Kym opened the front door. He was keen for a cup of tea and a heavy portion of peanut butter atop a slice of stale bread. He was a happy man of modest wants.
Searching for the light switch in the living room, he was shocked to notice that James was sitting alone in silence. James was still wearing the same clothes as he had been when Kym had last seen him, just under 24 hours previously.
"Are you okay, buddy?" Kym asked.
"I can't see the screen on my laptop anymore. I think I may have done something to my eyes." James' eyes remained fixated on his switched off computer.
"It's off mate... The battery's probably run out."
"No no, I think that it is something different to what you mean."
"How about I make you some tea?"
"How do you feel about the band The Drones, Kym? Do you think that they are a pretty good band?"
"You know I do."
"Because I think that The Drones are a pretty good band."
"Did you eat today?"
"Stephen has been gone for a few days. Why?"
"I think he's been at work and uni and stuff."
"You're right. I'm going to talk to him tomorrow about this."
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
James uses his writing skills to get inside the persona of a 16 year old Muslim girl.
Man, it is so hard to be a Muslim girl at the moment.
For one, I have to live out in the western suburbs which get all hot and gross in the summer - especially because I wear a headscarf ALL the time. My parents are really strict and make me worship everyday, sometimes eight times depending on the state of Mecca!
I go to a school with mostly Muslims but also some normal people.
I feel lucky to live in Australia as there is no war in this country, but sometimes I feel like I don't belong. Like when the Cronulla riots were on.
For one, I have to live out in the western suburbs which get all hot and gross in the summer - especially because I wear a headscarf ALL the time. My parents are really strict and make me worship everyday, sometimes eight times depending on the state of Mecca!
I go to a school with mostly Muslims but also some normal people.
I feel lucky to live in Australia as there is no war in this country, but sometimes I feel like I don't belong. Like when the Cronulla riots were on.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
I had to include a Lake.
This story is contributing to me being a "Master of Arts." Kind of in the same way Brett Whiteley was a "master of art," but I will actually have a proper graduation and formal qualifications.
---
Mark stared the kind of stare that he wished a camera crew was there to record. It was one of those long, focused stares. The kind of stare that would be used in a video clip filmed in the rain on a Greyhound bus. It was such a good stare. Onlookers (of which there were none) would see him and immediately understand the significance of the private moment the man was sharing with himself. They would leave him alone to reflect.
This was an image the man was all too keen to create. In reality, his entire internal focus was dedicated to maintaining this philosophical aesthetic. Not to say that the man had not done any thinking at all, mind. At several points he had imagined what a stirring eulogy he would make at a friend's funeral – should they die suddenly and tragically. The politics of grieving would deny him the rousing applause he deserved, but he did not do things for public recognition. He simply was not that type of a man. The stare was briefly interrupted as the man strained his memory trying to recall if the crowd had applauded after Earl Spencer's address at Lady Di's memorial.
Mark had visited the lake as a personal reward for his efforts earlier that day. Having been subjected to a string of demeaning and generally unbearable assignments as an office temp, he had finally taken action in form of a face to face with his recruitment consultant, Kathy.
Mark's previous suspicion that Kathy's attractive voice directly correlated with the rest of her was correct. He immediately sensed that Kathy felt the same way about him, and thus the meeting started smoothly.
"So Mark, what can I help you with today?" Kathy asked, motioning him to a high-backed black swivel-chair.
"Um, well there's a few things I s'pose. Firstly, I'm not that happy with some of the assignments you have, ah, assigned me."
"Okay, sure. What aren't you happy about? What can we do better?" Kathy was all smiles.
Mark shifted awkwardly in his chair. He had been overly concerned with Kathy’s impression of him and had forgotten his pre-prepared any specific examples.
"Well, there was the one last week, Nespresso I think the company was called? My entire task involved holding down a desk chair for three days and folding three different brochures for some tacky coffee technology into an envelope."
"A bit boring was it?"
"Well, yes." Mark paused for effect. "They were so annoying, Kathy. They kept using the word 'amazing' to describe their own product, and the women had one of those frustrating accents."
"Frustrating accents?"
"You know the expat kids who end up going to international school in Hong Kong or Singapore? A little bit American. Kind of like those Russian tennis players who move to Florida at about 14?"
Kathy's silence suggested that she was not a very intelligent woman.
---
Mark stared the kind of stare that he wished a camera crew was there to record. It was one of those long, focused stares. The kind of stare that would be used in a video clip filmed in the rain on a Greyhound bus. It was such a good stare. Onlookers (of which there were none) would see him and immediately understand the significance of the private moment the man was sharing with himself. They would leave him alone to reflect.
This was an image the man was all too keen to create. In reality, his entire internal focus was dedicated to maintaining this philosophical aesthetic. Not to say that the man had not done any thinking at all, mind. At several points he had imagined what a stirring eulogy he would make at a friend's funeral – should they die suddenly and tragically. The politics of grieving would deny him the rousing applause he deserved, but he did not do things for public recognition. He simply was not that type of a man. The stare was briefly interrupted as the man strained his memory trying to recall if the crowd had applauded after Earl Spencer's address at Lady Di's memorial.
Mark had visited the lake as a personal reward for his efforts earlier that day. Having been subjected to a string of demeaning and generally unbearable assignments as an office temp, he had finally taken action in form of a face to face with his recruitment consultant, Kathy.
Mark's previous suspicion that Kathy's attractive voice directly correlated with the rest of her was correct. He immediately sensed that Kathy felt the same way about him, and thus the meeting started smoothly.
"So Mark, what can I help you with today?" Kathy asked, motioning him to a high-backed black swivel-chair.
"Um, well there's a few things I s'pose. Firstly, I'm not that happy with some of the assignments you have, ah, assigned me."
"Okay, sure. What aren't you happy about? What can we do better?" Kathy was all smiles.
Mark shifted awkwardly in his chair. He had been overly concerned with Kathy’s impression of him and had forgotten his pre-prepared any specific examples.
"Well, there was the one last week, Nespresso I think the company was called? My entire task involved holding down a desk chair for three days and folding three different brochures for some tacky coffee technology into an envelope."
"A bit boring was it?"
"Well, yes." Mark paused for effect. "They were so annoying, Kathy. They kept using the word 'amazing' to describe their own product, and the women had one of those frustrating accents."
"Frustrating accents?"
"You know the expat kids who end up going to international school in Hong Kong or Singapore? A little bit American. Kind of like those Russian tennis players who move to Florida at about 14?"
Kathy's silence suggested that she was not a very intelligent woman.
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