TOUCHSTONE REVIEW - A BIT OF DASH

  

Big big thanks to Natasha from A Bit of Dash for her 4 star review of Touchstone. 

http://abitofdash.blogspot.com.au/2013/05/to-cage-spirit.html

So nice to find a reader who wants the characters to be true to their own needs, rather than to a fictional norm. I'm doing the happy dance all over the place. :D

STRAH'YIN.

Strine is outdated, as is the mythological Australian who bids you g'day and speaks of ockers, sheilas, tinnies or being as dry as a dead dingo's donger. [See Bazza Mackenzie circa 1972] Yobbos are now exclusively bogans. [Alt. bo'gahn]

Visitors should now learn Strah'yin.

Begin with greetings: 'Air garn?'

When things are going well for you, respond to the greeting with:
'Yeah, good.'

If all things are not as you would wish, respond with:
'Yeah, nah, arp t'shit, mite.'

In more general conversation, one response (suitable for all occasions) that has not changed is 'nahworries'. It can be prefaced at any time with 'yeah' as in 'yeah, nahworries', and 'mite' can always be added, as in 'nahworries, mite' or 'yeah, nahworries, mite'.

Loosely translated it means 'yes'. [The grammar rule applied here is the age old - If it has one syllable, extend. If it is polysyllabic, always shorten to a single syllable.]

It should also be noted by the visitor that bogans will sometimes substitute 'wuck'n furries' for 'worries' during a conversation, giving rise to the statement 'yeah, nahwuck'n furries, mite'. [That is furries as in durries, (colloq. cigarettes) not as in fur.]

Here ends today's lesson.

TRAINSPOTTING.

It's foolishness, all this, he said, and sat to watch the game.

Let them all calm down, he said, soon enough it will be done

Sit down, we'll watch the game.

I worry sometimes, though, she said

They bother me, the noise they make. They never stop, I wish they would

But still …

She watched the game.

It's none of my concern, he said, and turned to watch the game

My voice? What is it I could say? I can't begin to turn the tide

What more can I do, anyway? Just sit and watch the game.

Hush. Hush. No need to make a noise. Sit here and watch them pass

Don't draw the fire of crazy men; don't lead the eye toward our place

Don't say a word, it's nowt of ours

Just sit and watch the game.

There is no line of decency, so hush now. Sit here, too

It's come before,  ool come again

It's just a joke, give them a poke, electric jigger in ye hand

We'll laugh together all of us, when this is done and all is past

Just sit for now and haud yer wheesht

Sit still and watch the game.

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ELEPHANTS.

Mr Churdal lived in a box on the 1174th floor of his modest apartment tower, and for the first time in his fifty year box residency, he was unhappy. 

At some time in the recent past, two, maybe three years ago, he had taken to wearing his shirts backward. He would struggle to button them all the way up, ensuring the collar was tight. The resulting red faced throbbing of his head loaned him the appearance of evangelical zeal, and that look brought with it centuries of gravitas, of towering ecclesiastical edifices and pointed spires and rock hard shafts thrusting at the sky. As for thumbing his nose at clothing conventions, ha! How could he care less what those below thought, when everything below him was demonstrably beneath him?

He had, for some years now, devoted himself to the painstaking construction of a life-sized elephant leg. Correct in every detail, he had crafted it by hand and he knew every wrinkle, every notch, every stubbly bristle. It was dark in his box and difficult to see, but he knew it intimately and he loved its smell: polystyrene and two-part epoxy resin, linseed oil and Morocco-finished leatherette. He had come, with no small amount of pride, to call his construction, “The Elephant”.

The problem which was causing him discomfort had arisen because he'd broken one of his own sound and undisputed principles of being. He had opened a leaflet, junk mail advertising from a local zoo, and his attention had been caught by the image of a blurred and entirely indistinct elephant, its leg shown in high definition hyper-colored detail. He didn't read advertising leaflets. He did not. He had no reason to read such balderdash. He had shelves of literary masterworks with which to fill his bulging, throbbing mind.

And yet… And yet, he'd seen the picture. He'd read the caption. He could not unsee it. ‘There is nothing,' the leaflet claimed, ‘like the smell of a real live elephant.'

It was a shattering revelation and he would have dismissed it as an aberration, but he could not shake the feeling that his masterwork might one day be considered lacking. What if those who came after him - the anthropologists and devotees who would dissect his life in the centuries to come - found evidence of an oversight? The scandal might eternally blemish his legacy.

He needed a sweet snack. He fancied Greek, so he took down a volume of Joyce, layered some pages with crushed nuts and honey and baked the whole in the warmth of his Hands-Free-Itty-Bitty-Book-Light. But he ate without pleasure. His books, his books, were entirely lacking in information on the smell of elephants. He tried for metaphors, he sought out allegories, he came up blank. His only hypothesis, as he loosened his collar in despair, was shit. Elephants would walk in shit, their own shit, and therefore, logically they would smell of shit.

There was only one thing for it. Reluctantly at first, but growing more confident as the work progressed, he saved his leavings and began to build a lifelike layer of shit on the sole of the elephant's foot. And you know, it didn't smell so bad at all!

Meanwhile next door, Ms Coombangg felt her way through the darkness of her box. With fingers sensitized to Braille, she found the perfect place and carefully positioned the last bristle of her elephant's trunk. It was done, and not a moment too soon. The gallery owners would be there in half an hour to collect her magnum opus, this single statement piece for her one woman exhibition — Elephants: the Whole Truth.

.

LULLABIES.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry
Stay asleep my little babies.
While you sleep, you shall eat
Dobbin and Flicka for your meat.

Sleep shall take you where plutonium
Stars the drinking pools with light.
Where the winds all whistling wild,
Slowly freeze a weary child.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Money knows that sleep is best.

Bye, baby bunting
Daddy's smurfing, hunting,
Mamma's snoozing , snacking,
Brother's gone a'fracking.
Priests have magnified their sin
To burn the baby bunting in.

Rock-a-bye, baby, burn the tree tops,
While the wind howls, the stock market drops.
When the drought breaks, the hard rain will fall,
And down will come all creatures, great and small.

Sleep, my children, sings the trader,
All through the night;
Guardian angels bought and paid for,
All through the night;
Soft the flying drones are creeping,
Unaware in slumber sleeping,
Serco's loving vigil keeping,
All through the night.

.

NEW POEM

Still frightened by shadows
Dark eyes might light
If I knew what to ask.

Lxx

WRITERS EXPLAINED

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 17.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 16.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

LIKE button.

I would like a LIKE button on everything.

It's not just that I am lazy, although it's plain that I am.  It's because I would like to be able to acknowledge the thoughts of others as I would with a smile or a nod, but without the infuriating captchas and sign ins and other rot required.

Often, despite my overuse of the English language in almost every instance, I have nothing particular to say. 'Like' is just a small gesture. I wish there were more opportunities in our society to practise good manners and mutual respect.

That's all.

Lxx

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 15.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 14.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 13.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 12.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 11.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 10.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 9.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 8.

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Touchstone 1889 Labs.

TOUCHSTONE: Excerpt 7.

Touchstone 1889 Labs.

Qld POLITICS

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