I’m currently on the steps of Federation Square, utilizing the free internet hotspot and listening to Bob Marley’s “Sugar, Sugar” song. Everyone is off in their own little discussions yet we are all sharing the same space. There are no anxious glares or nervous twitters, but rather, it’s a very inviting atmosphere where people can do as they please (well as long as it doesn’t disturb or offend anyone.) Melbourne is splendid in that you are encouraged to express yourself. They have many grants, whose purpose is to give those who want to speak, in whatever language (art, music and so forth) an opportunity to voice those languages to the general public. VicArts gives out many grants, which can be access here: Funding Mcgee I love the street buskers, especially the musicians in the subway and the painters along Swanston street.
Speaking of art, I was looking through my work and came across this poem which I wrote a few years ago when I was quite teen angst and impressionable : circa 2000ish? I use to live in Wellington, which is another interesting place, and because I was living away from my parents, I would often go to places which provided temporary comfort and solace. One of these places was Te Aro fountain. You can see pictures here: … If you are ever in Wellington, you should pay it a visit. I would literally sit there watching the water drop from one bucket to the next and fall into the fountain. There were lots of people who sat around the fountain; reading, writing, laughing with their friends and so forth. It was quite magical except when it rained. I think I wrote this poem when it was raining. There was one time where I was sitting by the fountain and it started to pour heavily. It went from calm to a merciless wet nuisance, and the fountain seem to lose all its magic because it no longer poured with any rhythm, as everything was just being slammed by the weight and speed of the water current. I was also going through a rough patch in my relationship which serves for the subject, and my computer kept dying because it kept contracting viruses, but all in all, it makes for interesting fun language & poetry.
Happy reading 
A white canvas
and you painted it black.
Half my face sketched
in mouldy chalk white-
that it glows… like a
penetrating streetlight.
For eight months-
I kept my voice down;
grounded like a sack
filled of cocoa beans…
but I did the right thing…
I waited!
while I spoke to the screen
at eight pm everyday,
alone and depraved
like Te Aro fountain in the rain -
And now my computer’s broke.
It was as black as your painting;
it croaked
and always failed on me.
Just like your words…
“I miss you heaps?”
Digs deep into my wounds
like a sharp spade in dirt…
Because you missed like a sheep
attached to its herd.
And when you came home,
you watched my flower wilt
like burnt Asian silk -
when my secrets played
like wearisome decay to you.
And I felt a fool who spoke!
Guffaw
I loathe your e-mails -
your ugly tools of seduction
to keep me webbed like a fly.
You spider, you!
who came and sucked me dry.
And on August the fifteenth,
I felt my life die -
toppled like coloured dominoes -
drenched in tar or rye.
And a war surfaced in my mind
Where your words were like soldiers,
Who battled
until the meaning died.
I wish I could delete you from my life,
like my black computer deleted my files.
But now I’ve paid the price
for being gullible -
a shot to the heart
like the side effect
of an illegal pill.
And I neglected to read the warning signs,
although plastered big and bold.
And now on my wooden bed,
I think of you..
How unexpected were these thoughts.
From august the fifteenth,
you changed,
or maybe you just started to show.
———–
BTW, the title of this post refers to a lady I encountered on the bus today. She was talking on her mobile phone and every sentence contained a curse of some sort. Then when she got off the phone and the bus driver took the wrong turn, she was calm and talking normally to him. I figure that she must be suffering silently, as many women are. But always know that there’s always help and lots of people who care
