A different Anna (a story).

The last time Anna’s hands had touched this wood she had been sitting beside her Grandmother ten years ago.


Eight year-old Anna had been scraping into the top layer of the curiously soft wood, only halting to flick out the remains from underneath her fingernails. Her mind had wandered as the monotonous voice of Murwillumbah’s parish priest filled the air, punctuated by his hoarse cough, like a bark, Anna had thought. Every time he coughed like this, her Grandmother’s eyes would flit to Anna’ busily working fingers and she would perse her lips in annoyance. Anna was sullen with frustration and boredom as her blank gaze drifted from her handiwork to the priest in response to her Grandmother’s disapproving eyes. More than anything Anna had wanted to be back at home in Sydney with her friends.

Anna sighs, she had been such a brat when she was young. She pulls back her legs to make room for her Auntie’s boisterous figure as she bustles past her to sit next to her Dad and the strong scent of gardenias fills the air. Anna twists in her seat to peer at all those who have come. There are plenty of people, most of whom Anna doesn’t recognise; some aged with years of rough laughter and crinkled smiles, others’ skin still smooth and sombre. As the organ starts up, Anna turns back to the front in time to stand with everyone else. But the faces linger in her mind, they are friendly faces, she thinks.

Twelve year-old Anna had been tugging absent-mindedly at her lower lip with her left hand, while her right arranged and rearranged the seven lettered tiles in front of her. GF IAYLM. MAY.YAM. LAY. MAIL. GAILY. FAIL. Anna frowned at the last option as her eyes flicked towards the score board; she was coming fourth...

“Come on, Anna.” Her Grandmother’s words awoke her from her reverie,

“I’ll just be a minute,” she had muttered; discouraged by the impatience and her own low score. She glanced at the tattered paper again before scoping the cramped board for spaces.

“Well, I should hope so. At this rate we’ll be here ‘til Christmas.” Anna looked up at her Grandmother for this snide remark, but it was softened by her smile, as she leaned in to offer Anna some advice, her hands deftly moved the pieces. FAMILY. “If you place it here, you can get 22 points.” she whispered discreetly, as Anna’s Dad came back from the toilet and her brother walked back with a wooden bowl of Smith’s Crisps.

It had taken her another four years until she had finally won a game of scrabble without any help, Anna muses. The priest’s voice is ringing out through the church and Anna keeps catching phrases, “you may not grieve as others do who have no hope…The word of the Lord”. She nibbles her lip as she fails yet again, to join in on the congregation’s response: “Thanks be to God” they murmur, unified.

Fourteen year-old Anna had been lying with her left cheek against the itchy carpet of her Grandmother’s flat against her left cheek, as she gazed blankly at the television screen which had been playing cricket for the last four hours. She sighed heavily and her grandmother had taken pity on her and suggested she read a book. After much persuasion Anna had unenthusiastically began reading Pride and Prejudice. But by the end of the week, Anna had clutched the faded copy (now her very own) to her chest as she had finished reading the Darcy’s letter. A new fervour could be found in her eyes.

As the organ and congregation wobble into Psalm 23,Anna’s mind returns to the present and her hands, sticky in the north-coast humidity, gripped the bench’s edge; she can hardly believe what she saw on the back of the pew. It is still there…the furtive and wicked ‘A’ she had carved there ten years ago. Anna surprises herself by suppressing a smirk that quickly evaporates as her eyes are drawn once more to the mahogany coffin on her left. Anna thinks about her Grandma and Murwillumbah and a part of her feels like if she leaves the town tomorrow afternoon, she will have finally lost her grandmother. As the priest’s parting words ring out through Saint Patrick’s, Anna’s hand finds her mum’s.

Afterwards, Anna once again sits down at the empty pew, her fingers trace the rivets and she leaves, feeling satisfied. But only after carving her grandma’s initial beside her own.

fighterfighterfighter

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i have this humming in the back of my brain
to remind me i'm not dead

maybe if i etch it into each rib it will be true

too much

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"You are the most dangerous kind of female the world can ever know. You carry the seeds for your own destruction and the destruction of everyone who loves you. And a great many will love you for your beautiful face for your seductive body; but you will fail them all because you will believe they all fail you first. You are an idealist of the worst kind - the romantic idealist. Born to destroy and self destruct."
-V. C. Andrews

Group Hallucination

I am so sick
of these ancient, iron cages
that separate
us. They separate
the artists from athletes
the scholars from blue-collars
the known from the unknowns;
the Romeos from Juliets.
They separate people from people.

I do not think
such persistent,
such acceptable ideas,
should remain unchallenged.

I cannot wait
for the day
they rust away.

(Sometimes, I think we make them up inside our head.)

favourite

This is by Some Girl. I don't know if she's leaving blogger. But she is an incredible writer and blogger. I had two favourites when I began blogging 15 months ago, and she was one of them. This is an excerpt from her latest post.

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I started this blog because I needed to know what I looked like on the inside. I needed to build a separate perception of myself...I never looked into my own face until I started this blog. This has been a simultaneous process of hiding and revealing. What I hid during the day, I revealed at night to a blank Word document. I used to be someone was the first sentence I ever wrote here and it's one of the truest things I've ever said. I used to be someone, I used to be a lot of people. First, I was a walking archive and then an arsonist, searing the past, memories and people alike, into ashes and then I was just some girl sorting through the wreckage. I can write myself out of anything, even the past versions of myself. I wrote until the multiplicity shrank so tiny that the ropes loosened and fell away. I used to be the person who needed to build this place but I don't want to be that person anymore. The clock has rolled back to zero and I am free.

i need to remember

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“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late
or, in my case, too early
to be whoever you want to be.
There’s no time limit,
            stop whenever you want.
                   You can change
                   or stay the same,
                   there are no rules to this thing.


We can make the best or the worst of it.

I hope you make the best of it.

And I hope you see things that startle you.

I hope you feel things you never felt before.

I hope you meet people with a different point of view.

I hope you live a life you’re proud of.

If you find that you’re not,

I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

things that make me happy

this is a tag by katherine i havent been able to do until now. 
write a list of things that make you happy. she is lovely,
this idea is lovely. I tag:
P.s. I Am Me
and    
Francesca

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the moments when you suddenly remember how beautiful everything is
lovely children with shy smiles
goofy laughs
licking icing
hot baths
90s movies
warm, sunny weather
shy boys with lovely smiles
books you can't put down
singing when you're home alone
fresh fruit

by Dylan Thomas

Do No Go Gentle Into That Good Night 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The World Through Beryl

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Pausing for barely a second now and then like a motor gently missing, Oriel stopped to watch Beryl, who had grown paler still. That woman will disappear if she keeps fading like this, she thought. What was it with Beryl? Hunger for a man? What man deserves a good honest woman like Beryl? Even as she watched, Oriel saw Beryl fading by the window. She saw the mulberry tree through the tall woman's translucent, veiny arms. The sky moved behind her. You could see the whole world through Beryl Lee.
         Take a break, Beryl.
         No, I'm right. Truly.

(excerpt from Cloudstreet by Tim Winton)

if

source

Broken

By P.s. I Am Me from Shades of Green and Grey

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It would be easy to fall apart.
Piece by tiny piece.
And it’s hard to be put back together again once this happens.
Because, like with all puzzles, pieces get lost.
Maybe you’ll never be whole again.

Sleep-washed

A poem by Saba Vayani-Lai

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This,
This simplicity,
This sleep-washed morning,
The raindrops dancing gently
Upon soft glass,
Reflecting the sleeping forms of
Living poetry,
Of us,
Lost in a mindless tangle of limbs and
Sheets and sticky puddles of light.


At last,
Letting the words and the yearning finally,
Finally,
Spring from the page and into motion,
Into reality,
Into this tangible mess of feeling,
Lazily looped not in ink,
Not in restricting monochrome and colour-starved
paper,
Not caged in the heavy iron lattice of forced rhyme
-
But in the mixing of our breaths,
In the mingling of a million miniscule atoms,
Air cocktails slipping, shared,
Between our lips.


And then…
I feel the resignation festering,
Wild mushrooms growing in sad lumps, slow
and hungry,
Around my tired heart –
Such joy,
Such interdependent joy,
It cannot last.
It can only cling
As raindrops do to a spider’s web,
Desperately hoping the wind doesn’t lose
Her temper.


But I have traced stars
With fearless fingertips –
Traced that pale harmony between living and
Expressing
In the creases and valleys
Of your skin.


To have known such joy,
Even just for a moment -
It is enough.

This,
This simplicity,
This sleep-washed morning,
I watch our lazy forms reflected
In rain-speckled glass –
All drowsy smiles and
Poetry,
Alive at last.

(This is in the 2009 winners if you follow the link)

writing letters

By Melee of The Midnight Train Of Thought

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Dear You,


Whenever I write, I always feel the need to address myself to you.
You, you! It's so ambiguous. You could be male or female. You could be my mother, you could be the dog next door.
Sometimes I'm not even sure who you are. You are my lover, you are my enemy. You are a sonnet, you are prose. You are sufficient; you will never be enough.
But you know... you always know. I can tell you those things I always wanted. Whoever you are, I need you. Because, in writing to you, I feel a little less lonely: you're reading along.

Thank you.
Ever and Ever,
Me

post

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I miss writing poetry.
But it's one of those things I can't control.
Occassionally I've tried to force myself to write,
but I never like the poems later.
But it's a past-time that I really cherish.

I hope my words come back.
I'm getting sick of excerpts and sad stories.

So, maybe for a bit I'll post other things than my writing,
things I love and want to share.
Just enough to remind me.

Excerpt #10

There is anger in her.

The kind that's been held for too long, and it is now spilling out of her.
There she is, kneeling on the wooden floor of her bedroom, rifling through a dark, wooden box. She keeps opening pieces of paper, reading them and then tearing them into confetti. Occasionally she burns things. One time she does both. She's trying to rid herself of all the things that have been destroying her.
Photos, quotes, poems, writing, ideas, plans and pills, bandaids, lyrics, memories.
She has a soundtrack playing loudly so she doesn't need to think. She keeps going until there are only three things left in the box. A neatly folded piece of paper. A photo. And a now-blank notepad.
She puts everything else into a glass jar. The jar is filled with paper and water and ash and ink. She thinks she is free.

In a few days she'll realise the jar is still in her room, she'll want to get rid of it, but she won't.

photos.

I don't know what happens next.

i can relate

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You would hate it.
There are good days, and bad days,
and you never know which it's going to be,
until it is.
Or, on those rare, unlucky occassions
when you realise the night before
that tomorrow is going to be a terrible,
terrible day
and you can't do anything about it,
except know.

Letterhead #12

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Dear Bella,
I feel so shit today.
It's like everything you said last night has seeped into me.
I meant it when I said
"You can't depress me, I've been there already.
I've thought all these things before"
But this morning it got into me,
(maybe it's because I was reminded of how i used to think)
I will not tell you.
Because I can let go of it now,
I can already feeling it sliding away
and I don't want you to think
you are hurting me.
Even if you are a bit.

not mine.

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That the way light
bounces off your skin
has nothing to do with who you are.

That smokers believe
they need to die a little,
just to go outside.

That art has always hated the frame you put it in
and would lash out,
kicking and screaming in the streets,
if you gave it half a chance.

That the way lovers touch
can not be communicated in words,
no matter how often or how hard you try.

That your body fights your mind
and your mind fights your soul
and your soul fights the world,
to try and figure out what you are.

That sometimes, you're just tired.
That's all.

- http://www.iwrotethisforyou.me

don't ask

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She was Numb. Numb. Numb. Sometimes she whispers that word to herself, when she gets strange looks she smiles.

What is there to tell you about her? She drinks. She smokes. She starves herself. She does whatever it takes ease the numbness, or distract herself from it.

The other day she cut herself. Seventeen slits, on her left forearm. She used the razor from a pencil sharpener -just scratches, she tells herself. Today she accidentally let them show as she was taking off her jacket. Nobody saw, she doesn't know whether or not she's relieved.

She goes home and listens to music that gets in your head as she goes on Tumblr for hours. Around her, her friends are kissing boys and laughing and studying and growing. She writes things that are similar to the young Tim Burton's poetry. About girls who will grow up before their time. She is in a blur. When she looks around, all she can see is fog.

hypocrite

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at times
i have written
against girls
talking talking always talking
about boys.
i've wanted
girls to live for themselves
to be okay with themselves
without a boy being okay with them
first.
but i hate to admit
i may start (writing) soon
because there is a boy
who meant a bit more than a kiss
and even if it doesn't go
anywhere
right now
i wanted to write
about him
and how nice
his kisses were.

(please get out of my head.)

it would be a lot easier

morbid curiosity

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Raindrops are drumming against your window. You can feel their icy whispers gathering around you. The room is dark except for the glass which reveals the greying street, and the cold glow of the laptop's screen which illuminates the dim forms of a bed, chair and closet behind you. There is the thick taste of a hard-boiled lolly in your mouth. Behind the rain you can hear the vague outlines of Sad by Pearl Jam humming in the background.
All this, with the mixed, broken scents of hair and rain and cotton sheets and lavender, holds you for a moment. And you pause in your typing, your fingers hesitating on the keys before you continue typing, in a more assured manner then before. This is who you are, now, in this moment you feel more yourself than you often do. And it's like a breath of fresh air. But even as you type you wonder whether you will post it.
And a small, dissatisfied part of you thinks about why people read the erratic, endless writings of others shadowed by the anonymity of cyberspace. And you can't help but feel it's for the same reason that humans stretch their necks to get glimpses of car crashes.

But maybe you shouldn't think about that right now. Maybe you should just finish your sentence.

just a letter

This is a tag created by Felicity which I was tagged in by the exceptionally talented Katherine. All you have to do is write a letter beginning with 'Dear You' that can't include any names, only pronouns. It's really freeing and easy, I hardly ever write in such a straight forward manner, I think I'll do it more.
I tag : Chlo and Sabine Cara for fairly obvious reasons I feel.
I was going to tag Jokerman but my account isn't working properly and I can't comment on his blog to let him know, so if you get this Danke, I hope you do the tag.

Dear you,

I've wanted to write this letter for a long time, but I haven't. I'm not sure why. I often put off things like this. It's because when I think, I think through everything and sometimes it's too much. It's difficult being a thinker sometimes. It's a lot messier than those who just accept things.

I'm talking to him again, well today and yesterday. It's funny, it's not that we weren't talking, but we haven't talked to each other a long time. He's curious like that. Someone said to me on Wednesday, "He is always a bit angry at everyone." I think that person's right.

I haven't been writing a lot lately, not even in my journal. Honestly I suppose it's a but more of a diary but I don't really like that word as much. And I haven't been writing on my blog. Which is annoying because I really want to, and even tags I've been given I haven't been able to fill out, except this one. It's frustrating because I love to write, but it's so erratic. I have to be in the right state of mind and a lot of things mess with that for me.

My friend is doing okay (I think), if you were wondering. We all are. But I wonder where we are going to be in 6 months time, when we don't have the support and stresses we have now. It could go either way I think.

I wish I could use my real name to sign off, but I won't. What's in a name, after all? If anything because of the anonymity of the internet, I've been more myself as Lilah, or more open to the parts of me that I don't want everyone to see at least. Except for her but that's okay. She is different. A friend once said to me, "She is one of the few people that actually care", they don't even know the half of it. I don't think I do either.

With love,

For someone else

Feelings flood inside you. And that's the thing about feelings, you say you want them, but you never really do. And you always do. They are some of the most beautiful and contradictory aspects of life. And it all depends on you. If you are a well or a puddle or a duck's back. And it's okay to be any of those things but they will always leave you feeling unsatisfied.
Because, a part of you knows, that you want someone else to feel it with you.

curiousity killed the cat, repeatedly

If insanity is the fire then drinking is the match.
And in my eagerness to see the room I'm standing in, I keep believing I will be able to light a candle.
Even though all I can smell is gas.

Fuck.

Mud in My Tears



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For two thousand sessions
and three analysts
and so many tears

I've gnawed over
this division of roles
for twenty years

what happened
what happened to her
what happened to me

I've sorted and sieved
and dissected
I've strained

through this corset
and shamed myself
I've repeated and remembered

and divided
the borders
she was the mother

I am the daughter
I am the daughter
born after the war

after the hunger
after the torture
after the typhoid

after the disfigurement
after the disinfection
after the dead

and well after
the rape
and the German Shepherd

I am the daughter
born after the war
but I've stalled

I am stuck
like a pig in mud
mud from the barracks

mud from the huts
mud from the bunks
mud from my eyes and lungs

mud in my liver
mud in my mouth
mud ringing in my ears

mud in my fingers
mud in my screams
mud in my tears.

-Lily Brett

Excerpt #9

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She nods to satisfy his question but she is no longer listening. If you watch closely you can hear the ringing echoes -of whatever song holds her head today- swinging through her mind, taking her over. He is still talking but she is already gone. She has slipped away.

She treds along the dusty corridor and when she reaches the opening of the stairs hers eyes brush the shadows, that linger at the bottom of the stairs and the hallway beyond. She hesitates when reaching for the lightswitch, and her fingertips almost graze the hardened plastic before she pulls her hand away.
As she descends she finds herself wondering if she will fall.

if you are sad

the good people don't make it worthwhile

but they sure make it easier

let them

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Awake

I want things again.
Plural.
And I really want them, I care about them, I have enough energy to try and get them.
So this is about all the things I want, to remind me if I ever forget again.

I want to dye my hair hot pink

I want to appreciate people and personalities



I want to finish the HSC and do well, not because I need to but so I can be proud of myself

I want to kiss someone who I actually care about

and when I do I don't want to be numbed

I want to act

I want to read

I want to write

I want to travel

I want to meet people

I want to experience

I want to fight for who and what I believe in

even if that means breaking the rules sometimes

I really want to remember the inherent goodness of humanity

even if it's hard to see sometimes

And honestly, part of me

wants to go back

but not for a bit

And until then, I want to remind others about what I so easily forgot

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Thank you for everything

You all helped me a lot.

Waking



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The thing is, she had realised she was asleep. After more than 6 months, by an almost-year, she had realised and often consoled herself with the fact that all sleeping things must wake (and if not it is said to be the best way to go, dying in your sleep). And I know that when you realise it is a dream you are meant to be able to control what happens, and she tried -I swear she did- but she found the dream slowly fell into a nightmare around her. And a part of her relished the fact that she was slowly losing faith, that she had lost control. So she dreamt.
She dreamt she was running from something she couldn't escape
                               suffocating                              
                               being torn apart
                               lost in the wind                              
                               and the whole time falling, falling, falling,
and then, just before she hit the ground, she woke up.
                              
                         

Asleep

It's funny because the whole time she slept, she felt tired. 



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 I don't know why she fell asleep, or when, but she did.
At first it was sporadic, but as time wore on she would be unconscious for days at a time, and then one day, she didn't wake up. And it stayed like that for a long time.

Weeks passed. Months.
She was unaware of the exterior world, instead tuned in solely to this battle raging within her, these dreams and thoughts and emotions that swelled internally. And on the outside, people tried to wake her, first casually and then in frustration, by the end they could not hide their panic.
Eventually, she began to sleep-walk, and that eased their worries. Allowed her to sleep in peace.

Letterhead #10.5

Dear Bella
Last night
(at the mexican fiesta)
there was a moment,
when i looked at you and thought
"why is she doing this?"
and the only thing i could think was
-i know why i'm doing it.
but i didnt think you were unhappy.
what aren't you telling us?
are you okay?

i promise

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YOU ARE NOT THE SUM OF YOUR MARKS

                                             OF YOUR WRITING

                                             OF YOUR APPEARANCE

                                             OF YOUR WORST MOMENTS

you are so much more

i promise

and even if you can't see that now,

please, just hold on to it,

hold on to it until you can.

Psalm 139:7

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anna



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There is a small smile playing on her lips, and as your eyes follow her you get the feeling she's smiling at her own private joke. She walks, head high, long strides across the stage to accept her award. Smiles as she shakes his hand. There is an air of unashamed intelligence about her, a calm manner that suggests not shyness, but a level of confidence in which attention-seeking is not necessary. That is probably what is most appealing about her, that wicked smile and quiet air -it makes you wonder what she's thinking, because that's all you can do, wonder.
I suppose she's pretty, in a dark-haired, olive-skinned way. In a sweet-smile way. But what makes you look at her is her eyes, not because they are beautiful, but because they are deep and dark and steady. Because, she has this way of looking you directly in the eye without ever meeting your gaze.
And you wonder if she's slipping away from this world as you speak to her, like gradually she's distancing herself until all she needs to do is pull the trigger.

Letterhead #11

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Dear Bella,
I've been listening to hurt by nine inch nails/johnny cash all night
you're right, it's incredible.

I just want to say, the times i've shown you writing and said
it was from another blog,
i lied. i don't know why, maybe you can relate.
i mean, you lie,
you lie all the time.
you say no one knows you're sad.
but you tell them, you tell me.
they just don't know what to do
when you say you want to die.
they're scared and (you're right) they don't want to believe it,
they want to believe in the bright, smiling bella,
not this hidden, broken, lonely person who we've never met
because you've never introduced us.
(can you blame them)
it's your fault.
it's their fault.
it's nobody's fault.

they do care,
we both know it, but they don't understand
they are innocent, unstained, happy fools
and you can't expect them to save you.
That is, if you even want saving.
I don't know if you do anymore,
I don't think you know either.

ideal

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