom reading by parents undecided,
About their child's gender or temperament
The opposite of darkness
More navigable the less you can see
A modern day Rent
Outbreak less HIV and more existential angst
The tricky business of no boundaries
Whereabouts of household items as fluid as
Life plans
Lightbulbs
Next to oatmeal
Second drawer
Curious method to the madness
Organized Chaos
Coded for 'insiders'
23 flatmates in three years
Or perhaps 24
Lost count in the double digits
Insulated from what we feared most:
Settling into a mundane complacency
Everyday an excavation
Of past lives
Previous tenants
Ken-doll British male model
His guilty pleasures of calculus and opera
Lovable West Coast gap-year kid
Needs toilet training
Belgian-Congolese world music drummer
Red-headed, long-limbed environmental perfectionist
Suicidal poet and her bubbling cauldron of
Culinary delights and crazy ideas
Venezuelan economist
Uptight Israeli financier
With his bed in the kitchen
Bisexuals, Monosexuals
Professionals, Unprofessionals
Idealists and Idealized
Sharing milk with strangers
Otherwise inaccessible
Revolving door of Apt 67
Revolving gates of New York City
Rotating beaters of an electric mixer
Whipping together unlikely ingredients
Friday, 20 February 2009
An Exhibition (please let me know your thoughts and feedback! Tx)
An Exhibition
As if by fate, but not, for this couple would never leave their encounters to chance, they meet. Meetings in public locations, random events and experiences form the tapestry of their illicit relationship. Disguised as strangers, their conversations tread on the mundane, possessing an undercurrent of irony and double-entendres. This time, the latest incarnation of feigned encounters leads them to the opening of a gallery on the Bowery.
Cliques of thirty-something’s tarnish the clean and symmetrical open space and white walls. They walk in colourful swarms, clacking their heels and toasting pink champagne while feasting on smoked salmon and caviar strewn languorously upon crackers.
It’s in this salon of contradictions, the tensing and contracting of space and show, where Max and Jacob casually bump into each other while staring at one of the abstract and vivid canvases. Jacob stands in front of the painting dressed in Tom Ford eyeglasses and a chequered shirt delicately adorned with pearl buttons.
“So what do you think of this piece?” Max’s sweet but maturely sultry voice rises to meet Jacob’s ear, fighting for attention in the midst of people’s cackling and the background sounds of TV on the Radio.
“There’s something almost self-destructive about it. Maybe it’s the violent placement of the jagged and bright shapes on top of one another. It’s as if the piece was consuming itself,” he sighs and takes a gulp of the fizzy peach substance.
“I can’t believe that they try to pass this sparkling wine as some quality champagne. It’s really an insult to people’s intelligence. Or at least mine.” Max angles the glass towards the spotlight examining the bubbles as they straddle one another in a competition to make it to the top.
“I don’t think it’s intelligence they’re insulting Jake. More like refined culture.”
“Anyway I find it amusing you detect a struggle against the self in this piece. What is it titled? An epiphany…how interesting.”
Max carefully smoothes out imaginary creases around her thighs before she continued, “I see delusion and evasion. Do you notice the way the turmeric shape cascades against the bright crimson rectangular structure?” She doesn’t wait for his response.
“It’s almost like its seeking escape beyond the borders of the canvas. Since it knows this to be impossible, it surrenders, accepting its position, its destiny, if you will. And that’s where the colours start to blend and combine, in a sea of surrender.”
“Come on Maxie. Nothing is further from the truth. This dance between shapes and symbols is a choice. And the consequence of this decision affects all elements in the composition. Just the fact that there always exists a choice means that all parties involved bear some responsibility, whether it’s for a violent struggle or surrender.”
Jacob pauses; his eyes scan her face for a hint of a reaction but soon descend to examine the luscious curve and dip of her body, caught tightly in a metallic dress. The image of a brightly shining silver train wreck flashes across his mind.
“So when did you become such a philosopher? Do you realise how smug you sound?” She lets out a rancorous giggle that seems to burst and implode, vehemently inhabiting the space around them.
When she gathers herself she retorts, “Look it’s just another fucking painting. Colours splashed upon other colours, no shape, no form, just a goddamn expression of someone’s inner psyche.”
“Meaningless probably, just a series of random and shallow events that resulted in a convergence of colours, caught in time, like fish flapping furiously for their life while still on a line. The only meaning is the one we attribute to it.” Her cheeks flush with a peony hue at the machine gun rhythm of her words.
A woman with rambunctious sandy curls, the one thing she failed to polish or place, which sits in stark contrast to her famously designed and harshly cut dress, runs over to Jacob. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. What on earth have you been doing? Jesus we’re talking about a possible sale here Jacob. Connie is practically pulling out her check book for The Caretaker piece.”
The title of the canvas almost floats away as they hastily turn and make their way to the other end of the gallery.
Max hardly blinks as she stares and gets lost in the serrated shapes.
As if by fate, but not, for this couple would never leave their encounters to chance, they meet. Meetings in public locations, random events and experiences form the tapestry of their illicit relationship. Disguised as strangers, their conversations tread on the mundane, possessing an undercurrent of irony and double-entendres. This time, the latest incarnation of feigned encounters leads them to the opening of a gallery on the Bowery.
Cliques of thirty-something’s tarnish the clean and symmetrical open space and white walls. They walk in colourful swarms, clacking their heels and toasting pink champagne while feasting on smoked salmon and caviar strewn languorously upon crackers.
It’s in this salon of contradictions, the tensing and contracting of space and show, where Max and Jacob casually bump into each other while staring at one of the abstract and vivid canvases. Jacob stands in front of the painting dressed in Tom Ford eyeglasses and a chequered shirt delicately adorned with pearl buttons.
“So what do you think of this piece?” Max’s sweet but maturely sultry voice rises to meet Jacob’s ear, fighting for attention in the midst of people’s cackling and the background sounds of TV on the Radio.
“There’s something almost self-destructive about it. Maybe it’s the violent placement of the jagged and bright shapes on top of one another. It’s as if the piece was consuming itself,” he sighs and takes a gulp of the fizzy peach substance.
“I can’t believe that they try to pass this sparkling wine as some quality champagne. It’s really an insult to people’s intelligence. Or at least mine.” Max angles the glass towards the spotlight examining the bubbles as they straddle one another in a competition to make it to the top.
“I don’t think it’s intelligence they’re insulting Jake. More like refined culture.”
“Anyway I find it amusing you detect a struggle against the self in this piece. What is it titled? An epiphany…how interesting.”
Max carefully smoothes out imaginary creases around her thighs before she continued, “I see delusion and evasion. Do you notice the way the turmeric shape cascades against the bright crimson rectangular structure?” She doesn’t wait for his response.
“It’s almost like its seeking escape beyond the borders of the canvas. Since it knows this to be impossible, it surrenders, accepting its position, its destiny, if you will. And that’s where the colours start to blend and combine, in a sea of surrender.”
“Come on Maxie. Nothing is further from the truth. This dance between shapes and symbols is a choice. And the consequence of this decision affects all elements in the composition. Just the fact that there always exists a choice means that all parties involved bear some responsibility, whether it’s for a violent struggle or surrender.”
Jacob pauses; his eyes scan her face for a hint of a reaction but soon descend to examine the luscious curve and dip of her body, caught tightly in a metallic dress. The image of a brightly shining silver train wreck flashes across his mind.
“So when did you become such a philosopher? Do you realise how smug you sound?” She lets out a rancorous giggle that seems to burst and implode, vehemently inhabiting the space around them.
When she gathers herself she retorts, “Look it’s just another fucking painting. Colours splashed upon other colours, no shape, no form, just a goddamn expression of someone’s inner psyche.”
“Meaningless probably, just a series of random and shallow events that resulted in a convergence of colours, caught in time, like fish flapping furiously for their life while still on a line. The only meaning is the one we attribute to it.” Her cheeks flush with a peony hue at the machine gun rhythm of her words.
A woman with rambunctious sandy curls, the one thing she failed to polish or place, which sits in stark contrast to her famously designed and harshly cut dress, runs over to Jacob. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. What on earth have you been doing? Jesus we’re talking about a possible sale here Jacob. Connie is practically pulling out her check book for The Caretaker piece.”
The title of the canvas almost floats away as they hastily turn and make their way to the other end of the gallery.
Max hardly blinks as she stares and gets lost in the serrated shapes.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
Welcome Folks:)
Classmates of C337:
First entry to kick-off this sharing work/words site. Hope we can all comment and feedback on our work. Its been great getting a chance to know people through their writing. Hopefully this blog will keep that trend growing.
Look forward to reading your work.
Pia
First entry to kick-off this sharing work/words site. Hope we can all comment and feedback on our work. Its been great getting a chance to know people through their writing. Hopefully this blog will keep that trend growing.
Look forward to reading your work.
Pia
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