Dear Grandpa, wherever you are,
I recall sitting on your knee and goggling at your false teeth.
Cackling at the sight of your bare gums you bared sneakily behind disapproving Grandma.
Honking your nose as if you were my very own clown there for my entertainment.
You were a contradiction; you had a dignified countenance but a slapstick alter ego.
In old photos you were the typical English gentleman, clad in a suit, slight smile and lovingly by Grandma’s side. Those photos were black and white, but I can remember your olive skin and subtly vibrant personality.
I choose to remember you like this.
Towards the end, as I sat anxiously across the dining table from you, I might have well as been a stranger for that’s all that I was to you but I know it wasn’t your fault, nor your wish.
It almost made it easier I was six at the time, as I couldn’t imagine going through it now. My age shielded me from too much grief from lack of understanding.
Now it seems almost bizarre you passed away in the living room. I felt confronted with fear for the first time, seeing you still on the rented hospital bed. I was too scared to kiss you goodbye because you weren’t you anymore. You were the first dead person I had seen.
Although it makes me sad I can’t remember your thick accent, at least I have one or two happy memories of you. I would have loved to get to know you, and grow up with you. I know everybody, especially Grandma, misses you very much.
Love your Granddaughter.
I haven’t posted anything new recently because Uni has started up again and that oh so familiar cortisol kicks in and it feels like you’re trying to walk around balancing books on your head that keep falling and crushing your feet. Why is it that when things get so stressful that, instead of dealing with your problems, sometimes you ignore them until they become so big and ugly it’s impossible to ignore them anymore. I want to know why some of us just don’t seem to have that frustratingly perfect gene that allows some of us to get ahead with their work, finish it early and submit it with sickeningly sweet smile.
Sometimes I wonder why I go to Uni…the whole point is to help set myself up for a good future right? Even though what I’m studying I mostly get tutors saying: “This field is extremely competitive…”, “Finding work is going to be very hard…”, “You’re going to have to move to Melbourne if you want any sort of chance at getting a job.” Not to mention the horrible looks of pity on peoples faces when I tell them what I study and the classic line: “Will that lead to much?” Basically, from the reactions I’m getting, this really isn’t going to help me much at all. The future looks bleak.
I want what everyone wants: to live a happy life. It’s just hard figuring out what makes you happy and if you can make it happen in comparison in what society deems as normal. Right now, a good weekend for me is getting take-away and watching some TV with my boyfriend. Yes, I want to travel, go out for lunches and shop, so that means I will need money…and to get money means working a 9-5 job. If I’m spending my life working this 9-5 job I hate, it means the majority of life won’t be fun or happy. That’s our ‘lot’. Life isn’t always fun. It’s complicated and we made it that way, otherwise we’d be killing each other basic things like food, water, and shelter…Wait…in a way…aren’t we still doing that?
I apologise for the vant (vent/rant). This is my form of therapy. Hey, it’s either this or slapping people in the face, and hopefully this is a little more bearable. I will have a glass of wine and cheers to you for making it through. 🙂
Trap unsuspecting insects
With false morning dew
Venus Fly Trap waits
Hairs rigged to trigger the snare
A tasty Milkweed
Seeps a concoction of glue
Addictive flowers enslave
Corpse Flower mimics
Fetid odours of the dead
Enticing the flies
Click-clacking teetotallers parade the street with coffee breath as blazed
Cross-leggers giggle at the lopsided puddles dribbling on the backs of ants in cracks.
Cracks violate the dry heels of Prada worshipping women, who fan their faces
Dotted with sweat beads caused by the burning demon in the sky.
Sky scrapers grow invasively like weeds dominating a garden, that tower
Over the rows of cars continuously compacting the tar coated earth.
You can see them protruding from miles away, you can see them shine from space,
Harbouring millions of compartmentalised microcosms of life.
Man and machine seem so comfortable within their concrete fortress but
They can not contend with the almighty power that inevitably sneaks through the flaws.
It’s not fun being invisible.
I can feel a scream forming at the back of my throat, but I can’t make any sound.
I feel like nothing because I am basically nothing. Empty space.
It would be easy being nothing if I knew I wasn’t meant to be something.
It’s the worst suffering you can feel, watching others live.
The only thing I can do is scare people with my intensity.
I’m a prisoner shaking my bars.
I have no choice.
If only something could free me.
They were perfectly nested, side by side,
On that park bench each day.
Vultures picking apart people,
Hunched in matching coats of grey.
“There’s that fat one”, they would squawk.
“The tall one with the hair lip.”
“The husband, hardly at home,
On an extended ‘business trip’.”
“I heard she has her teeth whitened.”
“I heard he wears a toupee.”
“I heard they’ve gone bankrupt,
Having gambled it all away.”
“Don’t you think it’s ghastly?”
They sneered and they awed,
“That everyone in town, but us,
Is inexplicably flawed?”