I notice now that there's a lot of people with blog homework and I think it's really important to share more than a fb quickie every now and again. So instead of a bucket list I am going to share a piece of writing I did during a huge shift in my life. It is inspired by Alice in Wonderland in the sense that its a real story of my youth with real people who never told me their names but it had a huge influence on my personal path. I have given pseudonyms which are fitting to their personalities. Also yes, it includes happier times with my parents before the bank told them to sell the house at Yeronga.
Do enjoy.
We walked hand in hand towards the crop of tree's, pointing towards the sky. Compact and lifted from the park's sparse acres. They seemed so estranged from their surroundings; as if they were just dropped there by some higher power.
The tree's were out of bounds naturally, as our mother disapproved of the happenings that occurred there after dusk. Shifty teenagers smoking bongs and drinking beer until all hours of the morning. But that didn't stop us, us giggling twins with bright shinning eyes and naive tender thoughts. We ran there when she was busy washing the dog , our hero, our poodle. We reached up with dirty fingers, grabbing onto branches, levering ourselves up into the delicious out of bounds. When we were younger we would clamber up, unable to reach the helping hands, spoiling our hand me downs and cutting our palms on the broken glass. The tree's were so close together that the roots were a jumble of knots, and gave us plenty of entertainment. We tried to climb, as children do, up into the canopy but we were defeated by our small fragile bodies and grudgingly we'd jump out of the cluster and run back towards the gate.
Mum would panic upon the inspection of our hands and the reflection of our clothes. Rage would set in and she'd smack us carelessly on our bottoms. It became a game where we would attempt to predict her actions and quickly defend our behinds with our hands. This would often lead to mum grabbing the hose and washing us down as a disobedience punishment. Sodden and shy we'd grumble about the cool water and the soap in our eyes as she madly scrubbed the rebellion from our skin. The days where we'd come back from the tree's after a rainy day were the worst. She would furiously use a brush and redden our pride.
The day soon came where we stopped going to the tree's altogether. Magpie season, very dangerous and very scary. We'd watch from the balcony as they swooped the older children riding their bikes across the cricket pitch and swerving away as the daft birds signaled their attack. After the season I stepped out alone into the park, a cool wind beating across our face and stinging our eyes. A late nester still mothering her young took one swoop at me, and I bolted for the tree's, wide eyes and wild breath. I clambered into the dark and sat awhile to wait for her to dismiss my danger. A sudden cough from the other side of the tree's emerged with a dazed laugh. I dared not to turn around but the thought of magpie's made me stiffen in my hiding place. I let out a gasp, and in turn he let out a wheeze.
I had to make myself turn my head in order to see him. A dark shadow of age across his face, bristle and brawn, tired eyes and yellowing teeth. He was wearing a coat made of safety pins, leather and patches; the safety pins cautiously holding every seam together, the patches hiding a youthful slogan, with only the dark red "K" emerging from the side. He was hunched over, facing out from the tree's yet crookedly staring my way.
He wasn't alone. A younger girl was with him, about twenty six, but I couldn't tell then. She had painted blue hair. The colour of mum's dark blue clip on earrings I was always wearing around the house. Cris crossed legs covered with a sheen of silvery purple, and monstrous boots with a green lace in the left and a pink lace in the right. She didn't look as wild. Her eyes were curious brown, her face softened by smiling cherub cheeks and rosy painted mouth. She took a swig from her bottle;
"Hello there". the smoky voice shook me from my stare. "What are you doing in here?". She let her eyes roll up towards the canopy and down again, flicked her cigarette to the side and motioned with her head she meant to get an answer.
"Come off it Haze. You'll scare the kid. She'll fuckin' take to the hills, tell her mummy we're in here and we'll get it." The older guy seethed in his spot, waving his smoke around to empathize his point. They began to argue.
"What if she's just 'ere because she's run away? We'd be hero's if we gave her over to the police!"
"Don't be so fucking demented Haze, she lives up the street, I've watched her play here before."
"Well, I was only trying to figure it all out. You're a laugh"
"Shut your trap!"
"I'm only curious, Floss"
"Well don't be, 'cause if you scare her, it'll be the end of this place for us"
"Hardly, these tree's have been here for years"
"And can be taken away in minutes"
"Twat"
"Fuckin' what? If I let you do everything you wanted we wouldn't even be in Brisbane anymore."
They rowed on, and gave me a chance to quietly duck out of the dark and bolt back to the safety of the gate. I ran up the stairs, to the right past the kitchen and straight into my parent's room. I dived into the covers, crumbs, newspapers and mum resting damp after her attempt to wash the dog.
I'd rest my head on my mum's stomach, soft and beaten by our entrance into the world. A hammock for our tired little bodies, a nest for our worries and cares to be buried. I'd listen to my mothers gurgles and burps as her daily cups of tea swished around in her belly. These sounds always made me more aware of the world and my part in it, and it was soothing and endless and alive. A sacred union, a loving embrace and a connectedness only a mother and child could know of. The water bed always emphasized our movements and mirrored our mood. A wave of water and sheets meant my mother was tickling our bellies and making us dance around the bed like kittens and a soft wave meant she was rocking us to sleep.
When dad was in the bed reading newspapers and drinking coffee in the morning, the sound of 4BH on the radio and pen on crossword puzzles were about. The bed would be alive but in a peaceful subdued way. Tender son staring at my fathers progress, wide eyed daughter being read to by mother. A memory treasured for many years and many years more I'm sure.
I remember on a dreary Sunday, my father lifting me into his lap, sipping his coffee, burnt on the edges and asking me questions regarding my week at Kindy. I enthusiastically decided to ignore him and yelled out what I thought were answers to his crossword. He spilt some coffee, laughing at my youth and it trickled down the back of my neck into my shirt. Dad tenderly lifted me up into his arms quickly and took me to the bathroom sink to inspect the burn. But his coffee wasn't hot enough for my skin to blister so all was well. Dad kissed my neck and said sorry. And we went back to bed with the crossword and the pen. Whilst dad pondered the answers I'd doodle in the corner of the paper and when he'd recalled the answers across or down he'd steady my hand and help me write the letters into the boxes. I'd giggle and burp with glee and then we'd show mum. Always ever so adoring and filled with pride.
The tree's were out of bounds naturally, as our mother disapproved of the happenings that occurred there after dusk. Shifty teenagers smoking bongs and drinking beer until all hours of the morning. But that didn't stop us, us giggling twins with bright shinning eyes and naive tender thoughts. We ran there when she was busy washing the dog , our hero, our poodle. We reached up with dirty fingers, grabbing onto branches, levering ourselves up into the delicious out of bounds. When we were younger we would clamber up, unable to reach the helping hands, spoiling our hand me downs and cutting our palms on the broken glass. The tree's were so close together that the roots were a jumble of knots, and gave us plenty of entertainment. We tried to climb, as children do, up into the canopy but we were defeated by our small fragile bodies and grudgingly we'd jump out of the cluster and run back towards the gate.
Mum would panic upon the inspection of our hands and the reflection of our clothes. Rage would set in and she'd smack us carelessly on our bottoms. It became a game where we would attempt to predict her actions and quickly defend our behinds with our hands. This would often lead to mum grabbing the hose and washing us down as a disobedience punishment. Sodden and shy we'd grumble about the cool water and the soap in our eyes as she madly scrubbed the rebellion from our skin. The days where we'd come back from the tree's after a rainy day were the worst. She would furiously use a brush and redden our pride.
The day soon came where we stopped going to the tree's altogether. Magpie season, very dangerous and very scary. We'd watch from the balcony as they swooped the older children riding their bikes across the cricket pitch and swerving away as the daft birds signaled their attack. After the season I stepped out alone into the park, a cool wind beating across our face and stinging our eyes. A late nester still mothering her young took one swoop at me, and I bolted for the tree's, wide eyes and wild breath. I clambered into the dark and sat awhile to wait for her to dismiss my danger. A sudden cough from the other side of the tree's emerged with a dazed laugh. I dared not to turn around but the thought of magpie's made me stiffen in my hiding place. I let out a gasp, and in turn he let out a wheeze.
I had to make myself turn my head in order to see him. A dark shadow of age across his face, bristle and brawn, tired eyes and yellowing teeth. He was wearing a coat made of safety pins, leather and patches; the safety pins cautiously holding every seam together, the patches hiding a youthful slogan, with only the dark red "K" emerging from the side. He was hunched over, facing out from the tree's yet crookedly staring my way.
He wasn't alone. A younger girl was with him, about twenty six, but I couldn't tell then. She had painted blue hair. The colour of mum's dark blue clip on earrings I was always wearing around the house. Cris crossed legs covered with a sheen of silvery purple, and monstrous boots with a green lace in the left and a pink lace in the right. She didn't look as wild. Her eyes were curious brown, her face softened by smiling cherub cheeks and rosy painted mouth. She took a swig from her bottle;
"Hello there". the smoky voice shook me from my stare. "What are you doing in here?". She let her eyes roll up towards the canopy and down again, flicked her cigarette to the side and motioned with her head she meant to get an answer.
"Come off it Haze. You'll scare the kid. She'll fuckin' take to the hills, tell her mummy we're in here and we'll get it." The older guy seethed in his spot, waving his smoke around to empathize his point. They began to argue.
"What if she's just 'ere because she's run away? We'd be hero's if we gave her over to the police!"
"Don't be so fucking demented Haze, she lives up the street, I've watched her play here before."
"Well, I was only trying to figure it all out. You're a laugh"
"Shut your trap!"
"I'm only curious, Floss"
"Well don't be, 'cause if you scare her, it'll be the end of this place for us"
"Hardly, these tree's have been here for years"
"And can be taken away in minutes"
"Twat"
"Fuckin' what? If I let you do everything you wanted we wouldn't even be in Brisbane anymore."
They rowed on, and gave me a chance to quietly duck out of the dark and bolt back to the safety of the gate. I ran up the stairs, to the right past the kitchen and straight into my parent's room. I dived into the covers, crumbs, newspapers and mum resting damp after her attempt to wash the dog.
I'd rest my head on my mum's stomach, soft and beaten by our entrance into the world. A hammock for our tired little bodies, a nest for our worries and cares to be buried. I'd listen to my mothers gurgles and burps as her daily cups of tea swished around in her belly. These sounds always made me more aware of the world and my part in it, and it was soothing and endless and alive. A sacred union, a loving embrace and a connectedness only a mother and child could know of. The water bed always emphasized our movements and mirrored our mood. A wave of water and sheets meant my mother was tickling our bellies and making us dance around the bed like kittens and a soft wave meant she was rocking us to sleep.
When dad was in the bed reading newspapers and drinking coffee in the morning, the sound of 4BH on the radio and pen on crossword puzzles were about. The bed would be alive but in a peaceful subdued way. Tender son staring at my fathers progress, wide eyed daughter being read to by mother. A memory treasured for many years and many years more I'm sure.
I remember on a dreary Sunday, my father lifting me into his lap, sipping his coffee, burnt on the edges and asking me questions regarding my week at Kindy. I enthusiastically decided to ignore him and yelled out what I thought were answers to his crossword. He spilt some coffee, laughing at my youth and it trickled down the back of my neck into my shirt. Dad tenderly lifted me up into his arms quickly and took me to the bathroom sink to inspect the burn. But his coffee wasn't hot enough for my skin to blister so all was well. Dad kissed my neck and said sorry. And we went back to bed with the crossword and the pen. Whilst dad pondered the answers I'd doodle in the corner of the paper and when he'd recalled the answers across or down he'd steady my hand and help me write the letters into the boxes. I'd giggle and burp with glee and then we'd show mum. Always ever so adoring and filled with pride.
dredge1:
That was a very enjoyable read, a great short story
amaranthismoi:
@dredge1 cheers for reading the whole way through