laudelanever-blog

[laudelanever-blog]

Like nature, so careless on the single life.

[laudelanever-blog]

antonia

if I close my eyes

and put fingers together, two fingers to touch

I feel it - skin to skin

akin

if I close my eyes

and listen to sounds around

I hear it - breathe closeby

at night

if I close my eyes

its the best I ever sleep

with my eyes closed, im with her

and can sleep all night.

[laudelanever-blog]

Sightly.

A & b sit adjacent to each other on the side of the street, a few metres apart.

A is ankle deep in the gutter, b is sitting back against a shop wall. A has to turn around to see b. B is facing straight out ahead, fixed in position. Silence for a while. A does not notice b until they speak.

b: Beautiful day. a: Hopefully b: Hopeful! very good. a: Spose so. b: Nothing else to it. a: Ha, sure. -- b: Do you know what the time is? a: Ah, its 6:13am. b: 6.13am. Copy. a: Don’t copy me. b: What’s that? a: It’s a- never mind. b: Do you- you sound. You okay? a: Hopefully. Hopeful. b: Hopeful. Good girl. -- Do you live around here? A turns to take in b. Who is this? a: Not really. b: Work around here? a: Ahh, not really. b: Well here we are, hopeful and here. A: cool??? After a while a turns again and sees b is still looking straight out, fixed. a: You live around here? b: Pretty much, pretty much right here. a: Oh right! (B looks homeless) Yes. Well, not the worst place. b: Not the best. a: Hopeful. b: You got it. Hey, have you ever thought of doing voice overs? You have a really enticing voice. a: Grrrrrr. b: What? a: Oh I just, that was ahh a tiger or something? Like as in not enticing? I don’t know, sorry. Don’t worry. Sorry. b: Ah yeah, grrrr. Grrrrr. Grrrrrrrrr. a: Yeah. b: You could be my tiger. a: (ew?) A looks at b. They’re still fixed. A sort of waves around, nothing. A realises B is blind.

a: So, what are your plans for today? b: I think this is it. a: Yeah, fair enough. b: Well, nothing is fair enough. a: Yes ofcourse, sorry. Sorry for- yeah. b: No don’t be sorry! a: Okay. Sorry. Ah, sorry. b: You’re very cute. I could listen to your voice for a while. a: You’re voice is also nice (?? wtf am I saying) b: You want to come, sit with me? b: sit on me? a: (OMG WTF NOOOOOOO) A goes to leave, fuck this pervert, notices B is sitting beside some cash, some not bad cash, some cash that would be really handy. A moves on over, B excites, B hears A moving, eyes still fixed, body still fixed, still facing out into the street of nothing. A gets closer, leans down. Doesn’t sit but goes to grab the cash. B suddenly darts their eyes to A. a: AHHHHhhhh b: What the fuck? a: Fuck! Ahhh b: Arrrgh. a: Ah shit! Fuck! b: The fuck are you doing you little bitch? B tries to grab a, but it’s a combination of cant be bothered and a is moving away anyway. a: Oh what the actual fuck? b: Fuck you! a: Fuck! b: That’s my fucking money you fucking, you fucking- a: Fuck fuck fuck- b: Fucking cunt you are- a: No no, sorry sorry! I thought ahhh- b: Just thought you could fucking just fucking take my money you dumb bitch. a: No! I thought. Fuck, no I just thought you were blind. b: OH WHAT THE FUCK? a: No no no no- b: You fucking people a: No i just thought, it’s been a- b: Oh fuck off. a: Fuck you. b: Fuck you- a: Fuck you! Who fucking sits and stares at nothing at 6am?? b: I can do whatever the fuck I want. It was fucking peaceful. A is moving off, the following trails out. b: FUCK YOU! fucking blind? what the fuck. a: Fuck! b: You dumb cunt. Cant even fucking sit any more. a: Oh fuuuuuuuuck this. b: I hope you fucking rot! a: HOPEFULLYY! fucccckkk youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu. fuck.

[laudelanever-blog]

I remember going to school in uniform on mufty day. I remember my teacher calling my mum and my mum changing me into pink overalls in the storeroom just outside class. I remember being short enough that when she helped me put my feet in through the leg holes I had to hold her shoulders for stability. I remember being sent on an errand by our substitute teacher and spending what felt like eternity trying to solve my left and rights to finding the right classroom. I don't remember the resolution - I think I'm still outside on the bitumen trying to remember, the fear of consequences remains. I remember my mum and sister in the children’s hospital ward, beds aside in the same room. I remember the jealousy in delivering hand-made cards from my sister’s school class to the hospital, and for her to read them being only a burden as she was pulled away - hands before eyes - glued to the game boy set they wheeled especially into her room, her room, for her. I remember her own TV. I remember never having a turn. I remember returning home and learning what ‘mold’ was and worse, what ‘mold’ could do. I remember learning it was not spelt ‘mould’ years later. I remember the brown/black blotted carpet at home. It wasn’t stained, it was just an ugly fucking design. I remember my the shining disco balls that covered my sisters bedroom door, I remember I had soft flower petals, I remember the noise of hers and the silence of mine. I remember having nits, for years, or months but feeling like years or weeks but feeling like years, or for years. I remember Lynn Fifield telling me I had nits like I didn’t know. I remember the hair dresser telling mum I had nits like she didn’t know (I remember the hair dresser cutting my hair regardless, pity maybe). I remember hearing Ryan Grigg having his mouth washed out with soap from his mum next door. I remember when he ran into our house, wailing in pain, because he pretended to put on red lipstick with the hot red chilies from the plant outside. I remember the the lavender bush that was untamed and ambrosial that sat in an obscured, over-sized, circle shape smack bang in the middle of our large buffalo grass-covered back yard. I remember often picking the lavender and bogainvilea. I remember the summer-heat most specifically in this backyard; the crisp grass, the frosty fruits, the sprinkler. I remember the heat fondly, and not as a danger as I know it now. I remember our garage as an uncomfortably full, dark, spider-ridden room which I now deeply-long to return to, to rummage and to touch and to smell it all again and again. I remember the paint half peeled off my bedroom walls, the many weekends of “we’ll repaint it next time” and waiting for the ‘next time’. I remember when we moved and leaving the walls as so. I remember when mum’s singing student Jessica Holmes was my baby sitter and wouldn’t let me sleep in mum’s waterbed. I remember being found asleep on the floor next to mum’s bed, in a sleeping bag, late night in the night and being told to return to my bed. I remember laying in the water bed with my mum and sister the morning of an Easter. I remember going to the bathroom but really looking for chocolate, finding a hallway empty and then returning back to them both in bed. I remember moments later all getting up and then finding the hallway had a string of chocolate pellets trailing throughout the house. I remember so acutely in that exact moment that my mum was a god damn magician. I remember mum constantly fixing the holes in the water bed, the hose always running from the bathroom to the bedroom to refill and refill and refill, towels all around. I remember always causing waves in the bed as the most restless sleeper. I remember being the cause for many holes.

[laudelanever-blog]

I will remember this time as the year I actively smiled less to help the case of anti-ageing.

[laudelanever-blog]

In stealing

My basket is full of erupting greens; beans, broccoli, peas and sprouts, in taking no plastic I have caused absolute produce chaos, like a family reunion with everyone looking same-same-but-different, all pining for individuality. I want to go to the exit with a check-out attendant but their lines are back logged with trollied looking cunts with trolleys. I’m just jealous, a large trolly can only mean three things; family, fat, or funds. All of which I want (I mean not technically fat, I just want to be someone who is fine with being fat themselves). As a self-conscious introvert who steals, the act of self-checkout is alarming. It’s the notion of looking at myself in the mirror (checking out self) aligned with the damning nature of how to finely execute a ‘fuck-the-system’ swift transaction (the self checks out). 2PAC’s All Eyes On Me, catchy and terrifying melodic beat bouncing between my eyes, my ears pinned back. I’m looking at me, you’re looking at me, and ideally noone can see, It’s all a bit much. Maybe these corporations are actually preparing the every-day human for the entrance/exit into the after-life. Whatever that is, that period of time? After life. We know sure as shit they’re hot as hell with that dark-red bad blood (they breed the smell of fossil fuels and fucking over the ‘little-guys’) so it would make sense that they’ve got an executed contract with the demons themselves. The self-checkout point is like limbo in Roman Catholic theology, the border place between heaven and hell where souls not condemned to punishment are deprived of the joy of eternal existence with God in heaven so eternity is spent in the inbetween, OR that week in the annual calendar that’s sits book-ended by Christmas and New Years, OR like a gooch.

It’s one of those... I stand aimlessly 1.5m behind the person in front awaiting my summons. I wish i could check out. Out of this and it all. 3 minutes pass as I pull apart my incestuous greens from the basket. My shade trade infiltrates by calling over the attendant for skillfully planned and wrongly accused stealing, I over weigh the checkout area and then return the good.

“It say’s I have an unexpected item in the bagging area, but everything in scanned?” and again “Hi, sorry, It says I have an unexpected item again, do you want to go through the item list?” and again “Sorry! Am I doing something wrong? Maybe its all the weighing of the greens?“ Steal Steal Steal.

“And again!” The attendants eyes rolling so far back I think they may have been weighed on my scale and charged as an extra item. I exit with a bag full of paid goods and a bag full of triumphant (...unpaid goods). My middle finger fires up with pins in needles. My blood pumps, it doesn’t circulate. It is both a reward of my fragmented weekly assault to the system (F U) and the suffering result of my failed weight distribution - my fingers holding two heavy bags of groceries, going red, going numb.

[laudelanever-blog]

Missing(s)

I want to send an Uber ‘words’ driver to her house, to ride up onto her drive way, to gently knock on her door with a familiar but polite knock knock knock, like getting the coffee filter out of the percolator as my housemate sleeps. It’s with the top right corner knuckle and I want her to answer the door and I want the words ‘hello’ to be said, and for her to feel, if ever briefly, if short albeit slowly or small, to feel her favourite thing, words.

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I’ve taken more time today to understand what is Greater Sydney than I ever have in trying to understand myself. Smaller Sarah.

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Everything feels unprecedented, then I read.

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An unfeeling algorithm

An unfeeling algorithm, I plus one to two to see three, holding this and holding in, my belly button hemorrhaging.

My usual sort of obstinacy, ominous to the situation, reeling from the condensation of the ever pressing, ever yearning thoughts like sperm, so rapidly thrashing themselves throughout my brain, as if determined to scale down the skeletal frame of my face like boiling water in a vase. How does that water split into pellets and drip down, outer ways, no shame, onto the table causing stains?

Selfish pain [the ringing noise, gentle or poise, all the same].

I zoomed my Nonna. Life moves impetuously around her, and she, always circumspect. Time doesn’t exist the same for us both, her seconds move quicker, feel slower. I move slower, feel quick. Our idyll is more fragile with every day that drops off, wherever days drop off. I’m off, like a dirty shirt.

I console myself with a hypothesis of centrality, as if this could render or neutralize my maddening. She is the same. Algorithm named Costa.

I search for comfort in reason; the joy in seeing people in FY21 seasons (my skin in anxious lesions), I don’t cave to the capitalistic narcissistic marketing demons that gave us both that new line’s ad that you failed to resist as part of Zuckerbergs targeted branded systems.

I fault in my own rhythms.

I want the same boundaries as Australian Eastern Standard time, it’s our time and you can meet us there, add a ‘+’ and we’ll call expectation fair.

Instead I renew my membership to partnerships demanding subscriptions rolling over into new prescriptions.

They should put a countdown timer when phone batteries reduce to 1%  so as to see the numbers drop, 60, 59, 58, 57 seconds left before the day drops off. Where do days drop off?

My phone always dies before dinner, my algorithm.

[laudelanever-blog]

knuckleheads

my knuckles look like eyes

or full faces of folding skin

maybe a lemon

juiced

they look like botched shells

in the dusty corner of a grey sand beach

or the eye of the volcano

my blood, lava ready to breach.

my inside would never be so ambitious,

to spill out when not called upon

or even on such calling

would never face front on.

[laudelanever-blog]

Log

My table of information; sharp, cubed, formed, standing by for my resuscitation, reiteration of my, well you know, It’s all in the archives. Creeping up on fine lines like 2020 election time edging with Nevada with that pure kink energy, hedging my sensory sensitively I log it for later, It’s all in the archives. The sweat looks cute, gently listening, holding skin, bubbling up, bursting in like soap on limbs It’s pretending like either side of the win actors who make the 2% success or the 2% of AstraZeneca side effects the stress pools into my mug I no longer measure in cups, I throw it back back in my head back in bed It’s all in the archives.

[laudelanever-blog]

sttttttream

feels like a stutter or a trip and a slip, dip, i’m running and my feet are away from me but i can’t go back and can’t stop and sliding again, always sliding but where is the glaze of sugar that coats it all that covers each and every fragment ahead of me that means i can’t do anything but slide, i need to slide, to slide and slide and its slippery but i’m in control and i cant stop cant stop now not while i’m on the slope, maybe its not slanted though maybe everything for the first time everything is exactly as it should be, it’s level and i’m actually in momentum like i’ve always meant to be. two currents working coherently together like a bird flying in the direction of the turning earth, the rotating globe, the moving surroundings of a world so wide with feelings so small, i’m moving, moving, moving, momentum, i could take off, i could be the bird. i stop, sip. its my killer, the sip, because its a guise, a fraud, a sip is never a sip and now i slip, now its really a slip, a slip into it, into the liquid that streams from my lips into my throat down my neck and into me, i wriggle and giggle and it’s a part and it’s taken hold, and the drunkenness of a young lady is on and off again i’m off again but on it all, i’m on it all off again and again and again i’m off if, off my fucking face, i daydream, i’m clarice lispectors sad sad sad sad sad sad girl face down in the dirt hoping one day it will stop without me having to make it and it will just go and i wont feel the pain or the same anymore and i will just go face flat and sinking into the core of the earth as if i always was and will never be a breathing drunk lady for someone to come into the lounge room and have a chat with.

but then i breathe.

[laudelanever-blog]

Out of a coma

I’m trying to understand. It’s no small thing - I’m certain - it’s pulled me out of a coma. Maybe it started in noticing the habit? Real pleasure, but it’s also secretive. It’s like you’re on the final stage of invention. I think that’s the feeling. It’s two fold; it’s the discovery and the urgency of must not, must, must not, must tell. To tell them - only them - that you’ve noticed their habit.

He takes off his hat or his beanie and he rubs his head. It’s one long glide over from forehead to upper neck then its a bit of a tussle. Like when you pat a really intriguing fur coated dog and the first pat is for the texture. The inquest of them. What is them? You feel like it is you touching them. Then the next few pats are a ‘meet me half way’ texture exchange. That’s what it looks like at least. He touches his head, it usually looks as though it’s stimulated by temperature; it’s cold, hot, or a thought (it’s a lot). Then it’s as though its a habitual finish. 2,3,1 or 3,3,1, a sync or repeat; OCD know code, you know if you know, no. He is his own pet and master.

I have it with my fingers. Mine’s not cute. Mine is rogue, it’s cruel even. It has a raring momentum and when it’s off, its off! All my fingertips glide together. Well they’re trying to glide but they’re so eager, they scruff and it shoots through like pellets of energy. It’s in my toes too. It really isn’t cute. It’s blistering, literally, I’ve had blisters. I do now, blisters. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I wish it would come out in words, I often do and it never does. In him it’s different, its soft. Even when its aggressive, it’s soft. I’m not trying to romanticize it, I think it’s likely practical. To move a hat further down or a beanie further back. Either way, it’s his, his habitual presence and I’ve got it now. Each repeat loaded with familiarity and futurity of tomorrow of tomorrow of tomorrow. 

Of tomorrow, I will feel a little less. Out of a coma, into the day.

[laudelanever-blog]

I’m back.

Can it be as simple as the capital?

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Dear Dead,

I have this irrational fear that I’m going to follow-up someone on an email and they’re dead. As though the recipient is fare-thee-well, gone, condolences, and then someone - weeks later (’weeks’ feels an appropriate’ length) - asses their contactable’s i.e. voice mail (do they exist?) phones, letter box, emails etc. and on task discovers a contact that came through post-death. Then there is me, subject line deep in follow-ups and high-importance flagging some irrational impatient irrelevant task now unnecessary for this person’s ceased existence.

I consider this when sending anything along the lines of ‘this is a priority’ and not ‘hope you’re okay’ when waiting a while for people to do their job...

Because they might be dead.

Maybe its because I riddle all my choices, synonymous with life’s hesitations.

Maybe its because they are dead (and i’m right).

RIP all those who are dead. Sucks. Or does it?

[laudelanever-blog]

Pear (Apple)

I thought they were called ‘ear pods’. Why the fuck they called ‘air pods’?

Leave the air to M.Jordan.