Tag Archives: wondermeant

Pearl 

I wish I did not write about love. 

I wish I had not let them brand me. 

If I am on the market 

How will people know if this subject 

is the only way I’m in print?
I wish I did not write about nature

Specifically how it makes my ovaries blossom. 

If I am only fertile these few more years

All ready engraved in pollen 

How will anything other than sticky stamen penetrate? 
I wish I did not write about Venus. 

She gives away my distance, timing and rotation. 

If I am not pulled by internet routers 

Rather

Turned out from churning oceans

Pearl soaked

How will I find connection? 
I wish I did not write about you. 

You 

who have folded language over in the mouth so it

Curses in hisses of spit and sputum. 

If I am to share saliva again

How can I turn my tongue over? 
I wish I had not written.

Pen and paper has given me away. 

Perhaps though in ink 

You could endorse this woman’s indentations. 

I am simply blotched 

Stamped 

Bleeding about the page like the rest of you. 
Press me to your adjoining pages 

I will etch in so you read me well. 

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Girl 

Today she thought 

I miss being a girl. 
How many times these months

chants & championing 

The words 

woman & strong 

impregnated so as she might erupt

An Orphic egg

Spit out a new cosmos amongst the darkness

maybe, 

Create from the wound. 
She was sorry to let the universe down. 
But when she buckled up her own helmet before riding 

when she took her own hand to cross the road against the lights   

She shuffled her feet at the curb & breathed

‘All the women in me are tired. 

I miss being someone’s girl’. 

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Wonder Meant…That I didn’t buy from NESTLE.

 

‘That’s your Milo, your Kit Kats, your Willy Wonka chocolate bars. Slave children. Just let that sink in’. Olivia.

Today the news that NESTLE, the worlds largest food producer, is to be sued over allegations it uses child slaves to harvest cocoa.

To be honest I can’t recall a time I ate such food… a chocolate bar like a kit kat, a pack of chips (the kind that leave your fingers stained orange), a chocolate milk from a carton…basically the kinds of food that line the counters of 7/11’s, petrol stations, supermarket checkouts… the type of food that is brightly packaged, that screams at you in ads, …that makes your guts scream on the inside. I made this choice because most of these foods have no nutritional value.

More than this.

I don’t like being the fool.

The fool that spends money on things that again, have no nutritional value or/and, say in the case of diet products, play to our dissatisfaction with our own (incredible) bodies. Even more than this, the companies that make serious $$$ in the full knowledge of the above things. Now there’s this. Arseholes. Money driven in a way that makes me want to vomit. Shop local, shop ethically, buy seasonally, make your own treats (it’s fun too!) …share this piece of news and speak with your actions. DON’T BUY NESTLE.

Article in the Independent by Rachael Revesz.

Nestle is being sued for allegedly using child slaves on cocoa farms.

x Kate

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We Could Be Heroes

 

‘…a sponge…searching… first of all a student and then always someone who took it further and bolder…He kept changing and exploring…challenging himself’.

Bernard Zuel. The Age. 12.01.2016.

 

I’m supposed to be working on unit plans for this years lessons. I have a year 9,10,11 and 12 Drama class this year, a homegroup, a poetry elective, a possible school production and involvement with a very important theatre project outside of school. These holidays are working ones. This morning however I have an urge to write outside of work.

I’d just come back from a glorious 1 and a half hour walk with my partner down Melbourne’s Merri Creek as a storm moved its way into the city when I heard the news that David Bowie had died. Like many, I didn’t believe it; then, the tears.

As a 35 year old woman I first encountered David Bowie in the film the Labyrinth. At the time I wanted to be Sarah so that such an unusually charismatic man could woo me at a ball while I donned a typically 80’s fashioned ballroom dress; but only a few years later as a teen, I wanted to be more like Bowie, no longer thought of by me as the Goblin King rather as an inspiring artist. I’m not going to do the incredible injustice of trying to article his greatness with my limited vocabulary, but rather talk about some of the things I learned from his approach to artistry and life and have been so reminded of in his passing.

Going to the music store in the early 90’s to buy some of his music saw me pouring through a series of CD books with wide eyes. With each CD saw a re-imagining of himself through style and song. I adored his ginger hair and pin striped suits as much as his glitter and lipstick. Quickly my hair saw a change of colors – purple, red, blue, black. I wore suits and ties, chinese tops and clogged heals … to school. I would never profess to have gone as far as Bowie (or some of my fellow students) ever did (I have too much fear in me) but he, like Cyndi Lauper who had first inspired me as a child in the 80’s, opened my eyes to being experimental with look, personality, sexuality, voice. Essentially his approach to life taught be that everything could be played with.

The years that followed saw me acting for television and working with a physical theater company; modeling for painters whom I so greatly admired, attached myself to them and their messy studios, feeling a small part of greatness as I looked upon their interpretations of my body. I taught drama on sets as a drama coach for television, for theater and in schools. I read, wrote poetry and articles for books and online journals. I continued to experiment with hair styles, colors and with clothes and finally got the nose ring and tattoo I’d so wanted. I traveled, mostly on my own, overseas. I shaved my head. I learned Butoh in Italy.

Lately I have been looking for this woman. The girl and woman who experimented with these, mostly external things. Who, fueled more often by the want to fiercely combat the aforementioned fear that was in me, always telling me I wasn’t good enough, that I would be judged, that ‘something’ would happen, that I shouldn’t rock the boat; at least tried different things.

That’s where people like Bowie, Cyndi and another favorite artist of mine, Bjork, really continue to get up in my face from time to time and show me what can be possible. That their individual voices were/ are heard, is a blessing. That their constant ‘changing, exploring…challenging’ of themselves and their artistry lead to new things. And that this kind of hard work can also be an incredible amount of fun.

I don’t experiment with my hair color anymore but what I do do is encourage my students to. Well, sort of. As a teacher I am telling my students to be curious constantly. To be adventurous in their education as much as their lives. To challenge me, themselves, the things we are working on… to give of themselves, to create something new from the individual self they are.

It should be a great time to do this. Companies more and more are looking for creativity, ingenuity and entrepreneurial skills. More than this we should be exploring outside of our working lives, our school lives; we should feel comfortable to challenge our ideas and beliefs, create new ones. We should take different routes to our daily working places, create new dishes, ask our partners to. Play with fashion, be a voice heard in staff meetings, at dinner parties and in forums greater than facebook. We should recognise the fact that we are all students of life as long as we are here and that this in turn means investigating, examining, experimenting and exploring with ALL our senses,  ALWAYS. To be gentle with ourselves when we fuck up, when the experiment goes wrong and then… push.forward.

…create a new persona. A Ziggy Startdust. A Thin White Duke.

and play.

 

x Kate.

A day after I posted this, the wonder-full Brainpickings posted a Vanity Fair interview with David Bowie from 1998. Q: What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? A: Living in fear. SNAP.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Untitled

She wore a little black velvet
and fast tracked time
to morning hours where snooze buttons inched
by
inched
finger
tips
And
red wine lipped the lines
of hour by
hour glass.
Between the folds of skin
and sheet
he murmured
I am in complete.

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Fervent

Sienna is a fever
A hot clammy mess of sun kissed lips and sweltering shoulder blades
beaded sweat
spine tingling dribbles
and a matted mastication of memorable moments.
You wish to gaze and daze in her fervent haze
Pour out beneath her feet
But do not expect to tickle her fancy
She’s quite capable of doing that on her own with the trembling residue of those…
memorable moments.

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Between

This is a most beautiful place
This being
Between seeing and believing
Between giggling and screaming –
‘You know, if I were that way inclined I’d say God and glory and hallelujah and such…’
…and such for
This place
Between now and then
Between the sweet here and after
is a place of
earthly
other worldly.

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And the train lines blink go

…And the train lines blink
…go!
Cars stop
queue thinking ‘…this is just sooo…
So so’
But I
cling to the fence that stops me from passing
And delight in this
No question
No asking
You must stop here and
start basking
…in child like glee
As
this
train
whirring
Flashes by in a blurring
Takes your breath away as it’s hurtling
Your heart pounding
As the ‘TOOT TOOOOOT’ starts a sounding
So…
Un-merry men in your cars
Stare astounding
(you fools!)
Cause this teeny pause
Could potentially excite
Could wake up and delight your stop start monotony
Dammit
Wake up before you smell the labotamy
…as the train lines blink go
Everything can be just so
so
SO…
Stirring
As the train goes by a blurring.

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The Niggle

The Niggle nibbled
at extremities
Erect nipples
skin that prickled and
earlobes tendered by the touch.
Vast fields and blossoming buttercups
the hooves of stallions trampling earth to dust
ALL was set to erupt
But before this
came
The Niggle.

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How to smell like a man

She didn’t want to admit to…

…on occasion

using his deodorant;

nor

to wearing his t’shirt under her coat.

She would often slip it on after he left

and roll the sticky scent under her arms,

behind her ears

and two

quick

flicks

across her inner thighs.

No one seemed to notice through her day

or, if they did

never said anything

never said

‘You smell like a man’.

But of course

she never thought that herself.

All she thought was

‘I smell like him’.

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