Let's call today: 'Tuesday, 31 August 2004'
pirategirl 
wrote in the notebook:
broken 
7:47 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Sunday, 29 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
self explanatory instructions
6:36 pm | Post A Comment... >
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
Crossing the streets in the busy concrete city, I had been happy. It was a grey day, overcast with solid-looking clouds, though not cold.
I was perusing amid the shops, browsing amongst this and that, forgetting for a moment the descent of the area around me; the crime sprees, the underground slave traders, and the frequent ASIO stings set up by the government to trap those involved in the gangland activity.
On the surface, everything appeared as normal, and, save for the occasional soldier posted at the intersections by Swanston St, and the khaki green jeeps and black vans that kept a vigil on the city's activity, one could imagine that the country had not fallen to the rebels, and that it was business as usual in Melbourne.
They said each night the rebels grew stronger and that slave trading was fast becoming a growth industry in the underground world. That the black market was expanding into bigger and better things, advancing with the times and accomodating each buyer's tastes with their produce from what was now most commonly called 'the flesh pits'.
However to the common eye, to the public and the consumer, the underground battle seemed a distant one. The only news of the war with the rebels was what filtered through the media. For the right price though, one could easily buy information from various sources, and word travelled quickly through the grapevine. It became hard to determine fact from fiction, as the rumors spread. The latest leak was sprawled on the headlines.
I passed a newspaper stand, glancing at the front cover of The Australian that told all about he latest discovery that the slave traders were directly linked with the streetwear coup in the centrals. The youth were being targeted and recruited, it said. Brainwashed.
A blind lady reached out and grabbed my arm. She asked me if I could help her cross the busy Brunswick St.
I obliged, and halfway across the road the old woman's knobbly bony fingers dug into my arm and she held me still. A van pulled up beside us and a man and a woman, both dressed head to toe in black, jumped out.
The man held me still and the woman ripped the back of my jumper from my neck. She looked at the tag and said to the man "that's it" and he wrenched the jumper down around my shoulders as if he could take it off me that way.
He twisted my arms behind my back and handcuffed me, jeering about how smart I must have thought I was to walk around in the streets wearing that and not think I would be caught. I knew now at once that he referred to the coded uniform of the rebels, and I began screaming at him, to the woman, to anybody, that there had been some mistake; that this was simply a common jumper bought from the department store, and a simple iron-on transfer bought in the same way, not even near the chain stores and streetwear stands rumored to be linked with the rebels.
But they ignored me, and hustled me along out of the street.
The next thing I knew, I was in their camp. I was chained, arm by arm, to the nearest line of of 'convicts' ready to be loaded into the next truck that was bound for somewhere only the Agents knew. The whisper of 'slave trader' was all around me now and I pleaded for someone to release me, I screamed that I was innocent. The other rebels chained to me ignored me, as though I were not there.
Agents and wardens passed me, one lashed out at me to keep quiet, and smacked my face harshly. I was crying hard, desperately pleading with them, anyone to please understand.
I fell to the ground, the shackles pulling at my wrists as the chain gang progressed forward, but I didnt care. I got to my feet and once again yelled at the top of my lungs. Desperation and fear were seizing me.
A passing woman, walking with the agents who caught me, stopped by me and looked me over. She was dressed in a semi-military fashion, with a small patch of badges on her left lapel. I had seen her before. I had seen her at one of the streetwear stands said to be linked with the underground rise. She had seen me there, she had seen me pass by, hands in my pockets, nose wrinkled as I had increased my pace to hurry past the stand. She had been undercover, she had seen me, surely she would order me to be loaded first into the truck.
As she gazed at me, I saw the memory register in her eyes. She remembered.
"She's not one," I heard her say to the man who had cuffed me. "Release her."
I crumpled at her feet and groped upward, clutching her hand and thanking her over and over and over. She removed her hand from mine, said "You're welcome" flatly, and, eager to continue work, briskly walked on down the line.
The man uncuffed me, and walked off in the same fashion. All of a sudden the trucks moved out, the lines were hustled away, and I was alone in the empty camp.
I collapsed to the ground and cried with deliverance.
I was saved.
Isn't that the weirdest fucking dream?
6:35 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Sunday, 22 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
this is fast becoming a depression blog .... that is so not what the 'grey' stands for at all!!!
okay, let's up the mood a bit.
the truckie
for those lucky people that have had the honor of being driven around in my funky lil' red-vej, you will have noticed that my gearstick is chrome with lil red bumpy metal bits that can only be described in an adult store as 'ribbed'.
anyway, these lil ribby things are quite fun to dawdle my fingers on while I'm waiting at a turn or traffic lights. and, as carly found in a book we shall only entitle here as the 'Guide To Being A Lesbian', some women use their gearsticks for sexual practises.... now, I dont know about you, but when carly shared this discovery with me, all we could think of was..... "how the fuck???"
I mean, do they take it off the car and use it and then replace it again? Or perhaps in the heat of the moment didnt want to make it to the backseat and whilst rolling over to the other seat, slipped and thought 'hey, that actually aint bad...'? Or do they raid car-yards looking for just the right model, or for cars that have fancy red ribbed ones like my car does?
however it may be that strange people come to use gearsticks in sexplay, this notion crosses my mind faintly whenever I tap on the metal absent-mindedly in the car.
today.... i was driving home from work. I was tired and headachey and mad at my boss for being so civil to me today after flat out knocking me down on friday. But I pulled up to a red light at an intersection, and began playing with the gearstick as usual.
I looked to my left and there, hanging out of a white truck, was this big bloke of a truckie watching my hands..... needless to say, I became a little more involved with my fingers. And not looking at him, the gearstick would have been a very happy little chappy if it were real. Then, the light turned green and I drove off, the truckie, not watching the lights, lingered at the line for a moment.... and I think I may have nearly caused a crash.
But either way, it was fun.
I'm such a tease.
9:38 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Friday, 20 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
i can still smell dope on my clothes - faintly, for the smell of other herbs is overwhelming.
no, before you ask, i did not have a toke after work. but i gave a workmate a lift to the pub on the way home, and she lit up in my car with her window open... but all the breeze did was blow it over to me and into the rest of the car..... since i cant smoke (anything at all) because i have truly non-smoker lungs, i have to rely on the very rare contact highs... a grand total of perhaps 3 ever having occurred in my lifetime, but still, i like the smell. and cookies.
other than that tiny touch of drug use... i am not a pot smoker... in fact the only drugs that appear in my system with any regularity are over-the-counter ones. so im boring. who cares.... anyone who's seen me in full swing knows that i need niether drugs nor alcohol to go to the next level.
ah, if only i could bottle whatever flows thru my veins and sell it - i'd make a fucking fortune in the drug community - the good thing is its non-destructive.... with the exception of lack of sleep.
"sleep is for the weak" - my famous last words, heard echoing across the silent neighbourhood at 5am before I collapse where I stand into an exhausted heap, the surviving revellers stepping over me, and perhaps stopping to throw a blanket over me.... or tapping me on the shoulder to whisper 'buddy, wake up, you gotta go to work.'
today, my 'employer' - that is, if you can call her one - said that the stock i packed on sunday was 'ratshit' and that we can lose customers that way.
Are you allowed to talk to me like that? *blink* "....sorry....." *blink* and walk away.
I would love to back her into a fight..... Ann told me she yells at you, with her face right in yours and screams. Ann cried. I wouldn't cry, at least not because she yelled at me. My tears are far far too precious to be spent that way. No, I scream right back. She's short too - that'd encourage me. That'd press me harder to yell at her. And once Id started... fuck it... I'm in trouble already, let's plough on....
I would take a step forward, and put that low silky tone into my voice that I love hearing so much onstage. The only time I remember clearly ever using that for real was when I blocked my father's strike automatically, without thinking, and warned, almost growled, "don't you ever hit me." When i think of it now, many years later, I recognise it as one of my early switches into someone much stronger than I.
And I would tap into this mindset again with this woman. Using all of her weakness, which with my mother's inherited gift of discernment, radiates from her when she talks to me, and all of my height and strength and intimidation that I hated so much in school, I would tell her finally that I was sick of her shit and leave that shed forever.
She probably wouldn't care, but at least I'd feel better.
Hahaha. It's funny how you change your mind about things, isn't it? I remember I was seen as the intimidating tomboy, who beat up the boys and scorned the girls, and could never be close to anyone - I hated this image. I used to endlessly try to change it. But my height and demeanour would always betray me.
Now though, things are different. I use my mask of intimidation to my advantage. Still sometimes, I feel a slight sting when I detect someone shying away from me because of it. But I brush it off. It's had to work for me in so many ways: that day with my father, standing up for myself against my mother a few times, taking Mel from her father one afternoon, being 'out' and staying safe, standing up for my friends like the true scorpio I am, it goes on and on and on.
I miss this strength when I need it.
I think I need to be onstage again. I've been myself for too long.
8:31 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Thursday, 19 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
i mean really, who wants to be a legionnaire?
be soldier for the gay army right? fight and be proud? why, when the world is full of attackers?
theres a bridge for the trainline that lies overhead when you drive along the main road not far from my house. almost everytime I drive under it, I am reminded of the day I heard a sad story.
a young man, who lived in the area, came out as a homosexual to either his friends or family or both. they disowned him. he was scorned and persecuted and they wore him down into misery.
he hung himself from the bridge I drive under.
recently, I found out that another young man, a friend of mine, came out to his family - or rather, they overheard him talking and he was 'outed' against his will - and now his father has disowned him and is kicking him out of his house.
i fucking hate people like that.
i can only thank Ganesh that that never happened to me.
so you can't blame people that stay in the closet - it may be cramped, but at least it's safe.
the things that people do to other people. the world is truly a beautiful place, its just all the horrible people within that make it so ugly and unbearable.
i lost someone close to me because they were sexually abused and gay, they were messed up, like really messed up because of it. their own father forced intercourse on them and did horrible other sexual things to them.
i remember when she confided in me, my fingers aching from clutching them so tightly as she spoke. she faded away. and she hung herself from a belt over her shower-curtain rod.
dont you wish you could go back in time and take someone that you know is about to hurt someone else, and either A) use your knowlegde of the future to guide them away from when and where it's about to happen, thus intervening...... or B) beat the absolute breath from their body with a subdued glitter of rage in your eyes.
lock in option B thanks, Eddie.
9:45 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Wednesday, 18 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
go away. everyone just go away.
11:41 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Tuesday, 17 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
the weak little girl i've always tried not to be 
Yes, why does my heart feel so bad? Perhaps because there are changes taking place within. Changes that have needed to happen, but until now I've not found the courage to do so.
That's rather cryptic isn't it?
Well, ok. It seems that an old....... 'ex'?....'boyfriend?'....'ex-boyfriend?'.... will perhaps be re-entering my life. The thing is I'm not sure why, or why I wouldn't object if he did, or whether or not this is a good thing or not. I'm sure that I will find out eventually. Right now, however, it is too soon to tell.
This guy loved me in high school - like loved me - and because I was a senior and lived too far away from him, I brushed both him, and any ambitions for the two of us that he may have had, far far away. I left school, and didn't see him since. He didn't even come to my graduation. I think I hurt him pretty bad.
Then, not long after I had met Carly, he reappeared. And I will tell you right now, I wanted him, like really wanted him. He was the young sweetheart of my past back from the dead and now, just when I had begun to think of him again and miss him, here he was. I thought it was sign.
We went out on a date - yes, a single date. And we kissed... really kissed.... for the first and last time. I remember in school when he'd hug me I'd feel his hands on my back on the stubble of his cheek on my neck and I would just want to melt into his arms and let him take all the bad things away that were happening at that time. For a while, nothing short of him waiting by my locker kept me going.
But anyway, we went to see a movie, Pirates of The Carribbean I can recall. I remember this purely because I had reflected, sitting there in the dark with him, that we shouldn't have chosen a film that was so involving, because I really really wanted to kiss my date, but at the same time didn't want to miss a second of the film. Ahh the decisions of life.
Carefully selecting a mundane part of the film (if any) I leant over and kissed him with all of my soul - only one other male has ever received a kiss like that from me. He kissed me back, and I remember thinking with mild surprise, as I always seem to do on the increasingly rare occasion that I kiss a guy, how surprisingly soft he was - my bestfriend always did say I only liked him because he was girly, as you can see if you squint from that vignette taken from partial images of the two of us in the school yearbook collage... he does have girly eyes. hahahahahaha.
But yeah, on with my story. We kissed for a few moments, fleeting but fulfilling time, at least to me.
I cannot begin to describe what I felt, what I thought. Here, it seemed, was a guy to replace the one I lost. Finally someone to put my faith back into the male species, and not see them only as meat to make me feel good and relieve boredom, or to arm wrestle and have beers with.... I'm one of the lads - I always have been.
But this feeling with him was shortlived. He got on the bus to go home that day, and I neither saw nor heard from him again until 6 months later.
6 months, during which a whole landslide of things had happened in my life, I heard not a sound from him. My loyalties drifted from him to others. And gradually I got over the shock and then pain of being left high and dry.
He had told me previously, on the phone, that he had been in love with me since that day at school, and he still remembered the first time we kissed - just a small, almost automatic kiss-on-the-cheek that missed and hit lips - but he remembered it. During this phone call, he was the young shy 'little boy' I remember touching me what seems so many more years ago in school. He was the one I fell for, not the boy I got.
I also remember the warnings I got about him - I heard of the womanizing, the immaturity, the showing off - but all this I took note of and simply tucked neatly away under my arm. Knowing, and yet not fully understanding, the truth behind what I had heard. He seemed a different, nicer person around me and that change made me feel special and worth effort, worth change. I felt he changed for me. I never asked him to. He just did. And that was even better.
So now, all grown up and out of school, when we tried starting things again, this was the boy I expected. And when, sometime later he decided to pay me an unexpected visit, this was the boy I thought would be knocking on my door.
Instead, I got a manly bloke of a boy, who moved furniture for a living and drove fast cars and hooned and gave shit to police and bragged about it. Expressing his dislike for my friend, my beautiful Mousie, because he remembered some long ago distant scuffle the two had had. Slagging people and scorning 'poofs' - perhaps forgetting for a moment that despite my rough country demeanour, I in fact knew and loved far too many Same Sex Attracted people to find this amusing. Sharing tales of his antics with me around his friend, whom I also knew in school, trying deeply to impress me. I ended up thinking more of his companion than he, for at least thjs other guy was relaxed and being himself.
And so he disappeared again shortly, visibly ruffled by my comments that shot down each attempt he had made that night to make me laugh, to side with him, to try and get me to accredit him any affection at all. I had waved each of them goodbye into the night and laughed out loud on the street.
The hug I gave him that night had a tint of my former feelings for him, but it served solely for the purpose of placing a barcode sticker, from the pocket of the new jacket, onto his back without him noticing.... as dared by Katie Belle, my partner in crime and bestfriend for 8 years.
It was sad to watch him in my living room, pretending to be something I knew he wasn't, or at least could'nt remember him being - but I did spend a moment truly searching myself trying to find if I only remembered him how I wanted him to be. I wished I hadn't destroyed, in a blind fit of paranoia, my diary that contained all traces of my feelings for him in school.
Later discussions with him proved that I hadn't and he promised he wouldn't be that try-hard again next time he saw me. As I haven't seen him since then, I cannot tell if he will keep his word. I know he wants me - physically at least - and there lies almost all my previous potential relationships with men. "Why have something serious when all I want is some action?"
"Getting married to get sex is like buying a 747 to get free peanuts." - Jeff Foxworthy
I want him too - I guess I always have. Behind everything, there is still something in those eyes and in his embrace that still makes my mind go all funny and my legs heavy and I want to press my cheek into his shoulder and feel protected and loved the way he used to make me feel, and the way I have missed feeling with anyone for a while. I guess I really am the weak little girl I've always tried not to be.
So now here I am. Watching and waiting and wondering what lies ahead. I have decided to start seeing him again and see what happens. I'm a strong believer in giving second chances (it's third chances that you really really need to be my best-est buddy to even hope for). And when I see him again, nothing will hang in the balance.
If it works, it works. If it doesn't, no loss.
I'd like to say that he couldn't hurt me no matter what he did, but I've said that before about other people, and have been surprised.
Sometimes I really don't know my own self.
Sometimes I feel that Katie and Carly, between the two of them, are the only ones who understand me fully. And that's sad when you consider that these are two beautiful friends that I need, yet can't really be with all the time.
Yeah, I really am the weak little girl I've always tried not to be.
8:11 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Sunday, 15 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
perhaps i'm feeling artistic tonite?
9:18 pm | Post A Comment... >
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
songs
8:16 pm | Post A Comment... >
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
a picture
'lovers' (oil pastel and watercolor), by me
6:16 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Tuesday, 10 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
today, i learned some very important things.
- the parking lot at work is very very muddy
- this mud stays on my boots and it can - nay, will - get tracked off onto the floor when I walk
- juice that comes from fresh 'picked of the tree' olives is an incredibly effective dye
- my work jeans have holes in them
- my work jeans aren't worn anywhere else
- my work jeans are boring
- my work jeans will be decorated with my new-found source of dye tomorrow
wow - its still early. here i am thinking its like 10:45pm or whatever, and I still have yonks before bedtime.
lastnight, i left Katie's housesitting place at about 1am, with work the next morning, and was caught in one of the biggest, most horrible coughing fits I can remember. newsflush: i have a baaaaaaad cold. so here I am, early morning, pulled over on the side of the road by the South Adelaide Footy Club, coughing so hard that before long I need to open my door and hang out of the car throwing up every meal I've ever eaten.
bleh, massive bulk of yuckness right there.
i was sitting down for lunchbreak today, and pulled out my phone to send a message when i got one saying "i'm in a muddy car park" and - as we've learnt earlier - my car park is extremely muddy. so out I go into the extraordinarily pretty weather that was today, and there in the car park is this really sexy beast comin to visit me. how nice. i felt special. and, after feeling so sick for so long, cuddles realllllly came in handy. :) thankyou. xx
so anyways, yeah, today my workmate Ember went into noarlunga hospital to have surgery, so tomorrow - my usual day off - i go in to replace her. What??? Only ONE day off this week??? hmph, money I spose - but still.... its the principle of the matter!! not only that, but I have frikkin OPUS Oracle stuff to do, ie photocopying, stapling, folding, taping, labelling and posting something like 250 4page newsletters. Gah.
huh? oh yeah, so after work I drove into Noarlunga and dropped off a 'tussie-mussie' (herbal posies) to Ember who was a sore lil gal. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Awww special twice!!!!
Anyone ever tried Thyme Tea? I had some this morning cos its sposed to be really good for coughs and colds. It was actually quite nice. I think I shall explore more herbal stuff since I work with them, and can get herbs so easily.
Hahaha I just got an sms from my brother's partner:
"Thank you for your recent order in our adult store. You asked for the extra large red vibrator as featured on our wall display. Please reselect, as this is our fire extinguisher."
Ahh, what friends I have.
8:21 pm | Post A Comment... >
Let's call today: 'Thursday, 5 August 2004'
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
The Best Imitation Of Myself
Ben Folds - yes he is god!
I feel like a quote out of context
Withholding the rest
So I can be for you what you want to see.
I've got the gesture and sounds
Got the timing down
It's uncanny, yeah, you think it was me.
Do you think I should take a class
To lose my southern accent?
Did I make me up, or make the face till it stuck?
I do the best imitation of myself.
The "problem with you" speech
You gave me was fine,
Like the theories about my 'little stage'
And I swore I was listening
But I started drifting
'Round the part about me 'acting my age'.
Now if it's all the same
I've people to entertain.
You know, I juggle one handed
Do some magic tricks and
The best imitation of myself
Maybe I'm thinking myself in a hole
Wondering
Who I am when I ought to know.
Straighten up now time to go
Fool somebody else, fool somebody else.
Last night I was east with them
And west within
Trying to be for you what you wanna see.
But I can't help it with you
Good and bad comes through
Hanging out with
No one but me.
But it's all the same
It comes from the same place
And if my mind's somewhere else
You won't be able to tell
I do the best imitation of myself.
Yes, it's uncanny to see
You'd really think it was me
The best imitation of myself.
The best imitation of myself.
3:05 pm | Post A Comment... >
pirategirl
wrote in the notebook:
ok, so maybe im having some dissociated moments... but i do not recall at all turning on the hallway light... and ok perhaps I did knock the switch to the kettle.... but the hallway light - nuh uh - not possible. I will deny it to the grave.
and ok, if it was my hand that has been switching things on, it wasnt me doing it. which brings me to my next point... 'vicki that is switching out to switch things on, please stop it, you're getting me in trouble.'
on a happier note, i got an email from Ness in response to some photo shots fleamedia did (website still under construction), and she full on loves us. yes, yes we are sexy.
2:25 pm | Post A Comment... >
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